Stairway To Heaven

In Barcelona, D and I went from the plane into a taxi that sat – waiting – in front of the airport. I addressed the driver in Spanish, greeting him, and he grunted in response. Undeterred, I gave him the address of the apartment that we had reserved. With no response, he pulled out into traffic. As he drove, I kept trying to communicate – to no avail. Finally, a few hundred yards away from the pick-up spot, he pulled over. Reaching across the passenger seat, he pulled glasses out of the glove compartment and put them on before pulling a small black book out as well. I felt a touch annoyed. Why hadn’t he indicated that he needed to move away from the airport, and also that he was apparently of poor vision?

Resolving to give him the benefit of the doubt, I started talking again. At first, the driver seemed determined to persuade me that the road in question did not exist. When I insisted, he grudgingly located it on the map, but pointed out that no vehicular traffic was permitted. He would need to drop us off a block away. At this point, I was feeling more than willing to get out of the taxi at the earliest convenience.

Despite his gruffness, I have fond memories of the Barcelona taxi driver. We had – after a plane delay – landed in the middle of the night (literally.) Considering his age, and the time of night, and his occupation, this man had every right to be a grump. No doubt I would be as well, were I an elderly taxi driver working the night shift from the airport, hauling tourists about.

As promised, we were dropped of on a main street. We walked down a side street that closely resembled an alley, and worried that we had been dropped in the wrong part of the city, and that – even worse – possibly we would be accosted, burdened as we were with our giant suitcases and numerous bags hanging off of our persons. Fortunately, we spotted the correct doorway before our panic could truly set in.

We had been directed to ring a specific number, and we did so. The door buzzed open and we walked into a high-ceilinged entryway constructed of smooth, light-colored marble. There were two sets of a few steps, and each set had a smooth, stone ramp built into the left-hand side. This was fortunate, as – like I mentioned – it was the middle of the night and we were heavily burdened. The gratitude that I felt, however, was brought to a screeching halt as we turned slightly to the right and spotted the stairway.

The stairs seemed to go up…and up…and up. At least four small, narrow, stone double-flights up. I was transfixed with horror. Looking about, I could spot nothing at all that resembled an elevator. This could not be happening.

Neither D nor I saw any evidence of the party that had arranged to meet us. Logically, we had to assume that she was present – somewhere – since she had buzzed us in. Her precise location, unfortunately, was a mystery. We were not even certain of which floor the apartment was on, as the numbering system in Barcelona – as it turns out – is entirely wonky.

Things were looking bad. They began to look even worse as D began, luggage bouncing about awkwardly, to climb the stairs. I watched in stunned disbelief for a few moments, evaluating my options. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, I began to follow.

It was awful. My arm – injured from a previous stair-climbing, hill-climbing, tram-boarding torture – was struggling valiantly to pull my heavier-by-the-moment luggage over the narrow steps. We reached a platform filled with doors and – as I gazed longingly back at them – started up the next flight. Next we reached what would be – in a normal country – considered the third floor. We looked at each other, uncertain of our next move. There was no one in evidence, which was a touch concerning. With trepidation, D approached the door numbered “1” and knocked softly. No response. We looked at each other again.

From above, a voice floated through the air, questioning us as to our whereabouts. Startled – and now concerned that we might have woken someone up in the middle of the night – we quickly moved toward the next flight of steps. I looked up – to the very top – and saw a face looking down at us. She gestured, beckoning us, and continued speaking. Focused – as I was – on making it up the Ascent From Hell – I had no energy left to make out her words. Breathing heavily, I climbed…and climbed…and climbed.

At the top, I nearly collapsed. D – who had reached the summit moments before me – was already following the woman toward the door of the single apartment on this level. As they moved away, I finally made out the woman’s words.

“Why,” she was asking, perplexed, “didn’t you take the lift?”



The stairs from the landing outside our apartment. Note that I was NOT joking.



The inside of the front door of the apartment. It was AMAZING. D found it. GREAT job!!