Oh god. Oh god. We are trapped. Trapped amongst the sweaty bins and peeling side-streets of Barcelona’s ghetto. How, how, did we end up here? I’m sure this was not marked on the map! Oh, god, we aren’t even on the map anymore. We have walked off the map. If there ever was a ‘send help’ moment, this would be one. All these buses filing past look the bloody same. But none of them look like the one we took to get here; which surely means that none of them will take us back. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Ask someone. Yes, that would be the sensible option.
“¿Habláis español?”
But of course there’s the language barrier. Bit of a problem. Shit. Mierda. Why, why is that the extent of my Spanish these days? This woman, all jet-black curls and inquisitive brown eyes, is gazing at me expectantly. I wonder what the Spanish equivalent is for “sorry, lady, I do not habla español, and since you clearly do not habla english I guess me and my friends are stuck here, either to wait out the night and die of exposure or else be eaten by a pack of rabid Spanish alsations.” Somehow, when you’re learning Spanish at school, essential phrases such as this don’t feature on the vocab list.
A not-so-gentle shove in the ribs and I find my panicked expression inches away from the tanned face of this woman.
“She does!” Anna points at me, nodding enthusiastically, “she hablas español!”
Cheers, Anna. Top mate you are. Taking and failing AS Spanish does not – repeat, NOT – constitute habla-ing español. Still, between Anna’s patchy Russian and Sophie’s four words of Italian, I guess I’m our (worst) best shot.
“Erm…tenemos que ir al Plaça Catalunya, por favor…”
“¡Ahhh, Plaça Catalunya! Necesitáis tomar el numero 89, tiene su llegada para las 18h30…”
Numbers! I knew all those games of Spanish bingo would pay off one day! Making a mental note to hug my Spanish teacher when we return, I thank the woman, before giving a vague explanation of our instructions to Anna and Sophie. Sure enough, fifteen minutes and muchas ticket confusion later, we flop into our seats on the bus, trundling our way through streets that gradually become less reminiscent of the 8-Mile scenery and more what you would expect of the holiday-brochure Barcelona. It strikes me that, aside from the stifling heat and a ticket system so complex you’ll need a university to degree to figure it out, buses a la España are not all that different to those back home: the clogging scent of stale beer and days-old BO is clearly mutually exclusive with all public transport world over. Hey, ho – what can you do?
As we disembark into the familiar surroundings of the Plaça Catalunya, I breathe a sigh of relief. We made it. Minimal fuss. Almost lost it for a moment but, as ever, kept my cool.
A sudden voice by my shoulder:
“Perdone, Señorita…er…somos, how you say, lost…¿habláis español?”
You have got to be kidding me.
Writing The World 