I’ve always been afraid of bus drivers. They can be so grumpy and they make me feel stupid when I don’t know their routes and routines. My mistakes are much more anonymous in the metro. However, after climbing up to the Castle at Montjuic, a beautiful walk that reminded me of walking in Washington Park in Portland (although I don’t think people have been executed in Washington Park), my legs and feet reminded me that I had promised a day propped up on a pillow.

I steeled my courage and approached autobus #193. It was empty, the driver doing a crossword. When approaching people, I always first ask “habla ingles?” so I don’t waste their time trying to figure out the accent and torture imposed upon my limited Spanish phrases. But this Bus Driver, true to my expectations, looked at me hostilely and muttered “Plath Espana.” Whoa. The world slowed as I ran this phrase through my mental dictionary . . . “plath, plath, like Sylvia Plath” . . . I don’t know if this is a noun or verb, but it sounded like he was invoking “Hail Spain” or some Basque assertion of independence. (I had been influenced by the history of the castle.) I tried a little espanol: “Va a museo Miro?” He just stared at me, until the glittering silver tour bus parked in front of him began backing into his bus; after honking and cursing, he turned an angry gaze back to me. As though my ignorance of his route and routine incited the disdain of the much cooler-looking bus. I backed down his crummy bus stairs and gingerly carried myself down the broad switchbacks and hundreds of stairs to the Miro museum. Which was fantastic, by the way.

And a couple of hours later, when I continued further down the “mountain” to find safe refuge in a metro station, it hit me. “Plath Espana” meant “Plaza Espana,” the final destination of most of the buses that ran up and down the hill.