Squating Barcelona and General Malarkey

This mix of retrospect and diary entries

03.01.2010

   The French Foreign Legion had been single-handily the poorest decision of my life. How I had ever focused myself on traveling 6000 miles to be abused by sadists and mongoloids in a different language is beyond explanation. By this point I was 7 months into a snowballing European disaster that had me cutting trees for gypsies, freezing to death in a trailer, and sleeping on scaffolding. Any further problems would have to chalked up to the order of the universe that was consistently planting rose beds next to the shit I was destined to slip in.

  Getting out of the Legion felt much like being discharged from the hospital or jail. The processing took about 4 hours filled with signing documents, nervous eating, and smoking what cigarettes we had left. The last step was to return our intake property. When they handed back my boots, I wanted to vomit. These were the property of that bastard Mad Marco and were a sad looking lump of leather impregnated with the essence of sheep shit and sweat. Those damn boot had covered my feet while they froze to the ground for the last 4 months and wanted to see them and the memories of that hell burn out of existence. The laces had been replaced with OD Green 550 Para-cord after a dog had twice chewed them off while I slept. I removed the laces and put them in my pocket (I still have them in my toiletry bag). The recruit helpers were confused why I trying to give back the boots. They called over a large black Corporal. 

"Qui!"

"Poubelle.....poubelle.....pa bon"

He through them over his shoulder and walked away.

  

"Life is shit, I smoke another Gauloises"

   Camille is the best!

     I was going to need to reclaim my large, green travel bag from a friend Camille in Toulouse and this weighted on my mind. I had volunteered in Toulouse two weeks ago and so the Legion had provided me with 23 Euro for everyday after the contract was signed and a ticket to return to Toulouse on the first available train. 

  My friend MA had come directly to Marseille and therefore was given no ticket and about 100 euro for his contract. MA was an undersized Danish man that looked like David Beckham with sleeved arms and was gifted with the foresight to make only hedonist choices. Additionally, I seemed to be the only person that could understand his English.

    

   The bus dropped us off in front of the fountain pictured to the left. After some debate we decided that, given our dejection, distrust, and depression, the best course of action was to get completely ripped at a bar, steal a car, and drive to Barcelona. This seemed fairly improbable... but what the hell, it's not like I had anything better going for myself. The bar was typical Marseille cafe populated with North Africans that bought us drinks and gave MA hash after we explained that we had prematurely left the Legion. Later we rambled over the streets, talked with some college students, got turned away from a club, and then set about getting transportation. MA was determined to get a car although he had no idea how to get from Marseille to Toulouse. He tried a bunch of cars, but all he came up with was a furry hat with ear flaps and an umbrella... these would later be useful. I was trying to walk us back to the city center to grab a hostel when a Puegot parked next to us. MA approached the driver, some indistinct conversation occurred, she slapped MA, and we kept walking. 

   It was now 1:30am and the temperature was dipping into the 40's. A door called to me and it gave when I pushed on it. It was the entry way for an apartment building. We found a dark space at the end, next to the boiler room stairs, and curled up. The farm jacket that had also come from Marco was perfect for this kind of excursion. I had already spend months sleeping in or on it and this was a welcomed discomfort. MA did not fair as well with his thin sweaters and a rain jacket. I was woken several times to his groaning and shaking.

 In the morning we hit up a cafe. I ordered for us, but the gal didn't know how to make an American coffee. This lead to some awkwardness when MA walked behind the counter to get enough hot water to warm his bones. However, the big event was my caving to the past 36 hours of MA's dream of bar tendering and making love to Scandinavian beauties in a tropical setting. 

Euro Disney, JK

  We were red and black from Marseille to Avignon. Red and Black is a Dutch expression for riding public transit without paying because only the Indians and the Africans do it (insert disgusted laugh here). Avignon is an amazing modern city surrounded with mid-evil city walls and gardens. We walked around a bit enjoying the sights but I was mostly concerned with finding shelter for the night.  
 
  Le Croix-Rouge Française (Red Cross) system for homeless shelters works as follows: you must call 012 or 014...one of these is for emergency services and the other is for homeless shelter. Call in the afternoon, make reservations and then call back after 6pm to find if you were accepted. The reason for the second call is that they shelter the youngest and oldest first. Some cities will send a mini-bus around to pick people up when it is especially cold. They often will park at La Gare(train station) and wait to get the fellas that have spent the day begging. The facility in Avignon had large double rooms, movies, and the best food I ate in France.  I'm talking chicken, fish, potatoes, vegetables, salad, rolls, butter, milk, and desert. This is a bit of an abnormality. The Fourier in Bezier had prison gruel and the facility in Perpignan charged 2 euro per night for hospital food and a bed.

  We spent the evening smoking cigarettes, sipping cold coffee, and framing the future. The plan was to get to Ibiza and tend bar for a few months during the tourist season, saving enough money to get to some tropical place like Cambodia or Vietnam. Our arrival would be perfectly timed to land a job, get an apartment, and work on a tan before the Scandinavians arrived. 
 

