Piso Search: DAY 4

We roused Friday in our hostal feeling glum. We had come so close yesterday to resolving this issue, only to decide to keep forging ahead. I felt like I wanted to give up. I was tired and depressed, and did I mention I had broken out in eczema on my arms during our sweaty move in Phoenix a few days before we came to Spain? I couldn't bend my arms or wear long sleeves without getting seriously irritated. But I hadn't rationalized time to stop by a pharmacy and take care of it.

We weren't running low on money, per se, but I was becoming worried about what would happen if we went on like this, spending like tourists (but not living like them). We were definitely spending more than your average locals on metro tickets and phone minutes with all our work. I plopped down into our now-familiar "home" metro stop, saying out loud with exasperation, "I just want to visit a museum!"

Our first appointment was in Delicias, a pretty far ways out from the city center. We arrived early for our appointment, which was good, considering we had to walk about half a mile downhill to reach the apartment in question. Once outside, I called the owner. "You're there now? Diez y media? No, I said seis y media." Convinced the error was intentional so she could give the apartment to someone else, we moved uphill and onward.

Our next appointment wasn't until 12, but we were happy to have extra time. We had decided that our best bet would be if we were the first person to see an apartment, we could act fast and seal the deal before our competition. And Aurora did call this morning, to inform us someone else had given the señal and to wish us luck in our search.

We walked out of Gran Vía metro along Fuencarral, where the apartment was located, spying evidence of last night's revelry in the recently sprayed road and the groggy faces of the passers-by. The building where we ended up was right across the street from a trendy clothing store blasting out house music as though it had been doing so all night long.

While I was a little concerned about the neighborhood's noise levels, I thought the building looked very upstanding for the 420€ they were asking. A little older, a little shabby, a hostel on the second floor, and the offices of "Chocolate" (not sure what kind of business that is) on the third. Our apartment was supposed to be on the fourth floor, so even though we were very early, we sneaked up to take peak. It looked like the right place.

A. and I discussed our tactical approach to convincing the guy we wanted in the place. I made him call again to make sure I had gotten the address right. I asked him how bad it would have to be for him not to say yes. "At this point, anything's fine," he said.

Sure enough, the property manager Anselmo came by at five-till and we followed him up the stairs. He walked through one door and then unlocked another and we were standing in what we thought would be our new home. Small, yes. Quaint was what we were thinking. Only a hotplate, no stove. Only a mini-futon with a mattress flimsier even than what we used to have, if you can imagine. But it was quiet, no street noise from its interior placement. And it was only 420€ a month.

"We'll take it," we told him. The mousy man listened patiently as we explained our situation and told us he didn't think our financial documentation should be any problem at all. He just told us to make a copy of all the pertinent papers and bring them along with the señal. Now, what was a senal? It was bringing a part of the deposit money, say 200€, and letting that serve as a sign you were ready to commit to a contract.

We told him we were ready, to just let us get the señal ready. He said he would continue to show the apartment. That struck us as odd, but perhaps it was a directive from the landlady. I made sure it was clear: we are planning to sign the contract with you, so save this for us. "Certainly," he said. "I'll call you around mediodía." Odd, it was already midday or noon.

We left and made our copies straightaway. At the same time, I checked my e-mail and found a curious reply to a generic query I had sent to an idealista.com listing. I can't be sure whether it was for real or a sort of wired money scam, with all its terrible punctuation/grammar, but either way I got a real kick out of it. Who really talks about going on "a Crusade" to West Africa, anyways? Well, the good reverend did. I especially like question number 10 on his tenant application: "What is your religion? Are you born again?"

We went to a spacious basement apartment at 2 p.m. in the Barrio Salamanca, which was notable because it was very much within our reach financially at 499€ and in every other way beyond our reach. The landlord required the renter to already own property in Spain, which squarely ruled us out. Oh, and then there was an older woman who tried to butt in front of us (we had arrived second in line to see the place) arguing she had been waiting there since 11:30, but had left to get some lunch. How do you say "Oh no you didn't!" in Spanish?

