I travelled to Europe recently and spent a week in Barcelona with my brother. I like to travel with the minimum. He likes his technology and thus totes a range of gadgets which all appear to be absolutely essential..............
Googling Barcelona
I’ve returned from four hours of walking the laneways of Barcelona.
It’s a beautiful part of the world.
It’s day two of my week.
I have a good view from my half open window. There are scores of jumbled apartments in serious need of repair backing on to our neat Spanish hide-away. They are all silent. The locals are all having a siesta.
I’m trying to have a siesta too. I’m buggered.
Lying beside me is a clutch of brochures demanding my attention; offering me more advice than I can possibly absorb.
On the other side of the six inch thick stone wall held together by time and the traditional skills of builders of my great grandfather’s generation, my brother sits in the living room mumbling and cursing his travelling companion – his computer.
It’s been more than 40 minutes and still it hasn’t connected with the wireless network he was promised.
He wants to google the world wide web for a pixillated view of where we are in Barcelona. For some reason he needs to be reassured that he is really here.
He doesn’t seem to see the irony of his quest.
“Look out the window” I suggest, “use the map you’ve got in your pocket”, but no, he wants google-earth so he can see our rooftop. “We’re on the top floor” I tell him. “The door beside the lift leads to the roof and a view of the city”. My suggestions fall on deaf ears.
I love my frustrating brother. I resolve to help him. I go to the window and wave at the sky. I tell him this will help him identify his target.
He doesn’t seem to appreciate my assistance. He’s intent on his micro screen.
Suddenly he’s on line. I sense his virtual excitement. I wave harder, bigger, more ironically, leaning dangerously from the tiny fifth floor balcony.
I’m waving so hard I’m sure Lorenzo, our Italian ancestor who passed through here in 1861, will psychically connect through the computer and once and for all resolve for us who he really was. But his ghostly presence is even more hard to connect with than google world.
“Fuck”
Another curse from my virtual brother.
The system is down again.
....................................................................................................................................................................
I 'm ready to depart from the knitting theme. It was fun grandpurlbaa but there are other stories to follow.
I’ve returned from four hours of walking the laneways of Barcelona.
It’s a beautiful part of the world.
It’s day two of my week.
I have a good view from my half open window. There are scores of jumbled apartments in serious need of repair backing on to our neat Spanish hide-away. They are all silent. The locals are all having a siesta.
I’m trying to have a siesta too. I’m buggered.
Lying beside me is a clutch of brochures demanding my attention; offering me more advice than I can possibly absorb.
On the other side of the six inch thick stone wall held together by time and the traditional skills of builders of my great grandfather’s generation, my brother sits in the living room mumbling and cursing his travelling companion – his computer.
It’s been more than 40 minutes and still it hasn’t connected with the wireless network he was promised.
He wants to google the world wide web for a pixillated view of where we are in Barcelona. For some reason he needs to be reassured that he is really here.
He doesn’t seem to see the irony of his quest.
“Look out the window” I suggest, “use the map you’ve got in your pocket”, but no, he wants google-earth so he can see our rooftop. “We’re on the top floor” I tell him. “The door beside the lift leads to the roof and a view of the city”. My suggestions fall on deaf ears.
I love my frustrating brother. I resolve to help him. I go to the window and wave at the sky. I tell him this will help him identify his target.
He doesn’t seem to appreciate my assistance. He’s intent on his micro screen.
Suddenly he’s on line. I sense his virtual excitement. I wave harder, bigger, more ironically, leaning dangerously from the tiny fifth floor balcony.
I’m waving so hard I’m sure Lorenzo, our Italian ancestor who passed through here in 1861, will psychically connect through the computer and once and for all resolve for us who he really was. But his ghostly presence is even more hard to connect with than google world.
“Fuck”
Another curse from my virtual brother.
The system is down again.
....................................................................................................................................................................
I 'm ready to depart from the knitting theme. It was fun grandpurlbaa but there are other stories to follow.
1 comment:
Thank goodness for that! And what a treat. Laughing out loud now. A magnificent vignette.
Are you reading Luvvie's Musings? I KNEW she was a clever girl.
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