Someone needs to apply sunscreen...

   Three days later we arrived in Barcelona and set ourselves up at Equity Point Hostel located 15 feet from the dirty sand of Barcelonenta Beach. The weather was clammy, but we managed to get sun burns, drink copious amounts of rum, and meet some travelers. Unfortunately efforts were side tracked by the homosexual perception of being two attractive, well dressed, and nice males. Additionally, the Danish charm of asking for sex after 15 minutes of conversation was lost on the ladies....with the exception of a pair from Brittany(France) that seemed very humored by lewd remarks. They spoke a smidgen of English and were challenged by my French, so we found a suitable activities to entertain ourselves with restricted communication.

   The drinking and general catharsis continued for a few days more, we switched hostels, caused more problems, and then MA became violently ill after marrying P in a short hostel ceremony preformed by yours truly, witnessed by two rotund engineering students from Wisconsin, and consummated to the insomnia of a dozen roommates.

Slow night

  In a state of degenerating health, MA was unable to resist our removal to an isolated hostel painted in obnoxiously bright colors and no nearby bars. I cooked a huge pot of food, forced him to eat, and stressed out for a few days while planning the next part of our journey. I would later return to work at this hostel, be unable to sleep for a month, and cause general malarkey....but that story will come later.  

   I really needed to sleep long and hard and not get asked to many questions and avoid loud, beer drinking, touristic types. The answer seemed pretty obvious, there are a number of squats in Barcelona where one could do a little free construction work in exchange for a mattress on the ground and some heavily cooked food that had been liberated from the local refuse bin.

God this guy is amazing

  Squatting is basically taking an unoccupied building by force and then making it livable while having much trouble with legal proceedings. La Rimaia sat on a prime block near the center of tourism and amongst electronic stores, chocolate boutiques, specialty liquor shops and the University. The bottom and first floors had, at one point, housed a print shop as evidenced by jugs of aging ink and loose type sets. One day I walked up to someone while fiddling with a inky piece of type set, "Is that hash," he whispered with wide eyes and moist lips. You could almost register the dopamine spike from his pupil response.

The large spaces of both has been cleared for social space and a meter high stage had been raised of rubble to complement a bar of the same dimensions. Drinks and food were sold when goods had been liberated from dumpsters. The latter was especially noxious.

 

Front Door

Off the stairs, between the 1st and 2nd floors, directly below the elevator and above the water main access, was a conveniently placed, maintenance shop that now housed floor to ceiling brick rubble. There was an elevator that they asked us to fix, but neither MA or I were going to let children play with machinery. The kitchen, soon-to-be-dead laundry machine, bathroom(singular), dinning room, and first come housing were on the second. The third and fourth were a series of junk piles and empty rooms. There was space on both, but we took to the South wing of the 5th floor because it had a door and reasoned that these lazy, dread lock mulleted, malnutritioned give-me kids wouldn't be bothered to climb higher than necessary. Even if the stairs were laid with white rose marble. 

The wings were mirrors of each other with a large room to the street followed by entry way, kitchen, dinning room, bathroom, and two smaller bedrooms with a common enclosed balcony that faced a covered car lot. Almost every interior wall had beeen demolished and it was a mixture of water, glass, hanging eletrical, and those clay cinder blocks common to hot climite construction. Two lights on the floor worked. The front has a mystery water leak and the electrical vines produced current when switch box was kicked just right. 

View from the Dinning Room

We took the south facing room to shovel out for our burrow. In one corner salvagable salvage was stacked. The floor was swept and some found mattressed were leaned over our luggage. I put my passport in a plastic bag and buried it under some rubble in another room. With the floor clean I took the lightest brick dust and covered the floor surrounding our gear with a light rouge that stood out against the white tile.

"You put that to see if any one gets to our stuff?" asked MA

"Yup."

///////////

Awoke at 2045 after a nap. Hungry.

Life sounds downstairs and feet shift in the kitchen.

1) Raid dumpster

2) Cut celery to chunks and place in large bin for 3 days in the sun. Leave other vegs in common area to extrude oily decomposition juice.

3) Boil rotted veg. Artichoke is normally a very tough plant. But if you allow it rot for a week, then it will be come soft enough be boiled to a malleable consistency.

4) Mash boiled rotten veg with celery aka. Shrek's toe nail clippings. Allow to set.

5) Make breast sized pie.

6) Fry in excessively large pan so the oil barely reaches cooking temperature.

7) Serve with some parellely derived junk.

Rubber oil pucks.

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Going out is the easy part, getting back into the building is the trouble. The front door only opens from the inside and sometimes it is hard to get someone to help. Or if not, climb the electrical conduit coming subterrianly to a balcony and slip inside.

Floors 6, 7, & 8 are a mixture of sealed and cohearsed rooms. All unoccupied. Same condition as the beforementioned. 

A modicum of work has been applied to the ninth, last, and most beautiful floor. One large master bedroom facing north to the hills cupping the valley of Barcelona, guest bedroom with bathroom, large kitchen with bar, spacious dining and sitting room opening to an apartment sized terrace with stairs leading to a second terrace.