We planned to go to another appointment at 5. A. reminded me that we had nothing sure yet with Mr. Gran Vía. Now, the appointment was to see a studio located nearby to where we were staying, in Noviciado. It was a wonder we even found it to begin with, since A. had only left a message about the ad a few days ago, and the son had called back when he was back from vacation to see if we were still interested.

We showed up in front of number 12, but a woman came out and showed us to 19. "You're here for the piso?" she asked. "My son put down 16 by accident in the ad instead of 19. Follow me." Who knows how we'd gotten 12 in our heads. Luisa showed us into a smaller building to a ground-floor studio with blue and white tiling. But she was hardly focused on the surroundings there, asking us if her son had mentioned an habitación she was renting that she knew would be just perfect for us.

She went on about how she had a nice big habitación in a shared apartment with a brand-new queen-sized bed. She told us all utilities, unlimited local calls from the landline, and an ADSL internet connection were included in the price: 500€ for both. We told her we were interested, yes, and could we see it later?

She said yes, promising to call us as soon as she was done showing the studio. She gave us directions and we were off. We felt good riding the metro along the green line to Marqués Vadillo. Once there, I called up Anselmo, having not heard from him as promised. "It's J and A, and we have the señal ready." "Oh, you're the American, right? Well, there's someone else interested in the place. I'll call you for sure tonight or tomorrow."

I tried to remind him we had been first and we already had made an agreement, but I knew it was useless. He wouldn't be calling us at all. He would defer to Spaniard applicants if for no other reason than that he couldn't trust us foreigner/student/married people. The prejudice made my blood boil as we walked along the road to the apartment building.

I was in no mood to like the neighborhood we were now examining. "It's OK," I muttered. "But pretty far away from city center, you know. And the metro's not that close. And I really, really am averse to sharing a bathroom. If I have to share a bathroom, I don't think we can live here."

We sat outside by a small playground, observing the high-rise apartment buildings, hotel, highway, and a gathering raincloud. It sprinkled a little, and soon enough, Luisa came. I realized then that the little old lady who I had mistaken for a tenant at the Noviciado studio was actually Luisa's mother. I admired that she was not only coming out with us, but she was also making the extra effort required to bring her aging albeit expert-parchís-playing mother.

Before we even went in, Luisa was going above and beyond her duties. We asked if there was a bus to the Atocha train station. Yes, but why did we want to go there, when there was a direct bus to Getafe right by our house? She trekked out to the stop to show us. We soon realized the good location this was for us: a 15-minute bus ride to Getafe, and a 15-minute ride to Plaza Mayor, with the bus stop literarally right outside our building.

Inside the apartment, I started feeling tingly in spite of myself. The apartment was quite spacious, with wood floors and furniture that reminded me of my stay with a Spanish family in Alcalá during my study abroad.

Our bedroom had plenty of closet space behind four full-length mirrored doors (see picture) and although no view to speak of, an exterior-facing window. And the bed (bought in January) was a delicious Tempur-Pedic mattress.

Yes, we would have to share the kitchen (see picture), the laundry room/patio, the living room (see picture), and even the bathroom (see picture) with two other people. But it didn't seem that bad in comparison to the helpless homeless situation we were in (and at any rate I knew people would be waiting for me to leave the bathroom far more than I would be waiting on them). I felt calm acceptance come to me, and I swallowed my pride. A. and I looked at each other and we knew. This would be "home."

The truth is, Luisa is just the exact kind of human being you hope to encounter when in a new country. She asks us constantly if we feel comfortable and how she can help out. She works across the river teaching special ed. at a school, and has already given me tips for navigating the Spanish school system.

When it came time for us to sign a contract, she didn't ask to see proof of my scholarship, our bank statements, anything we had needed to show to others. She told us, "I trust people." I asked if she wanted the rent on the first of each month. "Yeah, whenever you can make it." Really maja.

