leaky faucets

Hole in the Wall_9289

As you know, we live and work and play (and write) in Barcelona.  Some of this happens in our seventh-floor loft, at the top of our apartment building on Carrer Provenza, about five blocks from Gaudi’s famous (and mindblowingly beautiful) cathedral, which dominates the skyline for miles.

Now begins the story.  (Do you have a nice bowl of popcorn in your lap?)

As it happens, water pipes in some people’s floors (you can decide whose) sometimes erode, then bust, causing the water to begin pooling and eventually leaking.   Yikes.  Because underneath said apartment is another apartment, where people also live.  Presently, the woman in the apartment below, where the leaks have become serious, places buckets in strategic places, to catch the leaking water.  And in the apartment above, the water must be shut off.  (A serious bummer which causes the tenants above to reflect on the value of running water and cooperative spigots.)  Oi.

Eventually, a handyman arrives.  Thoughtful, competent, willing to become filthy, he plunges into his task, which involves tearing up the floor near where the leak is suspected to be.  All day the pounding goes on.  All day he wonders, as do the landlords, who are now on site, Where, Where!?  Where is the leak!?

Finally.  Eureka.  (That sneak of a leak.)

Then the landlord, bent over the offending spot in the floor, straightens up.  Probably six foot nine and a former professional basketball player for “Barce,” (pronounced “Barsa”), he stands up abruptly and drills his head into the chandelier, which rips an eight inch hole in the ceiling before crashing to the floor with a bang so deafening and stylish you’d think the whole thing had been orchestrated by a special effects crew.  The kids come running.  Was the Barce Man, the Ball Handler Extraordinaire, hurt??  It can’t be!  He’s far too cool to have sustained a serious head injury from a mere light fixture.

Naw.  He’s tough.  He manages a smile.

Well, several hours later, the handyman (and hero of the day) announces that his wife has called to remind him that it is his birthday and that they cannot start the party without him.  Ouch.

And how do I know all this?  Well, I think you know.

The good news is that we are now friends with the people below us, into whose unfortunate apartment our naughty water trickled, then spilled.  And the pipes have been expertly fixed by The Handyman, with whom I am certain I could trust my life (were my life in need of serious repairs).

And I now know where my landlady, a woman so chic she leaves perfume jet trails and inspires the admiring sighs of my girls, acquires the fabulous baubles that dangle from her wrists.  (If you’re curious, ask me!)

On Carrer Provenza, after a tumultuous weekend, all’s well that ends well.

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