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 was a sort of Barcelona rite of passage.
At the top of the stairs, I stood in front of our flat’s door, feeling changed. Life in Barcelona suddenly didn’t feel so hard. I was living abroad. I could become accustomed to these Barcelona ways. I could acclimatize. I was not such an old dog; I was not so incompetent.
Quite pleased with myself, I reached to open the door. It was locked. And, I realized, my keys were inside.
DANIELLE MUTARELLI lived in Barcelona, teaching English and locking herself out of her apartment. The latter led her to discover that watching the sun rise over Sagrada Familia is simply awe-inspiring.
Valencia
City on Fire
cara nissman
Saying that Valencia in March is a blast is like saying Times Square on New Year’s Eve is crowded. Every March 15 to 19, this coastal Spanish city bursts with raucous noise and vibrant colors for Las Fallas (“The Torches”), ending in a wild final night of fireworks. After months of living in Madrid and backpacking around Spain, I had heard enough about Las Fallas to know I didn’t want to miss it.
The Valencia version dates to the 15th century, when craftsmen took the torches used to light the city’s streets during winter, and burned them in bonfires on the feast day of San José, patron saint of workers. Over the years, the day has expanded into a riotous week of bonfires, parades and fireworks explosions, celebrated by several million people.
Today, each barrio in the city spends up to a year building a falla that’s 20 feet tall, and dozens of smaller ninots to surround it. These startlingly lifelike statues satirize current events and lampoon public figures. Meticulously built of cardboard, wood and plaster, the fantastic constructions are displayed during the week of festivities.
Then, on the last day, called La Crema (“The Burning”), men with axes chop holes in the figures and fill them with fireworks, to be set ablaze at midnight. At 1 a.m., the largest, most extravagant falla is ignited in the city’s main square, Plaza Ayuntamiento, followed by a spectacular fireworks display called Nit de Foc, Night of Fire.
Before I left Madrid, everybody assured me that nobody reserves a room during La Crema, because everyone’s