We paid her the deposit right then and there and made plans to return the next day with our belongings and her with our key. A. and I took the bus back to Plaza Mayor and as we walked about the bustling city, we felt for the first time real relief. Exhausted as we were, I couldn't handle the mental stress involved in ordering tapas, so we settled for a dinner of cheap and easy Döner Kebap.

We learned a lot of things about the Spanish piso seeking experience based on our four days spent scouring the city. One, if it's a good place, it will be snapped up like hotcakes. Two, being first in line won't give you any advantage if the landlord/property manager is intent on discriminating. Three, there are some really awful, deceitful people and some really, generous helpful people out there.

We fell into a good place by sheer luck. And for as long as it felt to us, success after only four days is encouraging when taken in context.

Here's my wrap-up of costs related to our search:

• Food: 92€
• Phone: 99€
• Hostal: 120€
• Segundamano classified papers: 10.80€
• Cybercafé time: 6€
• Metro and train tickets: 61€
• Baggage check: 73€
• New cell phone charger when we realized ours were in the baggage check: 20€
• Deposit: 500€
• Having a place to call your own in Madrid: priceless

Piso Search: DAY 3

First thing Thursday, we got on a train to Parla, which was at least an hour and a half from point A where we were staying (more or less city center) to point B. Plus, it's not even on the same train line as Getafe. I couldn't tell how long it would take to take the train up from Parla to Atocha station and back down to Getafe, and I didn't know what sort of bus availability there was either. I asked for both at the Parla train stop but the snippy man there just didn't want to help. "The only Parla train schedule is on the wall," he repeated. Fat lot of good that is.

Once there, we couldn't even find the apartment, since the landlord had given us landmark-based directions instead of an address. Not that that would have helped anyways, considering our lack of map. We left without seeing the place. Even if it was a jewel, A. remarked, it couldn't warrant living so far out in the sticks.

Having wasted the better part of a morning, plus the train fare, we bought our Segundamano at the Atocha train station and set about our daily routine late but efficiently. We used our cell phones this time, a nice change from street-side pay phones. A. thought that we always had better luck when I, the sweet gringa called, and he forced me to make most of the calls. I did reach a good percentage, and got several promising appointments set for the afternoon later.

It was time to hit the online listings, but this time I thought we'd hit two birds with one stone. I had read that there was a place called The Irish Rover with wi-fi, and I imagined we could strike up a friendship with some English-speaking expats and glean from them if not leads, then at least commiseration.

We made the long trek up to where it is on Avenida del Brasil all the way up by the Santiago Bernabeu stadium, where Real Madrid plays. In the end, the food was all right, but overpriced, the staff all Spanish as far as we could tell, and it was far bigger and emptier a locale than I had thought. Still, we spent the better part of two hours using their connection, so all was not lost.

I was pleasantly surprised to see people had replied so quickly to the requests I had sent out to my fellow CouchSurfers for a night or two's stay on their couch. But then I noticed a problem: due to some glitch in the Couchsurfing site, our messages had gotten jumbled and switched with other people's. Confused CSers wrote back saying, "I think you've made a mistake, I live in Spain" and "I'm not Anne and my German's a little rusty." Oh well. The issue wasn't quite as urgent as our piso search, and we had already paid for two more nights at the hostal (although it was getting smellier by the day).

We were starting to get worried though. Why hadn't we had any luck at all? Why were there so many factors against us? A. told me he wasn't sure whether he wanted to live in Spain beyond this year after all. He said he was starting to think we would have to consider inmobiliario agency services. For the past two and a half days we had been eating what was quick and affordable, never stopping to rest more than what we could on the metro between apartment visits. We were sapped of energy and not a little sleep deprived. What a rude awakening this had been.

