Mi Piso de Barcelona

Potentially, the hardest part of moving here was going to be finding a furnished, affordable place to live, especially as high speed internet was mandatory. Fortunately, for those who haven't already heard the story, this was made easy due to my good old friend, Roy Dank. Yes, the Co-star Rica Roy.

He put me in touch with Phil, an American expat and music journalist who lives and works from here (it would seem he's better at commitment than I am). Within thirty minutes and eight emails of Roy's initial message, Phil and I ascertained that I needed a place to stay, he was out of town for a few months, and that his roommate, Omar, was cool with the idea of me subletting Phil's room until early June. Voila! As my father remarked, I have a habit of falling in shit and coming up smelling like roses, which I guess would make Roy the shit.

So it was Omar who answered the door for me that soggy Tuesday, welcoming me to the flat. Note: I don't use the term 'flat' in a pretentious I-have-been-to-Europe way. Or maybe I do. Here, it's referred to as a 'piso,' which translates literally to 'floor' (as in floor of a building), aka 'flat.'

As for the actual floor (suelo) of this flat, it's remarkable.



The building, along with all the others in l'Eixample, was constructed in the 19th century (again, more of this later). Apparently, in 19th-century Barcelona, architecture was king (and still is), the preference being high cielings, ornate moulding and, in this case at least, hand-tiled mosaic floors.



Yeah, these pictures are of mosaic; not laminate squares of repeating patterns, but painstakingly laid out pieces of stone tile (see the crakcs between pieces).



Apparently, back in the day, there were enough patient craftsmen to not only puzzle together such decorative flooring, but to lay in different patterns in each room.



The piso is laid out railroad car style, our apartment number being Entresuelo 1a, 'entresuelo' being the word for 'mezzanine.' One long hallway runs the course of the place, with bedrooms, kitchen and bathrooms adjacent, with the front door in the middle. In front, a small balcony overlooks our street, Carrer de Girona (Of the local, not-quite-Spanish language, Catalá. The double-R's rolled and the G making the same sound as the S in measure). In the rear, we have a quite large patio, perfect for barbecuing and being seen by a full city block's worth of neighbors.



Now, with the 15-foot ceilings we get doors tall enough that even Yao Ming could walk through without stooping. The windows are also very tall, allowing maximuum sunlight to enter, and affixed with wooden shutters that, when closed, instill a cave-like darkness (all the better for siesta).

As for the ceilings themselves, they are often as, or more remarkable than, the floors.



Adorned with some seriously detailed cornices, friezes and other architectural pieces I don't even know the name for, these things are pretty amazing to see staring down at you while on the verge of sleep, whatever time of day it might be. Here's what I see when the jetlag overwhelms me at odd hours (much better than the traditional American cottage cheese ceiling).



Essentially, it's a sweet pad, made moreso by how centrally located it is, with two metro lines no more than four blocks away, anywhere I'd really want to go within walking distance and a spectacular grocery store and collaboritive market just across the street. Within fifty meters of my door (dear lord I've gone metric!) there are even bins to recycle batteries, cans, bottles, plastics, mixed papers and a couple of other things I haven't yet translated from Catalá. But enough, I'm stealing content from my next post.

Thanks to Phil for having it so good, and Omar for being gracious, helpful and tolerant of the way I constantly switch between english and spanish, his native tongue. This is definitely not a bad place to keep my feet from getting wet.