To celebrate her first day at a new school, Marina asked for Court and I to take her out for dinner. Now, not being one to turn down a dinner out, I (we) happily obliged. I’m still working on being smooth and efficient in restaurants, since that is one place that basic Spanish really does suffice. As long as you can point and say numbers, you’re pretty much good. It was nice to go out, and relax, and see Marina again in a social setting. I had missed it very much. We dropped Marina off at her mother’s, and came home, thinking maybe we’d drop some stuff off (and let me change into more comfortable shoes) and go for a walk along the waterfront. Of course, there’s most certainly a “but.”

When we went to open the door, the key wouldn’t turn. Now, this ain’t no ordinary lock. This is a super-industrial-cannot-be-bashed-in lock. The keys are near to impossible to copy (you have to provide proof of ownership or something). It’s make for a very safe home, when it’s working. When it’s not working, it makes it pretty difficult to get back in. We kind of looked at each other, wondering what to do.

“So, how do you say ‘Locksmith’ in Spanish?” I asked.

“How do you say, ‘My cell phone is inside the apartment?’ in Spanish,” he replied.

Basically, we were pretty screwed.

We went down to the security guard to try to explain what was going on, both of us more than a little worried that a locksmith wouldn’t even try to open the door even if we could get one out here. It was seven pm, so it wasn’t terribly late but it wasn’t terribly early either. We plotted what Spanish we could use to get the point across…I remembered that “trabajar” was “work” and I figured “no lo trabaje” would at least get us on our way. Yeah, not so much. He did make a few phone calls and sent us into the lobby to wait. I don’t wait very well and I certainly don’t wait well when I’m not even sure that help is coming.

“Didn’t you meet another English speaker in the building a while back?” I asked.

Court headed up the elevator to find him, thinking he could act as translator at the very least and call a locksmith at best.

He came back to get me (I had been waiting in the lobby in case someone magically showed up) and rather giddily said that we could wait upstairs and that they would call a locksmith. Looking back, I should have known. He led me up to an apartment completely and wonderfully decorated with unusual art–on the walls, the floors, the shelves…even the furniture. It turns out, our neighbour is a rather successful furniture designer. And he had company! So, what could have been a rather awful evening sitting outside of our door turned into one drinking wine. Not too shabby, really.

We definitely owe Harry a bottle of wine.

In the end, thanks to no part the building’s administration, a locksmith did come and did let us back into the apartment. We still don’t really know what happened, but I’m pretty much terrified every time I leave. And I carry a lot of phone numbers in a notebook now. Just in case.