Well, we did get a short rest off our feet, but it wasn't for reasons to our liking. Yet another property manager stood us up, this time for a studio on Tribulete street in the Lavapiés district. He told us that another couple had already given him the "señal." What was this mysterious sign he spoke of? It wasn't the first time we'd heard mention of it.

Since our next stop was an hour later a few streets over on cobblestoned Sombrerete street, we sat for a while on a bench and then spent some more time in a cybercafé or locutorio following up on leads. Soon it was time for our next appointment.

We were very impressed with the modern studio that we saw there (see picture). Smartly painted, with a new fridge and washing machine, and a comfy bed, the space was small but cozy.

And the owner very laid back. This cool chap by the name of Santiago said he and his girlfriend were leaving to Ireland to have their own foreign adventure. And he told us not to worry about showing him an aval or anything; he understood how it was to deal with bureaucracy in a new county. Besides the slightly muggy air and the slightly dusty retrofitting the ancient building was undergoing, we couldn't find a thing wrong.

Santi could tell we were excited but told us not to make our mind up on the spot. "How soon can you move out?" I had asked. "Go take a walk and talk about it," he advised. He just told us to call if we were ready. If not us, he was sure another couple was ready to seal the deal. She had come by earlier and he was set to come around at 10:30 that night, so if we were sure we'd have to move before they did. Santiago remarked that no sooner had he posted the listing that day (I believe on loquo.com) than the phone started ringing.

A. and I were positively giddy. We pranced about the main Lavapiés square (a few meters from the apartment building). We had finally found an owner willing to give us a chance. And the place was so nice. Well, the inside was nice at least. The area, though, was not known as one of Madrid's best. It's a district given over to immigrant populations, "mucho moro," mentioned Maribel of La Latina. That's not to say necessarily that it's less safe. I asked Santiago how he felt and he said he'd come home totally smashed some nights and no one had ever bothered him.

We observed the square. It was vibrant, not ghetto. There were plenty of open shops and lots of Indian and Middle Eastern restaurants. A. and I discussed it. In Mexico City, at least, you can run into trouble anywhere, he said. Whoever expects to get carjacked in a swank shopping district? Besides, I added, Spaniards are overly racist towards Middle Easterners, or Moors as they still call them. I'd like to see both them and Gypsies get fairer treatment.

Even so, we had another appointment for that night that we thought we should go to. Our time wasn't until 8, but I figured the earlier the better, so we could act on Santiago's place. I called to ask if we could come early, and was told to come by now. The other studio in question was also recently remodeled, and fashionably decorated. Same price as well, (600€).

We got off at Goya metro, even though Príncipe de Vergara would have been closer, and noticed immediately that it was on of those swank shopping districts we had just been comparing Lavapiés to. You couldn't ask for a starker contrast. This apartment was a basement, but had light from the building's inner courtyard. We could tell it was a very clean place as the porter let us in to meet Aurora.

She was older than I expected, with an altogether motherly aura: warm if somewhat fastidious. Kind of like the apartment she showed us, with its new appliances and bunk/trundle beds. She asked us about our situation and we were on our best behavior describing ourselves as responsible, bright people. Her son was attending Carlos III too, she said. Great, I thought. We could tell then and there that the person who got it would be lucky and hand-selected by Aurora. She said she would be making her decision that night and informing us either way.

We left in a quandary. Should we wait for Aurora's decision? If we wait too long will we lose both hers and Santiago's option? A. admitted he preferred her apartment to Santiago's although Maribel's was still his number one choice. So I called Maribel and she promised she would let me know as soon as she heard back regarding our situation. But it didn't seem that promising. She let slip she was tired of showing the apartment and ready to get the whole thing over with.

We knew she still wouldn't even get in touch with us until Monday anyways. And Monday was seeming such a far way off. We needed housing now. Aurora's place was empty and ready to be occupied tomorrow. But it seemed unlikely she would choose us from her list of top 5 candidates. It seemed we were so close, and yet so far from having a place to call our own in Madrid.

