Skip to main content

Haywire host calls cops 2017/10/12 Basque apple town

On my first day in Errezil, the other guest was complaining that her key was not working. A few days later it was discovered that the lock had been forced... an attempted break in. The host had a visit from the police and his locks replaced. I was given a new key.

On my fifth night of my stay in this idyllic apple town, my host R. knocked on my bedroom door, two hours after I had said 'Buenas noches'. When I answered, he walked into my room, turned on the light and waved a form at me demanding to have my passport details on the spot. The form was in Spanish, with acronyms I didn't understand.

I said this is very rude. He said the police had asked him to fill in the form and he had forgotten to ask me earlier. When I said it's 11PM at night, I'll do it tomorrow, he got very belligerent and threatened to call the police, taking out his phone. I asked him to leave me in peace in my room, but he wouldn't let it go. Finally, I said 'come back in 10 minutes and the form will be filled on the floor outside the door.'

I filled in the form and waited for the noise of loud voices downstairs to subside. Next thing I know, there's a police officer at my bedroom door. He was polite, and checked first if I could understand Spanish. He said, "I’m not sure if the guy downstairs is alright in the head but he called us because you would not give your identity details." The cop was apologetic when I explained what happened. I gave him the form, showed him my passport and then he said thank you and went back downstairs. There was more talking and shouting for a while then quiet. I wasn't sure if it was safe to sleep. But I didn't have anywhere to go.

Untitled

In the morning I got dressed and went downstairs, expecting my host to be nice, maybe even apologetic. But he was still aggressive. He demanded my passport again, and said if you don't give it to me, you pack your bags and go. I gave him my passport and went upstairs for a few minutes. When I came back, he was on the phone, my passport open on the table along with the form containing my passport details. I put my passport in my bag.

He said, “You get out of my house. The system won't accept your passport details. Get out."
I said, "I have nowhere to go"
He said, "You leave now, I don't want to see you ever again in my life."

I went upstairs to pack my bags and also to book accommodation online. An hour later, I was ready. His 17-year old son helped me bring my 40kg of luggage downstairs.

R. saw me leaving and started yelling at me, saying “You can't go, you can't go, I didn't make you leave." He stood in my way.
I said “You told me to leave and im going"
He grabbed my shoulders, his son was standing, watching. I said "don't touch me." He let go. I was able to get out with my bags onto the street.

It's very lucky that I had found a room nearby and was able to walk there with my heavy luggage. When I arrived I was greeted by a familiar face... a kindly local lady I had met while walking my host's dogs. She listened sympathetically to my story and said that other guests had experienced problems with R. I gave a full report to Airbnb but so far there’s been no change to the Superhost status of this not-so-super host.

Comments

Unknown said…
Incredibile! Ma non ho capito il motivo di questo comportamento...
deirdre said…
I don't understand it either! Thanks for reading Betta! I'll be in touch soon.X

Popular posts from this blog

Physical poetry – Contact Improv in Madrid

On my first visit to Madrid, I wrote about exploring Lavapies Tabacalera by day – sophisticated art installations in warehouse galleries. On this second visit to Madrid, I discovered the Tabacalera studios by night – a living, breathing art community. Cuban flautist and poet Liz stayed in touch after our chance meeting in Lisbon, and joined me for this contact improvisation adventure. Tabacaleras are former tobacco factories, given over to the arts by many Spanish municipalities. Passing through the unmarked portal into this furnace of creativity, I quickly felt relaxed and at home. Liz said she had never seen anything like it it. To get the dance studio, we traversed a cavernous room of giant murals into a corridor of spectacular street art, past booming reggae and African DJ dens, out into the yard. A few oil drum fires burned, and people gathered around to keep warm, under the gaze of Albert Einstein. If only he could see his two-metre high portrait, spray painted on old wo

From seaweed to bananas – Contact Improv in Dublin

The dancers were sitting in a circle when I arrived. A stranger, I was greeted with words of welcome and invited to join the end of a class by Yaeli. We danced as seaweed buffeted by waves, brushed by fish... first anchored on rocks, then taking flight into the water. This seaweed dance was one of my best trio experiences, taking turns with David and Fergus in the roles of weed or wave or fish. A friendly jam followed, including dances with Isabel and Jacob.  When the jam was over, we said goodbye with hugs. I felt great... welcomed to the community, emotionally and physically invigorated. I walked to my bus stop with a smile on my face. Though bus rides are usually tedious and smelly in the damp Dublin winter, I smiled the whole way. I got off and walked the few hundred metres home in the freezing rain. Soon I was home with hot tea, a hot bath, and downy bed – a happy body, drifting into dreams. Going bananas at the Lab The offer to share dance skills came at a dance

Beggars 2017/10/03 Pamplona, Spain

It pains me that four of the nine black people I've seen here in Navarra are are beggars. Today I bought shampoo from a friendly black lady in the market. But at two of the four market gates, a young fit black man stands, with a cup in hand, eyeing passers by. Of course I get the full eyeball, up down. Same thing at the supermarket across the road. Black people are a highly visible, small minority here, so there is that moment of recognition and then a very uncomfortable moment. I would like to feel solidarity, warmth. Instead as they stare, I feel harassed... the guilting of a beggar, plus an undertone of sexual harassment. One of the beggars is more polite... smiles more, stares less... but I still want to avoid him. Passing them, I feel anger, fear, contempt. Two kinds of fear... of the beggar, and of the racism that feeds off their image. I don't choose to feel this way. Without wanting to blame the victim, I'm ashamed of how they inhabit a negative stereotype, perpe