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?