As we talked about it, A. and I both revealed we didn't feel as good about the Lavapiés place as we had earlier. Are you worried about security? I asked A. Yes and no, he said. He did think what a conspicuous and ripe target we would make as we dragged our four large and heavy suitcases across the square and up the four flights of stairs to our new place. But it was more than that, he said. A feeling as though we needed to wait for something else to come. I had to agree I felt similarly. But the agony of the unknown can be nerve-wracking.

Ten-thirty came and went. We didn't hear from Aurora and we never called Santiago back. Had we just made a big mistake, letting something sure slip through our hands?

Piso Search: DAY 2

We got up early, bought Wednesday's Segundamano, and started in on any new listings and ones from yesterday we hadn't been able to reach. The first apartment we visited—in the La Latina district—was absolutely darling. Yes, it was on the fifth floor (and by fifth, I mean 6 flights of stairs, given ground floor is floor zero in Spain). No, there was no elevator. But it was nicely furnished, recently renovated, and the space was much better laid out than in the Cuatro Caminos attic we'd seen the night before. In fact, this place even had its own attic for storage. And the price (600€) seemed fair.

The landlady, Maribel, told us of the affection she had for the little place since her parents had given it to her a few years back, and extolled the authentic madrileño flavor of the La Latina district. "I'm not just saying that because of the apartment," she insisted. "You'll find out for yourselves with more time here." The only problem was our inability to comply with the financial requirements set forth by the ayuntamiento, who were helping her rent the place.

For this particular place, it was required that the rent be no more than 40% of our monthly income. We told Maribel we thought we would qualify, based on my scholarship/contract and our savings account statements, even though we weren't exactly sure at that point how much of our savings we'd actually have for living expenses after A.'s last tuition payment was due (stay tuned for whether he gets any scholarship or financial aid...we'll know in September). Alas, would what we offer be enough for her?

What they were looking for were pay stubs, and an aval bancario, too. Now an aval bancario is something you pay 50€ or so per month to the bank so that they can issue you a letter promising to make monthly payments if you fail to. Trouble was, we didn't have a Spanish bank account, and couldn't get one until we had our NIEs, or residency numbers, which we couldn't apply for until we had an address to put down. Quite the catch-22.

Maribel was sympathetic and promised to check with the people at the ayuntamiento to see if our documentation was enough. But not until Monday. We thanked her and left. One thing she mentioned was very informative. It wouldn't be any problem to stay for 10 months even though we would be signing a one-year contract, as long as we gave her one month's advance notice. It was the law, she said. We figured we would be protected in this way throughout the whole city, and that contract lengths wouldn't be an obstacle to us getting into a place.

But at this point, we were a bit discouraged because of the obvious disadvantage we were at, not being able to get an aval bancario. Nearly half the ads we read asked for it. It's a total obstacle for new immigrants searching for housing, but how could we argue it? We decided that from then on, if we liked a place, we would try to persuade them what good tenants we would be, realizing that it was up to us to plead our case and get the landlord to trust us.

We went to a few other other places, including a budget-minded 400€ room in Chueca where the landlord absolutely refused to consider us because we were a couple, and he had explicitly listed the studio as "unipersonal." He stood aghast as we walked in: "Both of you?" he asked A. "Well, yes, she's my wife." Granted, it was as big as other studios we would see, but he just kept going on and on about how you'll see immigrants on the news crammed into small, barely livable quarters and he just couldn't be a part of it. Granted, he would rent it to someone if they just had their girlfriend by on the weekends, but it was too little for two long-term, he insisted. We couldn't get anywhere with this guy, so we thanked him and left.

We wandered about the hip Chueca district and stumbled upon free wi-fi at Fly Café. The British barista set us up and we surfed for more than an hour, gathering more listings and munching on granola and yogurt. I also dropped an e-mail to 5 or so CouchSurfers based in Madrid, hoping to make some local connections and to alleviate our lodging costs in case this search went on forever. (Couchsurfing.com is like hospitality services of old, but it's mostly a young and hip demographic interested in this Web phenomenon.)

