How is it possible that I’m smart enough to speak three languages, yet too dumb not to lock myself out? Again. This time in Spain.
Of course, I blame my husband for this unfortunate event. After all, that’s why we got married — to always have someone conveniently available to blame for all the misadventures that happen to us.
The Blame Game Tradition
For example, he missed a turn the other day. What did he say?
“It’s your fault. You distracted me. You talk too much.”
I once popped to the shop for one thing — bread — and came back with a full trolley minus the bread. Whose fault was that?
“Yours. You didn’t remind me!” I blamed him.
And that’s how we roll, for over a decade.
A Very Quiet Sunday Morning
So one Sunday morning, I decided to take Lola, our beloved Labrador, for a walk. And because the universe has a sense of humour, I closed the door behind me, leaving both my keys and my phone inside.
If there’s one thing I hate the most, it’s the too-late realisation. That glorious “ahhhh” moment that arrives exactly one second too late. TOO BLOODY LATE.
How was it his fault, you might wonder?
He was NOT THERE to open the bloody door, was he?
Exactly. His fault.
He was away visiting his parents with the kids, and I had stayed home with our furry child, Lola. Once again, the poor dog found herself witnessing yet another one of my personal disasters.
Multilingual, Multitasking, Mildly Panicking
At least it was Sunday morning, not a weekday. Head bowed in shame, I knocked on my English neighbour’s door, hoping they might have a long ladder I could use to climb onto my balcony. Thankfully, this time I live on the first floor, not the seventh. No need for a full rescue operation. In theory.
Of course, that would have been too easy. They didn’t have a ladder. Why would they?
But we called our Spanish neighbour, and would you believe it, he came to the rescue. The next thing I knew, I was switching between English and Spanish like a pro, while internally scolding myself in Slovak for once again allowing this entirely avoidable situation to happen.
At that moment, I couldn’t help but mutter ‘Do riti!’, a colourful Slovak idiom that literally means “To the ass!” but has the more flavourful sense of “Oh, shit” in English or “Mierda” in Spanish. It’s one of those phrases that simply loses its poetic flair in translation.
As we carried the ladder around to the accessible side of the building, I did a rapid mental scan of the state of my flat. Had I tidied the sitting room? Made the bed? Washed the dishes? Cleaned the floor?
Dear God. What would the neighbour think?
An Unexpected Audience
By the time we reached the terrace, the rescue team had grown to five. All fully invested. There is truly no better real-life scenario for practising Spanish than explaining to a small crowd how you locked yourself out, where the rest of your family is, and what you were planning to do before your brain betrayed you.
While the men discussed strategy and decided who would be today’s Spider-Man, Lola threw herself onto the grass and began sunbathing. Completely unbothered. As always.
Meanwhile, the neighbourhood watch had gone into full operational mode. Every resident was now standing on their terrace, watching the spectacle. Honestly, it was quite useful. I finally connected the dots.
Who’s Who
Ahhhh, so that couple live on the third floor. The woman with the yappy little dog is on the second floor to the left. But wait… who’s that man next to her? Didn’t I see him kissing the rather posh lady from the first floor on the right? The one with the little boy?
Interesting. Very interesting.
“Oleeeee!” shouted our Spider-Man neighbour, snapping me back to reality. He’d made it inside. I was rescued.
The neighbour situation, however, would require further investigation. Later.
Professional at This Point
You would think that, by now, I’d have learned my lesson. As someone who has become almost professionally skilled at locking herself out, surely growth was inevitable?
I regret to inform you that it was not.
I locked myself out again the following week. Perhaps it was the lingering look in Lola’s eyes that threw me off as I left the apartment. Her wide-eyed gaze, almost saying, “Please don’t do it again,” might have been the unexpected twist my brain wasn’t equipped to handle at that moment.
Still, my husband’s fault, obviously, for daring to be away for so long. But at least this time I had my phone – and my Spider-Man neighbour on speed dial, who could probably start charging per climb at this point.
Once again, I was rescued fairly quickly.
But I was left wondering: how is it possible that I’m intelligent enough to speak three languages, yet still incapable of reliably managing a front door?
It’s definitely my husband’s fault.
As always.
If you thought today’s balcony rescue was chaotic, wait until you meet the upgraded version of my brain malfunction. Read “The Moment Your Brain Wakes Up Too Late” — a true Abroadien story about panic, strangers, survival mode… and what happens when your intelligence clocks in one minute after disaster strikes.