The Kindness of Strangers

Dumpster diving is a popular sport in Barcelona. Even before the crisis hit and sent a multitude of unlucky souls scurrying for the discarded remains of the more fortunate, it was common to find folks digging through the trash for hidden treasure. The day the city collected large objects was particularly awesome. I became an expert, finding several chairs, a bed frame, a couple of mirrors and other random furniture that has decorated my apartment over the years living in Barcelona.
It's been a long time since I've picked anything up, but today on the way home from work, I saw this shelf.

I moved recently and there has been a shelf-shaped void in my apartment where some things could be stored, so despite the rain, I stopped and called the lady-friend to get her opinion. She agreed that it would be a welcome addition to the household, so I stood guard, fighting off other scavengers while she came to help carry it.
When we picked it up, it was heavy. As fuck. For realz. We staggered down the street towards our house, only a block away. As we did, a fifty something year old woman who was coming out of her door offered to help us. Although we politely declined, she gamely grabbed a corner and walked with us the remaining 30 meters to the front door of our building.
We heaved the beast (the shelves, not the lady) through the lobby where we immediately ascertained that it would not fit in our tiny elevator, which can hold at most three slim people who are very comfortable with each other.
Our apartment is on the third floor of the building, but that's a Barcelona third floor, which comes after the bottom floor, the between floor and the main floor before you get to the numbers. I'm not kidding. In France ours would be the fifth floor, in America, the sixth. (When you see how they count, the financial crisis in this country starts coming into focus.)

This is the view down to the lobby from the stairs of my apartment. That glow all the way down there is the entrance.

We were ready to return the shelves to the street and call it a day, but our new moving buddy wasn't having it. She immediately began calling people and, despite our protests, summoned her housekeeper and son to help us get it upstairs.
Half an hour later, after some heaving, lifting, pushing, negotiating tight corners and much sweating, we triumphantly set the beast down in our dining room, where it fit perfectly.

Trashing the Catalan, especially for being stand-offish and cold, is a time honoured hobby of all those who move here, a right earned through cold stares on the street, dismissive comments in shops and abysmal service in restaurants. Tonight, however, I am deeply indebted to the selflessness of the family of a local woman who literally would not take no for an answer. Merci.