Then we made a visit to what we thought was a studio, but it turned out to be an inmobiliario office, and I sternly rejected their pitch, which was to give us a list of some places that fit our specifications...for a mere 300€. That much without any guarantee we'd get in? No thanks. We learned elsewhere that another common agency fee once you sign a contract is to pay them equal to one month's rent. I decided to steer clear of all agency listings from then on.

We went to see one apartment which was very spacious indeed, with a bedroom, living room and even an office, only to find out there was some miscommunication, since they were asking 850€. Oh, and there were leaks, funny smells, and for whatever reason, celebrity magazine tear-outs thumbtacked to every available wall. I dug my nails into A.'s hand: no!

We went to another appointment and waited outside with two other girls for 30 minutes for Enrique to show us up...A. finally called him and oops, he told us he had just closed the deal with someone else. Surprise. While walking to the nearest metro stop, we dropped into an Orange mobile shop and asked about their prepaid cards. I had previously gotten our two Nokia phones unlocked by T-Mobile and knew that their SIM cards were compatible at least with Orange's system. I had checked out other providers' plan offerings, at least cursorily, and for the time being thought Orange was as good as any other. Besides, we kept getting asked for our numbers by people we called, or hitting answering machines.

We dropped 15€ each, which bought us a number plus 12€ of calling time. I figured that the calling rates were high, but no more so than pay phone rates. And we kept running out of minutes on our pay phone cards at the worst moments anyways and then not being able to track down a tobacco shop when we needed to buy new ones.

While at the shop, one of the store employees asked me if I knew any American girls interested in doing au pair work. The reason he asked was because he had four kids (which to him and most Spaniards is a lot). I said, "Sure, I come from just the place you need to know. It's called Utah. Highest per-capita birthrate in the nation. And at a certain university called Brigham Young University, you'll have an unlimited supply of takers. These girls are smart, quiet, and interested in brushing up a second-language to become more attractive in the dating scene. Just what you need." He had me spell out Brigham Young for him before we left.

Piso Search: DAY 1

Ah, Madrid. With much anticipation, my husband A. and I arrived at Barajas International Airport at 10:30 a.m. Tuesday, Aug. 24, having slept somewhat well through most of the overnight Continental flight from Phoenix and having eaten the vegetarian on-flight dinner (a not-too-bad curry and spinach dish with a vegan chocolate chip cookie).

We were, if not entirely bright-eyed in that moment, still looking forward to making Madrid our home for the next ten months. A. had been accepted to the MBA program at the Carlos III of Madrid University and I’d landed a stipended position from the Spanish government to teach English in an elementary school. The real allure of the situation was in the fact that we would be living in Spain—magical Spain, portal to Europe—and having a year of “adventure.” Little did we know, the first 4 days that we spent searching vainly for a piso would form the most trying and desperate experience we had ever faced.

Naïvely, we had figured we would land in Madrid and in no time be approached with various apartment offers. We knew the space would be small, but that was fine, considering how little we had brought over. When I say small, I mean a one-room studio with a cocina americana (integrated kitchen) and a small adjoining bathroom. But we never imagined how difficult it would be to enter the rented housing market in Spain’s capital. For those of you who’ve tried to find a affordable place in New York City, I imagine the following will sound very familiar.

Back to the airport. As soon as we landed and passed breezily through customs, we locked our 4 checked suitcases and one carry-on at a consigna (it turned out to be the most ghetto and only elevator-less of all the airport's). The process took a while, what with getting cash and then change because the token machine only accepted five-euro bills or less…more on the lockers later. But by 1 p.m., we were practically skipping down the moving sidewalks, following the METRO signs to what were sure would be pure piso nirvana.

