Spain from a Backpack. Mark Pearson

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friends. The beach looked the same everywhere. I ran in one direction, then, thinking I had gone too far, headed in the other. My calves ached from running in the thick sand. I felt weary and could barely stay awake, but still I ran as fast as I could. I worried that my friends had left to look for me, since I had been gone so long, and that I would never be able to find them.

      I ran for miles and miles, always feeling as though I was getting nowhere—half an hour in one direction, half an hour in another, then back again. Eventually, my surroundings began to look more familiar. The place that I had left hours before was still there. In fact, my friends were still sleeping. I collapsed onto the beach and tried to go to sleep, hoping that I would wake up well-rested, next to my belongings.

      But I could not fall asleep. The sky was beginning to lighten and gulls were circling above. I looked around and saw what was left of my things: a blanket, an inflatable neck cushion, and a book that I had yet to finish. I sat and watched the tide roll in. I could feel the temperature rising by the minute. Humiliated, I felt like the gulls were laughing at me. My pack was gone. I wasn’t getting it back.

      Slowly, I began to understand my lost things for what they were: things. Other than the photos, everything would be worn out or thrown away in the next few years. It could all be replaced. The photos I couldn’t reproduce, but my memories were alive.

      Tired and heartbroken, I began to laugh along with the gulls. I was disenchanted but not devastated. I looked out far across the ancient water, farther than I ever had before, and accepted the rising sun.

      NICHOLAS GILL is a freelance writer and photographer based in Columbus, Ohio. He is the author of Adventure Guide Peru (Hunter Publishing, 2006). After graduating from Ohio State University, he spent several years abroad in search of adventure. However, he and his Peruvian wife are intent on settling in the United States ... somewhere.

       Barcelona

       Bang, Bang! The Butane Man

      danielle mutarelli

      i used to think that “living abroad” meant you had an address, a job and a bank account. I had those things in Barcelona.

      The address was a crummy apartment I shared with 13 other people in what used to be a brothel. The job just paid for my room. And the bank account was virtually useless, because the bank was across town and I could never seem to get there on a day that wasn’t a holiday. And also I had no money.

      Truth was, despite having all those things, I didn’t feel like I actually lived in Barcelona. I was failing to do the one thing that enables you to truly live abroad: adapt. I simply couldn’t accept the idiosyncrasies of that gorgeous city’s culture.

      I resisted those tiny tapas, because they were just a tease. I resisted the idea that a city should shut down for at least one major holiday a week. I resisted the nightlife. (Late nights truly killed me. I pleaded with my foreign friends to go out just once before 1 a.m., but they never did, and I usually found myself in bed before “the night” had begun.)

      But the thing I boycotted most was butane, which fuels the majority of kitchen ovens and water heaters in Barcelona. I’m so cautious with fire, I don’t even burn candles. So you can imagine how I felt about opening up a gas valve and sticking a match to it. The whole setup terrified me, and I ended up eating a lot of cold cereal and taking many cold showers.

      And obtaining butane was so archaic! You don’t set up an account and have the stuff delivered to your flat on a regular basis. You don’t ring up your local butane distributors and ask them to drop off a couple of tanks. No, you must seek out the butane man who peddles it on the street. He wheels his cart, piled high with tanks of explosive gas, through Barcelona’s narrow, twisting alleys and side streets, alerting you to his presence by banging on the tanks with a screwdriver (is that even safe?!) and belting out, “Buu-taaa-noooo!

      The butane man does not adhere to any set schedule; he makes his own. His singsong and banging echo throughout the neighborhood at irregular hours on differing days, guaranteed to be the ones when you’re trying to sleep off your worst hangover ever. And the moment you hear the butane man, you must dash down your stairs and race into the street, or you’ll miss him ’til whatever time he next comes.

      For months, I avoided these odd transactions. I contributed my butane funds to the house account, and I let my flatmates handle the rest. But one day, my landlord elected me as the butane retriever. I couldn’t understand why he’d picked me. I was by far the least competent at this task of anyone in the flat, if not the entire city. For days, I pretended that I’d forgotten, hoping someone else would step up to the job. Sure, I felt like a slacker, but I assured myself: “It’s not your problem. You don’t use the butane.”

      Yet, my landlord persisted, and he asked me daily if I’d gotten the butane. It was ludicrous. It seemed as if he’d come upon selecting me by asking himself a short list of questions:

      1. Q: Who repeatedly locks herself out of the flat?

      A: Dani

      2. Q: Who has caused the washer to overflow no fewer than three times?

      A: Dani.

      3. Q: Who has the Spanish vocabulary of a 5-year-old, and is least likely to obtain anything other than water?

      A: Dani.

      Then one day, I got a hankering for Ramen noodles. I had abused my palate in college, and nothing but Ramen noodles would suffice now. I grabbed my pot of water and snuck over to use our neighbors’ stove.

      Their kitchen was in a state. They had butane, yes, but they also had an ambitious trail of ants making their way in through the window, over the sink, along the edge of the cupboard, across the wall, down the door frame, and into one of three piles of trash. It took me a moment to even locate the oven beneath the mountain of crockery. But pilferers can’t be choosers. I pushed the crud-encrusted pans off the range, and, holding my breath, I opened the valve, said a prayer, and lit the match. The fire flared under the pot, and I sat back and waited for the water to boil.

      Truth was, I was feeling guilty. I was taking a meager amount of butane, but still, it wasn’t mine. I was a thief. I just couldn’t get my life in Barcelona right. I was a failure. And the root of the problem was nothing but my own resistance. I looked around the kitchen. This was the story of my life in Barcelona, I realized: I’d do anything, even steal, to avoid getting out there and living as a local. I leaned over and turned off the stove, dumped my pot of water in the sink, and walked back to my flat. It seemed destined that, right then, I would hear the butane man’s clanging coming up from the street. I grabbed our flat’s empty tank and headed down the stairs to meet the butane man.

      His cart was loaded with orange tanks, and he nodded as I approached. We exchanged my empty tank for one of his full ones, and the deal was done. It was so simple.

      The butane man smiled at me, out of gratitude, I gathered, because he was pushing a slightly lighter load. But it was more than that. It was as if he knew that it was my first time; that I was no longer a butane virgin. The full tank was heavy, but I felt empowered as I made my way back up the stairs. After all these months in Barcelona, I felt that I was now officially living in Barcelona. I’d made the transition. Maybe this is why my landlord had selected me. Maybe meeting the butane man was a sort of Barcelona rite of passage.

      Maybe meeting the butane man

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