First, there was the month back in the States -- nonstop thrills, from packing up an apartment to rendezvousing with far too many people in far too many places (some of whom shared far too many previously unknown details about dark corners of their lives) to hosting two Irishmen who made the trip over during my last week there to help with the move.
As if that weren't enough action, I made the trip back to Madrid by way of Paris (maybe the most beautiful city I've ever seen), where I managed to leave my bathroom kit in the hotel room when I bolted. Got back here, addled by lack of sleep. The second night back, left the apartment without my keys, locking myself out (not something you want to do in a building with no portero or other individual who might have keys to the various pisos; my landlords live outside Madrid somewhere, their number was in my phonebook, in the piso -- the one I was locked out of). Luckily I hadn't locked the door, only pulled it shut -- I found neighbors who knew how to pop the lock, we broke into my place together. Jubilation.
The days are scooting by. I'm writing, I'm making plans for next week's holiday return to the States. Today I left the apartment to pick up a couple of newspapers, when I got back the lock refused to respond to my key. Simply refused. I found a locksmith who showed up and spent a half hour figuring out the problem, ultimately diagnosing a broken pin deep within the lock. After filing off a bit of the end of the key, he let me back into my home.
So far, for a guy whose Spanish ranks only one or two notches above the primitive, I'm doing a decent job of averting catastrophes.