We decided to ride the metro all the way down to Getafe, a university town south of Madrid, where A. would both be studying and where we had hopes of finding housing. Riding the metro this way—snaking down from the farthest northeast corner to the farthest southwest corner of the system—is neither the fastest nor the cheapest of all public modes of transportation, although we didn’t care at the time. We happily added a one-euro ticket supplement here and another there, and an hour and a half later arrived in Getafe Central station.

We could have ridden one stop closer to the university, but got out early to try and scope out the town for alojamiento offerings. By the time we got there, it was smack in the middle of siesta time and there was hardly anyone else out. We ambled down one of the town's main roads, jotting down phone numbers of every handwritten piso announcement we found. We did the same for ads posted inside university buildings (it's a very pretty campus by the way). We ignored anything listing habitación, since those are mostly intended for individual students looking to live with roommates.

A. set about calling the numbers from a pay phone back in Getafe proper...and to our dismay found every place (all dozen, at most) had either already been rented out or was beyond our budget. 600€ was about the max we thought we could afford, given that that's around $900 USD right now. On every call, people asked suspicious questions: "You're students? Do you have income? Do you have kids? Are you planning to have kids?" We decided then and there to expand our search to housing in Madrid's city center and took the RENFE train back to Madrid.

Not knowing where to start looking up classifieds, I bought a copy of El País (my fave Spanish periodical) for 1€ from a kiosk in the metro. Unfortunately, as renowned as El País is for its national news coverage, it's classifieds section is almost nonexistent. We bought some bocadillos de jamón from a small café and asked the worker what would be our best bet for classifieds. "Segundamano," was her reply. She was right: it's chock-full of nothing but listings, including many for-rent ones. Unfortunately, it costs a pretty penny: 2.70€. Over, we started to pore over ads in the Flats of Rent section.

We called all of the reasonably centric locations, hearing a few were already unavailable, but setting up a few appointments for later in the week, and one for 8 p.m. that night. In the meantime, I was feeling tired and started searching for a hostel. I hadn't made a reservation, so we called some of the recommended hostels in my guidebook, only to find that their prices were 100-200% higher than my listed. I kicked my self for not buying the most up-to-date version, having held on to this Lonely Planet book since by 2004 study abroad in Alcalá de Henares.

Feet aching, we pressed on. We decided to make a stop at a cybercafé to check online listings, and dropped in at one at the Noviciado metro stop. Here I jotted down info from www.segundamano.es, www.idealista.com and madrid.loquo.com, as well as other less commendable sites. To use a Spanish term, using the Net's resources is imprescindible while piso-hunting as many good listings can be found there and aren't in the physical papers.

I continued to search while A. went out to make some phone queries. He took the better part of 20 minutes but came back with encouraging news. He had found a hostel, or an hostal, to be more to the point, with affordable 30€-a-night private rooms. It would turn out to be our one small success of the day. We checked in long enough to drop our stuff and then headed off to our first apartment inspection appointment.

We arrived at Cuatro Caminos 20 minutes early, with enough time to find the address, order take-out Döner Kebap and eat much-needed sustenance in the form of falafel and kepab. Back at the address, we found 12 other people staked out by the door. Was this normal? I asked myself. Seems like a lot of people for one measly 600€ 40-m² attic. The landlord took up people one or two at a time, and after another half hour, we wound our way up 5 flights on stairs (no elevator) to the teeny one-room attic studio. We talked to the current tenants, but discovered the place would be not available until Sept. 1 and wouldn't come with any furniture at all.

An unfurnished place just wasn't an option, considering how much we'd have to sink in bigger-ticket items that we'd only be using for a year. Besides, it seemed that there were plenty of furnished or amueblado places listed for rent. Back in the hostal, we made our game plan for the next day and channel-surfed long enough to catch a carbon-copy version of "Are you smarter than a 5th grader?" with the same theme song and all, except in Spanish: "Sabes más que un niño de primaria?" That night's contestant sure didn't seem to be, stumped as he was on the question: Which is longer: a whole note or a whole rest? Banal, but distracting.