Alone
Samora Chapman flew solo to
the city of his
dreams, with
some unintended
consequences…
in
I feel intrinsically drawn to big cities – I
love the chaos and raw beauty of dense
urban spaces and the cultures that
blossom there, be it skateboarding, street
art, public performance or sidewalk cafés.
Barcelona seemed to have it all, and I
yearned to go there.
Having a tight budget, however, is my
status quo on just about any journey – the
downside of being a struggling artist from
South Africa. This generally means that
I use public transport rather than taxis,
rely on free Wi-Fi zones and eat/sleep
as cheap as chips. It also means I often
travel alone and am always getting lost,
exhausted and desperate. But it’s those
moments that often lead to the most
enduring memories.
After landing, I caught a train straight to
24 // MAKE MEMORIES FOR LIFE
La Rambla – a vibrant street in the middle
of the city, alive with street performers,
markets and restaurants. I got terribly lost
walking the narrow lanes of the Gothic
district. My phone died, the heat was
intense, and it took hours to get my hands
on the keys to a friend’s apartment in the
seaside neighbourhood of La Barceloneta,
where I had arranged to stay.
When I finally arrived at the apartment
block, I realised that I only knew the
address and not the actual apartment
number. Armed with a foreign set of
keys, I had no idea which apartment I was
looking for.
After knocking on a number of
doors, I discovered that my friend lived
somewhere on the fourth floor. Taking
a chance, I approached a random door,
my heart pounding, and began trying the
different keys. The next thing I knew, a
Spanish woman came screaming out of
the darkness,“Mi casa! Mi casa!” (“My
home! My home!”).
I dodged a swinging handbag
and scurried down the passage,
apologising sheepishly over my shoulder
as I escaped.
Further on I came upon a door that
was slightly ajar. An old lady stood in
the evening light, eyes big as saucers,
muttering under her breath. A television
flickered in the background, giving her a
wavy, ghostlike outline.
Sweating and bewildered, I tried the
only Spanish phrase I knew. “Habla usted
Inglés?” I implored, asking if she spoke
English. “I’m looking for my amigo – a