While constantly moving, jet-setting, jumping between continents and living in all these different cities may look exotic, it has it´s downfalls and can prove tiresome to even the heartiest traveler.
Packing, un-packing, and the whole “reduce, reuse, recycle” mentality that comes with it is really grinding and yet, I´m at it again for the fifth time in two years.
Finding new accommodation, filling gaps in the old accommodation, and repacking your life back into the weight restrictions of low-cost carriers (budget airlines) in order to make your transition is a constant part of life that simply cannot be avoided.
EasyJet doesn´t make it easy, let me tell you. Not when you’re moving permanently to a new home with what started out as 38kg of baggage. EasyJet allows a 2 bag limit with a MAXIMUM weight of 20kg SHARED between the two. Who does that? And at an extra €9 (about $16 NZD) per extra kilo, it leaves you deliberating whether taking that extra 18kg of accumulated `junk´ (as my Mother puts it – especially when she had to bail me out on my way to America last time) on to your new destination. I´m learning lessons the hard way…
And so it goes… give away all your books (who wants my Lonely Planet guide to the Mediterranean?), pack up all your summer clothes for the homeless shelter (surely not going to need summer clothes in London), and prepare to then wear about 50 winter coats on the plane to save on space. Can I get a “hear, hear”?!!
And then you arrive in your new humble abode and puzzle at why you no longer have any possessions. But it´s just stuff right?
This week has been interesting on the whole “finding someone to fill my room” adventure too. This process is a lot different to the easy going flat finding procedures in New Zealand.
Getting someone to fill a room in Madrid is not unlike “Dragons Den” (you know that show where young entrepreneurs have to pitch their idea to a panel of business venture capitalists?!). Instead of having a few people just cruise over and take a peek at the room and then give it the `Yay´ or `Nay´, here the potential candidates undergo a full-blown interview at a set allocated time – and although Spanish are potentially the most un-punctual people I´ve ever met – they wouldn´t dare be late.
Having put an advert online at 9pm on a Sunday night, I had figured getting a response may take a few days, but alas, my phone rang hot like wildfire. Constant text vibrations, calls all Monday morning while I was at work (atleast 20), and by midday I had deleted the advert to savor my mental well-being.
“Please, remember I am very interesting!”
“Can I please sleep on your couch until the room is available?”
I arranged viewings at a 10 minute time-slot for 2.5 hours the same evening with a variety of colorful characters, all to be hosted by myself with limited Spanglish language skills since none of my flatmates would commit to the hosting circus (I wouldn´t have either). I had literary geniuses that looked like Steve Jobs, a dentist, some Polish twins and most worthy of mention, the notorious candidate #7. Here´s the scene:
(Buzzer rings and I get a long winded Spanglish ramble)
“Hello, can you please wait downstairs as I´m with some other people right now”
Him: “OK, no problem”
(Buzzer rings again)
“Dos minutos por favor. Tengo otros personas”
(Buzzer rings SIX more times in the space of 2 minutes, which I choose to ignore)
Upon opening my front door to show the other Dragon´s Den candidates out, there´s a seriously red-faced crazy hombre on my doorstep. Now let me tell you, it is not easy to get onto my physical doorstep considering I live on the 6th floor of an apartment building where you must be buzzed-in through two locked outer doors before even getting to the lifts.
Now this guy is jacked-up on only god knows what. He´s literally bouncing, talking at ten trillion words a minute – none of which I can understand, and is one of those frustrating people that doesn´t understand the unspoken laws of physical boundaries.
Hands are flying in a “Madre Mia” type fashion, his red-faced spitting ramblings are about two inches from my face, and I don´t even have a clue if he´s loving or hating what is going through his loco head right about now. For all I know this guy could´ve murdered me and bundled me up into the back of his meth-tank and no one would´ve ever known what happened to me. It could’ve been like out of a scene in `Hostel´ (worst backpacking horror film ever) or something.
Let´s just say he was listed in bold scribble print as “PSYCHO” in my candidate book.
Anyway, there´s a Wednesday rant for you. T-10 days until London, and I´m buzzing. A rant´s, a rant, but I love every minute!
Adios, y hasta pronto!