Our cosy meeting of the Poetry Group in Barcelona last night was rudely interrupted (ironically during the period of silent introspection before our free-write) by a chorus of alarms from our mobile phones, the local government raucously informing us that a major storm was about to break and that extra care needed to be taken and . . . but the way that the alarms are set up is that if you press the ‘OK’ on the screen to stop the noise, it also wipes the message, so any further details are lost and you just have the memory of the noise and the brief glimpse of the apocalypse outlines in three languages.
It is a sign of the times that one member of the group explained the proper etiquette for dealing with the increasingly regular mobile phone alarms, by informing us that the correct procedure is is lower the volume to stop the noise and then you can read the message for the authorities at your leisure.
It was also with a certain amount of cynicism that we now appreciate these ‘warnings’. After various scandals where withering fingers of accusation wee levelled at various officials who did nothing or little in the face of warnings, we are now at the other extreme of responsibility with an eagerness to put warnings out so that the officials involved can cover themselves in the case of disaster.
It was the first flash of over-the-top lightning (looking more like an amateur junior ASM being over enthusiastic in giving a dramatic light show for Lear’s Madness on the Heath scene, than anything in so-called real life) that I realised that I had not even backed a mini umbrella into my backpack and that I would have to traipse my way to the car park under the arc de triomf in driving rain.
In the event, at the prompt termination of the event, there was what appeared to be a lull in the storm (which had provided sometimes disturbingly apposite sound and lighting effects to the poetry being read) which I took advantage of and scurried (in so far as I am now capable of that action) off to the car park with my baston clicking an urgent clicking beat to my progress.
The car park is one of those vast underground constructions which honeycomb the city and give vastly expensive parking spaces, because finding something on the actual above-ground streets is virtually impossible. My problem is always getting back in at the end of the meeting after the doors have closed.
As is usually the case, at the entrance to the car park you are provided with a ticket from the machine which gives you a bar code which will be read by a machine which will open the door for you to get your car. I, however, have a little machine in the car which is recognized and lets me tough without having to take a ticket, and this is also the case when I leave, my payment is automatically and (almost) painlessly, as you only get the briefest digital glimpse of the astronomical amount that you have paid to stay there.
But I can’t get in because the after-hours closed doors can only be opened from the street by showing your printed barcode on the ticket that you were issued with when you came in. A ticket that I do not have. I have previously been told that I can punch the registration of my car into the machine manually to gain access – but the keypad only has number and not letters, so I always find myself pressing the little button next to the keypad to summon one of the workers to open the door.
This usually takes a few minutes, which is usually not a problem (in spite of some of the suspect character who hang around the arc de triomf at night) but yesterday, I was waiting outside in The Lull waiting for the rains to recommence at any moment.
My entry was facilitated by a customer leaving and, by the time that I got to my car, I was passed by a worker on one of those little electrical vehicles usually seen in airports, making his way to where I would have been waiting is it wasn’t for the aforementioned customer.
Almost as soon as I got out of the carpark it started raining, complete with thunder and lightning. As the air-con in the car is not functioning, I had the windows open and, as the rain increased, closed so the car became like a sauna. And I took a new way home, guided by the GPS, going through new streets until I came to the welcome familiarity of the Via Laietana and a well-known way back.
Driving at night in Barcelona is a total pain as you limp your way from red traffic light to red traffic light, with the added frustration of stopping for imaginary people to cross. Would it really hurt the municipal authorities to install a degree of AI into the lights to facilitate the smoother running of the roads? No, perhaps I shouldn’t have added a question mark to the last sentence, as its rhetorical nature is clear!
As I drove through the city accompanied by lashing rain and the melodramatic production of son et lumière for the end times, I eventually made it onto the motorway.
Although I was expecting it, based on vast past experience, the quality of the driving (in rain that needed the fastest setting of the windscreen wipers to fail to clear all the water) was appalling. Motorists did not reduce their speed; they attempted risky manoeuvres on roads covered in standing water and . . . it was just like a normal night’s bad practice with the added danger of torrential rain.
I did reduce speed, but that merely meant that vehicles drove at my speed a few centimetres behind me until they swerved to overtake into oncoming traffic. I would like to say that it was an invigorating experience, but it wasn’t. It was stressfully depressing and it remains a constant wonder to me that I do not have to thread my way through a series of pile-ups on all the roads I use!
But obviously, I made it home and was drenched in the short run from the car to the front door. A small price to pay for survival!
