“Night,” he says as he disappears back inside.
“Good night.”
I drag myself inside and get my tiny towel from my locker and take a shower.
The water pressure is shit and barely hot, and who knew drying yourself with a washcloth could be so unsatisfying?
The hostel is nearly deserted. Everyone is out for the night.
I walk into my bedroom and climb into my bottom bunk bed. I’m six feet three; my head and feet both touch the ends. I plug my phone in to charge and lie alone in the darkness. The rest of my roommates are still out partying. I wonder what time they’ll be back.
I can hear doors banging in the distance and people talking. Strange smells, and this bed is fucking uncomfortable. And what thread count are these sheets? They’re so rough I’ll be exfoliated to the bone.
I roll over and punch my pancake pillow as I try to get comfortable.
Worst bed ever.
I sigh, defeated.
Not a great first day . . . pretty fucking shit, actually.
After what feels like forever, I drift into an exhausted sleep.
The bell rings over the door as I walk into the taxi head office just at 8:00 a.m. I’m dripping with perspiration, having had to walk here at the crack of dawn, six fucking miles.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.
“Yes, I’m here to pick up my license. There was a problem with my card last night.”
“Okay.” She pulls out a drawer and picks up a stack of licenses held together with an elastic band. “What was the name?”
“Christopher Miles.”
She flicks through. “Here it is.” She puts it down on the counter. “That will be twelve euros.”
“Yes.” I fake a smile. “I was wondering if I could speak to the manager, please?”
“What about?”
“I’ll let them know when I get a chance to talk to them.”
“I’m the manager.” She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “What do you want?”
“Oh.” I fake laugh. “My apologies, you’re just so young.”
She stares at me deadpan.
“So.” I smile. This woman has the personality of a wet blanket. “Here’s the thing.” I smile goofily again. I practiced this speech in my head all the way over here, but somehow, it’s already not going to plan. “My card was stolen last night, and it’s going to take a few days to sort out my funds.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m calling the police.”
“I can work it off.”
“What?”
“I have an international license.” I point to it as it sits on the counter. “I speak Spanish, and I can read Google Maps. I’m the perfect employee for you.”
“You speak Spanish?”
“Uh-huh . . . ,” I lie. “I could drive for you all day, and then I could pay you this afternoon with my wages.”
She stares at me as if thinking.
“I’m very trustworthy.” I hold my hands out. “See, I turned up and am offering my services. That’s trustworthy if I ever saw it.”
“Do you know your way around Barcelona?”
“Uh-huh . . . ,” I lie again. I mean, how hard can it be? “Of course I do.”
She picks up my license and stares at it. “I do have a few drivers off sick today.”