Dis de Los fiascos

Today we greeted the handyman, Alejandro, so he could finish working on the gas pipes. He replaced them all, which involved the poor not-young guy kneeling on the kitchen counter and leaning halfway out the window. We are on the fifth floor, which is really the seventh floor, which would make more sense if you ate hallucinogenic mushrooms, and it must have been dizzying to hang out that window. I was delighted that we did not explode, and even happier hat he told me my Spanish was suficiente despite all my apologies. He said all he knows to say in English is, "My name is Alejandro, what is your name?" Strangely, my slurry-sliding way of speaking Spanish is nearly correct into is part of Spain. A little validation felt good after days of feeling incompetent. Maybe he was just being nice because his daughter and I have the same name (as if being named Mary/Maria is so rare here). Anyway, the two-day saga of gas pipery finally came to an end with no boom.

Greg and Nicky weren't needed for this Spanish-only encounter, so  they trotted off to the beach where, as Nicky explained, "it wasn't pleasant, but you could swim [referring to water temperature]." That kid would swim in anything.  "And we found a cup that we later recycled, but first we tried to catch fish in it." Of course you did.

Cassie and I, meanwhile, went off on a search for the Mercat Sant Antoni, about two miles from here.  For some reason, we elected to walk, only to find the Mercat close for construction. As was the next Mercat. The only thing open was the giant blister that used to be my pinky toe.

Greg and Nicky didn't try to walk home...till their bus broke down.  They found someone who could speak enough English to explain that the bus was toast, and they had to figure out how to get home without Greg's cell phone or other helpful devices (you can't take that sort of thing to the beach if you want to see it again).

So we all ended up walking home from various directions, only to find our landlord in the hallway saying, "Your hot water is back? Then I'm going to come up in the morning to take a shower." I hope he was kidding.

Of course I needed two ingredients to cook dinner, and of course I'm the only one who speaks Spanish, so I went with Greg to the store. If there are things that I'm truly missing, they are (1) hearing English spoken, and (2) being able to send Greg out to the store or the takeout place. Or maybe I just wish the rest of my family were more linguistically flexible.

I'm also missing a haircut place, especially for Nicky, who looks like a bad 1970s rock drummer.  Cassie and I decided to cut his hair, using the one thing we had successfully found for purchase, a pair of moderately sharp scissors.  All I can say about this experience is that it would have gone better if Cassie hadn't started screaming that I was ruining him and I.must.stop.  Nicky now looks less like a drummer and more like someone whose mother and sister maybe inhaled too much natural gas.

And now I'm "watching" World Cup soccer, and spending most of my time mocking the idea of playing a sport while wearing hair gel and sporting waxed eyebrows. I don't need to watch the game anyway, because I can hear the whole building reacting to it. Every time I actually look at the game, the players are all pointing accusingly at each other and motioning to the officials to show how grievously injured they are. What a snoozer.

Tomorrow it is off to do Lesser Gaudi structures, in preparation for La Sagrada Familia.