I landed with the guitar riff from “King of Spain” playing in my ears.  Palma Mallorca smelled like an accident.  Maybe it was me who smelled like an accident.  I was pressed between a Norwegian Air, economy class window and a potent, probably Pakistani man for the first leg of the nine hour flight.  I marinated in the finest Pakistani potpourri while recycled air filled my lungs.  There was also the girl behind me who decided to touch me with her foot.  Another story.

Baggage claimed.  Called Martin, the Spaniard, who later turned out to be a Nigerian welder.  We had a plan.  I call when I arrive in Spain – he rents me a room.  

I called from the airport.  Martin bailed.  Taxi driver didn’t understand my Northern Mexico shit-Spanish.  He aimed me at an alley, took twenty Euros from me, and said, “Hostel” with a shake of his hand as if to say, “maybe?”

I drag my luggage up two flights of stairs.  The hostel is over capacity and overpriced.  For the next two hours, maybe three, I sweat through two t-shirts.  My “Mug Me” attire consisted of two rolling suitcases, one back pack, a duffle bag, and an upside-down map.  Yet, Spain takes mercy on me.  As discrete as a shovel dragged across pavement, I wheeled my bags through the cobblestone hallways they call streets.  After eight too many wrong turns and a literal, “I’ve been here before” moment, I found a beacon of stained hope.

A hammered-drunk hostel employee takes breaks between beers to check me in.  Room 101, bed C, above a Spanish speaking Asian with a tremendous snoring capacity. 

Don’t believe everything you read...or do believe everything you read - remember you have all of your belongings with you.  Tie your backpack and duffle bag to your leg before you sleep. Booby-trap your luggage with a precariously balanced steel water bottle alarm system.  Then stay awake with jetlag and paranoia.

The morning brought the sanctity of spotty hostel provided wifi.  “Wee-Fee” as they pronounce it here.  After selling me a SIM card, the Spanish version of a T-Mobile employee regretfully informs me that he can’t unlock my phone.  On the brink of a breakdown, I desperately call AT&T who has already sent me a message about my excessive roaming usage.  They are of little help and spitefully cheerful.

Back to the hostel.  Back to the worse than spotty wee-fee.  Met another Grant – American, habla español bien – he helps me.  Probably smells the pathetic discomfort in my 'yesterday' shirt.  I follow his lead.  We traverse the city looking at potential rooms to rent.  He’s picky, with good reason, looks for specifics, counters with questions to renters’ offers.  I look at price tags.  Holes in the walls can be patched.

Late in the day, running off of a granola bar and trail mix, I meet with Martin - the Nigerian welder.  He’s polite, apologetic for leaving me out in the rain (so to speak).  He presents barely livable rooms.  The stress he puts on locks and safety should be encouraging – it’s isn’t.  No wifi...deal breaker.

Now, I write to you from a room the other side of Palma Mallorca.  Ten by eight, old paint, wilting desk, lamp covered in dusty plastic.  Blanca, the live-in renter is sweet.  Her English is nonexistent.  We meander through conversation slapped together with gestures.  She’s old and possibly Argentinian.  Late sixties.  She says she’ll do my laundry.  I don’t know how to say "I’ll do my own laundry" in Spanish.

As I pay her a month’s rent, I notice a network of scabs on her arms and shoulders.  They’re red and itchy.  Bedbugs creep into my mind.  I examine the ten-year-old stains on the twin mattress with a flashlight.  I inspect the entire room with everything but an Orkin name badge.  I kill a spider, google “signs of bed bugs,” and examine everything again with a makeshift magnifying glass (plastic water bottle).

There’s a pink sheet on the bed now.  Every few paragraphs, I glance over suspiciously.  Tonight will be a battle between truth and hypochondria.  Tomorrow I will buy Spanish disinfectant spray – or move.

Welcome to Palma Mallorca.

*It gets better.  There are bed bugs.  I negotiate and get my money back in the morning (todo en Espanol).  I drag my luggage a couple miles to another flat.  Better place.  No bedbugs.

I'm still alive.  Stay tuned, scumbags.

Hasta la vista.