La Rimaia is the tallest building on the block. The view? Glorious.  

 ////////

   The natives are getting restless. The seem mildly suspicious of me because I do look like a bloody cop or solider, but I can roll cigarettes, speak bad Spanish, say the right political things, my clothes are ripped/patched, and I look generally dejected and lost. However, they fucking hate MA...probably because he is blond and capitalist looking. Damn the Northern Europeans and their willingness to work at build functioning societies!!!!

  Most evenings people fill the dinning room with slurred Catalonian, smoke, and bad posture. They all have a distant stare in their eyes and speak in hushed tones. One afternoon some hipster looking fellow with a suitcase showed up. He sat for a while with the gleam of someone that really wanted to be asked about what was in his brief case. Obviously everyone was either too stoned or stupid to offer up an inquiry, so he plunked the case on the table and removed from it a flogger he had made from bicycle tires. He flapped it around a bit, waiting for someone to notice.... no one gave a shit. I asked him about it and he seemed happy, returned it to the case and left. 

//////

   The friendship between MA and myself is a bit strained. He wants to check into a hostel, go nuts, chase girls, and beeline it for Ibiza. I'm depressed, disheveled, disillusioned, and in bad need of a hair cut. MA forces me out of La Rimaia for a haircut and time on the beach. He buys a new shirt and one for me. He's trying really hard to get my spirits up, but there is nothing more I want to do more than get back to the US. 

 Back at the squat I borrow some tobacco for a cigarette. The gal curled her lip and threw the bag on the table. Something about the tobacco tastes funny but I keep smoking. My tongue feels numb, vision blurs, gut swims.... I make it back to the 5th floor and crash. MA wakes me up a few hours later to hit Barcelona on a Friday night, but all I can do is stand up and then fall back over. He leaves in disgust. 

I sleep for at least 12 hours. Wake, find food, sleep. I wake and feel someone is near me. It's night. Hit the electricity vine and expose the same hipster guy standing in the corner. He leaves without saying anything. I collapse on the mattress and sleep for another 12 hours. I really need to get out of this place. It is Sunday now and I haven't seen MA since he left on Friday....I'll wait one more day and then be done with this hovel. 

///////

Monday

The sleeping continues... everytime I try to raise my body, it is pulled back down to the mattress. Each limb weights 40 pounds. Where am I going....

Someone is in the room again. I roll over to see MA going through his suitcase on the floor near his mattress. He looks at me from the corner of his eye and returns to the suitcase.

"MA, where have you been? What's up.....is that blood?" He paused for a second and then continues digging. "Hey man are you okay? Is that blood?" This time he stopped and pivoted to face me. From his lower lip, across the white sweater, and down his tan pants was a trail of blood that suggested he had been standing for sometime while he bled. MA stared at me for 15 seconds and returned again to his bag finding a shirt. "Hey DUDE, where the fuck have you been for three days and what is going on?" He changed his shirt and walked to the bathroom (The sewage worked with the addition of a bucket of water). "I just got out of jail."

The Spanish police are not known for kindness, honor, civility, or a especially deep love of anyone from a Northern European country. Even worse are the Mossos who are recruited from the normal police force for their brutality. They can be found standing near riot vans through Barcelona, doing nothing besides providing an intimidating presence. Sometime later a police officer explained that the security of Spain is something of a juristic nightmare with many overlapping services, special organizations and territories. 

A-Team

 

  "Jail, what did you do?"
  "Nothing man. I was in a bar and went outside for a smoke. The security didn't want me to come back in. I told him my passport was in my jacket in the bar. He said no, so I pushed him and got my jacket. By the time I returned the cops were waiting for me."

   "So they arrested you for assault."

   "On the car man."

   "What?"

   "The put me on the car man."

   "They threw you into the car and you hit your face?"

   "No man, the park."

   "The what? The park?"

   "In the ground, man. The thing you drive in the ground."

   "The metro. The subway?

   "Nah man. In the ground...where you drive the car. You put the car in the ground."

   "Parking Garage?"

   "Uh, yeah parking garage. Yeah in the ground. They drove me to the parking and then another car came and they hit me man. Like they hit me hard man. Fuck in my ribs with their sticks. It wasn't little kid shit man, my fucking ribs." MA rolled onto the mattress burying his face a towel. "In the jail too man. On guy threw me around the cell." The outside of both his wrists had red gashes left by the handcuffs. 

"I said BACK UP!"

   Downstairs we were able to find someone to translate the police record since the official language of Catalonia is Catalan (a mixture of all the unpleasant sounds from Spanish, French, and Italian). The police report stated that the Mossos approached the bar while a fight was in progress and arrested MA for his involvement. I took pictures of his enormously swollen lip but have erased them for some reason.

//////

We did eventually get to Ibiza and there is nothing about that experience worth sharing beside the pictures below. On the sunny side, MA returned to Denmark and is doing well and I found a job in a hostel in Barcelona.