So I haven't posted in almost a week now--mostly due to being locked out of my apartment last weekend and then it being so darn rainy I haven't felt creative or inspired to do much of anything. Although I wasn't sure I wanted to include the more negative events of this trip, they are a part of it; so here is a long-story-short version of what happened last weekend:
I returned home first from Granada, and couldn't get my keys to work. First I wasn't too worried, and didn't even think to ask for help when the young woman who lives to the right of us walked out, passing me as I began the first of what would become many battles with the deadbolt. After about five minutes, I tried walking down a few floors and knocking on the least-sketchy looking doors hoping to find a neighbor who could help me with the keys or tell me where I could find our Señora. At every door I tried I either heard people cease making noise after I knocked in order to appear out-of-the-house, got a brief cold refusal to help through the door without even opening it, or a quickly opened door followed by a quick dismissal. How different the attitude between neighbors is here than in Boulder!
Anyways, skipping forward four-odd hours, there I was again furiously trying to compromise with the keyhole. I noticed the light was on in the apartment to our right--the woman must have returned. I rang her bell, expecting another hostile response. When she opened it, I tried to spit out my story as fast as I could before getting shut-down. To my surprise, she listened to my sloppy Spanish, interrupted by blubbering tears which I could hold back no longer. She invited me in, gave me water (and offered me food), let me use her phone, internet, and bathroom. She even listened to me vent about my disappointment as she chain-smoked and we watched American Dad in Spanish. Her name is Monica, and she is a PR agent, a closely-related field to that of Journalism, which I am in school for. Eventually Pedro came and picked me up.
But the next night, when Pedro sent me back with a new set of keys, I still could not get in. I had taken three metros home, but it was too late for me to be able to take them back to the seven-girl apartment. I had no phone and was on the verge of wetting my pants. I rang her bell again, feeling like a nuisance. She answered sleepily---I had woken her up---but again she graciously invited me in and offered to help. I ended up taking a taxi soon anyways, but at least I got in touch with Pedro and got to relieve my bladder.
The day after that--Sunday--we finally got in. That evening Monica knocked on our door to check on us just as I was sealing the envelope of the Thank-you card I'd gotten her. I laughed, amused by the timing, and told her I had something for her. as I retrieved the card and bouquet I'd bought across the street that afternoon. She thanked me warmly, and I thanked her again. I really don't know what I would have done without her either of those nights. There would have been a lot more tears and a lot less humor and lightness. Turns out Monica was a bit of a blessing in disguise. I made a new friend, got help with a sticky situation, and got to practice my Spanish for an hour. The other neighbors, Monica says, are just old and trust no one.
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