I write this post on my phone from a cafe on a roundabout on the outskirts of Tarragona.
The couchsurfing host we're staying with has a problem with her front door. Namely, that the door is broken in such a way that it won't open. Short of smashing the door to smithereens, there's absolutely no chance the bastard'll budge.
M and our host are trapped inside. I'm trapped outside, having gone, in my pyjamas, to buy some breakfast provisions. The situation looks bleak, as our host insists on using the only door company she trusts, a company who aren't answering the phone, and who, when the did early answer, said it would take 5 days to make a new door.
These things have a habit of working themselves out, but for now we're reduced to trading supplies between the inside and the outside of the flat by means of a plastic bag lowered from the 2nd floor on a piece of string. You couldn't make it up.
Actually you could of course, but the version you'd make up would end with some kind of exciting final action, either leaping to safety or kicking down the door.
This more prosaic real story looks likely to proceed with me sitting glumly in a cafe, then sleeping at our host's mother's house while the gears of Catalan door-repair grind slowly into life.
The couchsurfing host we're staying with has a problem with her front door. Namely, that the door is broken in such a way that it won't open. Short of smashing the door to smithereens, there's absolutely no chance the bastard'll budge.
M and our host are trapped inside. I'm trapped outside, having gone, in my pyjamas, to buy some breakfast provisions. The situation looks bleak, as our host insists on using the only door company she trusts, a company who aren't answering the phone, and who, when the did early answer, said it would take 5 days to make a new door.
These things have a habit of working themselves out, but for now we're reduced to trading supplies between the inside and the outside of the flat by means of a plastic bag lowered from the 2nd floor on a piece of string. You couldn't make it up.
Actually you could of course, but the version you'd make up would end with some kind of exciting final action, either leaping to safety or kicking down the door.
This more prosaic real story looks likely to proceed with me sitting glumly in a cafe, then sleeping at our host's mother's house while the gears of Catalan door-repair grind slowly into life.
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