A couple of days before the police were scheduled to arrive, I pulled up anchor. I didn't go far - just a couple of blocks away - to another squatt. I had met a german girl and an english guy in my spanish class, and they suggested I come live in their squatt, which worked out well for me. There was no place inside - but being from Quebec, whose cold winters make the spanish people huddled in their winter jackets on a 15 degree day look like sissies, I had no problem living in a tent I set up on the roof. So here I was, roof-camping in downtown barcelona. The 15th of February rolled around and all the neighbourhood's squatters assembled for solidarity's sake in front of my old squatt - but the police didn't come. They didn't come later that day either. Or the next. This is strategy, you see. They had kept their obligation not to evict people before the 15th, but they sure as hell weren't planning to come when everyone was ready for them. So I lived the Barcelona life for a while (I stayed a little longer than planned because of an austrian girl I met). The people I was staying with had their own little way to protest the established social order: Stealing. They would shoplift anything that wasn't bolted down - as long as it was from a large chain or corporation. Now apparently, the shops have all wised up to the rampant theft from their stores and have installed scanners - even in the supermarkets - to catch those who would attempt to get a five-finger-discount on their merchandise. As a thank you to the german girl, Finn, who got me into the squatt, I modified her handbag - with my knowledge of physics - to block radio waves and thus, scanners. She spent an entire day stealing bottles of vodka, and then celebrating by drinking said bottles of vodka.
One day, a rumour went through the squatt that some people had come by - some Americans, apparently, and told Maria (one of the squatt's occupants), that unless everyone was out of the squatt by the next day, they would burn it to the ground. It turned out that there had been some confusion, and they turned out to be Morocan, not American, but that was besides the point. I took the hint, though no one else believed their threat, and packed up and went to my Brazilian friends for a place to sleep. The next day I came back to tell someone something (I had come up with a way for the englishman to steal internet in his van by turning the frame of his van into a giant antenna, and wished to communicate it to him). I was inside less than 5 minutes when the Morocans attacked.
Screaming things I didn't understand in arab and spanish (I only understood the dirty words, which were frequent), there were a lot of them, and they tried to take the door down. Acting quickly, we had barricaded it with the means at our disposal. Threatening to murder us all, they were fairly helpless out in the street, and we had readied ourselves for any attempt to light the place on fire. Confused, and believing their claims that they were the rightful owners (They weren't - everyone knew the owner and were in negotiation with her), the lady next door let them in so they could attempt entry by the roof. We barricaded the roof door as quickly as we could with whatever was available: doors, broomhandles, bureaus, anything. I was glad I had evacuated my things from the roof. They couldn't find a way to bridge the gap, however, and soon enough they were back in the street, screaming bloody murder. Everyone inside had armed themselves with whatever they could find. I had a knife and a heavy chunk of wood for a bat - and I was ready to use it, if it came to that. In one of the kitchens, a finnish fellow (who most people believed to be mildly psychotic) was freaking out, making some sort of animal noises. When I walked in on him later to see if he was OK, he offered me, calmly, as if everything was perfectly normal, some of the rice and vegetables he was cooking. The crisis was still on, but he was entirely immersed in a world of rice and vegetables - eerie. It had been calm, eye of the storm calm, for a little while now. I was still holding onto my weapons, and I went to look out the window down into the street again. There were more of them now. But then, I recognized a face - and another. They were our people! I went around telling everyone that our people were out in the street! The general alarm had been sounded, and the neighbouring squatts had come to defend us, to drive off our attackers. The first to arrive had been attacked, but soon the Morocans were outnumbered and ran. They might be back in greater numbers, later, but I was outside now, in the street, telling the story to those who had just arrived. I was no longer trapped inside, and I wouldn't go back inside later, either. I hitchhiked my way to Valencia, instead.
One day, a rumour went through the squatt that some people had come by - some Americans, apparently, and told Maria (one of the squatt's occupants), that unless everyone was out of the squatt by the next day, they would burn it to the ground. It turned out that there had been some confusion, and they turned out to be Morocan, not American, but that was besides the point. I took the hint, though no one else believed their threat, and packed up and went to my Brazilian friends for a place to sleep. The next day I came back to tell someone something (I had come up with a way for the englishman to steal internet in his van by turning the frame of his van into a giant antenna, and wished to communicate it to him). I was inside less than 5 minutes when the Morocans attacked.
Screaming things I didn't understand in arab and spanish (I only understood the dirty words, which were frequent), there were a lot of them, and they tried to take the door down. Acting quickly, we had barricaded it with the means at our disposal. Threatening to murder us all, they were fairly helpless out in the street, and we had readied ourselves for any attempt to light the place on fire. Confused, and believing their claims that they were the rightful owners (They weren't - everyone knew the owner and were in negotiation with her), the lady next door let them in so they could attempt entry by the roof. We barricaded the roof door as quickly as we could with whatever was available: doors, broomhandles, bureaus, anything. I was glad I had evacuated my things from the roof. They couldn't find a way to bridge the gap, however, and soon enough they were back in the street, screaming bloody murder. Everyone inside had armed themselves with whatever they could find. I had a knife and a heavy chunk of wood for a bat - and I was ready to use it, if it came to that. In one of the kitchens, a finnish fellow (who most people believed to be mildly psychotic) was freaking out, making some sort of animal noises. When I walked in on him later to see if he was OK, he offered me, calmly, as if everything was perfectly normal, some of the rice and vegetables he was cooking. The crisis was still on, but he was entirely immersed in a world of rice and vegetables - eerie. It had been calm, eye of the storm calm, for a little while now. I was still holding onto my weapons, and I went to look out the window down into the street again. There were more of them now. But then, I recognized a face - and another. They were our people! I went around telling everyone that our people were out in the street! The general alarm had been sounded, and the neighbouring squatts had come to defend us, to drive off our attackers. The first to arrive had been attacked, but soon the Morocans were outnumbered and ran. They might be back in greater numbers, later, but I was outside now, in the street, telling the story to those who had just arrived. I was no longer trapped inside, and I wouldn't go back inside later, either. I hitchhiked my way to Valencia, instead.
