Happy thoughts

There seems to have been a lot of negative posting around here recently. Too much rain this, feral cats that. So now for a positive post: my favourite things about Barcelona so far.

1. The Parrots [See previous post for parrot related disclaimer] Ok ok, I mention them too often. I’ll stop, this is the last time, I promise. NO MORE PARROTS. But their chirping and their greenness do brighten up my day.

2. The palm trees. So exotic! They don’t even look forced and unhappy, like the palm trees you find along the ‘English Riviera‘ and down in Cornwall, eaking out a meagre existence in the drizzle. They are obviously at home here.

3. The food. Sobrasada and tins of squid-in-its-own-ink might not be ‘Barcelonian’ food, but nonetheless I enjoy consuming them (don’t worry, family. If you are reading this then I promise to bring home some tinned squid for the Christmas holidays. You’ll love it, I’m sure). Oh, and butifarra, and the fact that when you order a clara (shandy) they know you want it with lemonade, not soda water. I have been introduced to so much strange fruit since I arrived, which has been a delicious,  repulsive but always entertaining experience. Have a look at these, for example. I mean, what. are. they?

This is without mentioning the apple on the outside/pear on the inside fruit I tried, or the one that looked like a tomato, but wasn’t. But anyway, all of this food adds up. They are all small things, dear readers, but they make a difference.

4. The strangeness of Catalan. It’s a weird language. Words shouldn’t end in a ‘c’, and it’s impossible to pronounce the ‘ll’ as a foreigner. But hey, it’s like the palm trees and the par…. birds that live in them. It’s exotic and it fits, and I enjoy the challenge of speaking it. Even if I still think it sounds like gobbledygook when spoken quickly, that’s still part of it’s charm.

5. The nightlife. My only complaint is that I haven’t seen enough of it. But just an example, last time I was out I came accross a  US air marshall, a cuban guitar player called Mel, a lifesize replica of Barack Obama and two miniature italians wearing identical bow ties. What’s not to like about a city which provides such nocturnal delights?

So there you have it, my favourite things about Barcelona. Let’s see how long the happy posting lasts!

Morriña

Contrary to what those of you reading from England might believe, I do not spend my days on terraces sipping cocktails and soaking up the sun. In fact, this is the first day in a while that it hasn’t been overcast and rainy.

In a huge contrast to the time I spent living in Galicia, Barcelona just can’t handle the rain. People stand around looking angrily at the sky. Plans are cancelled or moved to what will hopefully be a drier day in the future. The metro leaks and the trains are delayed. As someone who dislikes being enclosed in underground tunnels, I am constantly planning my escape route for the moment the drips accumulate into floodwater.

The most dangerous aspect of the rain is the Catalan people themselves. Brought up without the rain survival skills which come as second nature to the British and the Galicians, they struggle with umbrella etiquette. When two umbrella’d people meet in the street, they are at a loss as to how to get around each other. Even when their umbrellas are folded away, the Catalans prove themselves to be unwieldy handlers of their rain protection devices, and it is best to give them a wide berth. Such is their desperation not to have one drop of water touch their skin that they often open their umbrellas indoors, only to discover they can’t fit through and curse the sky in helpless desperation.

To be fair though, Barcelona isn’t suited to the rain. Palm trees don’t look natural against a grey sky, and I feel sorry for the parrots. This isn’t the weather they signed up for! They probably wish they could move back to the jungle. Santiago de Compostela though, that’s a city built for awful weather. I’ve been told it looks more beautiful in the rain, and I’m inclined to agree. Only two weeks to go until I get to see for myself again!

Rainy Barcelona from my window

Barcelona Wildlife

Barcelona Wildlife

It’s autumn, a time when in a parallel universe, English me is enjoying such common sights as hedgehogs, squirrels, birdsong at dawn and the odd fox. Living in a city, and far from any of the parks in the city, I have to make do with what animal contact I can find. So here is my guide to the local flora and fauna of Barcelona. Roaming around the streets one might expect to make the following sightings:

• Miniature dogs. A sight commonplace to every Barcelona resident. Don’t expect to see any dogs that come up to knee height. I’m not a huge fan of dogs myself, but I do miss seeing canines that aren’t easily confused with cats, rats or balls of hair rolling across the street. The urge to kick them must be repressed at all times.

• Speaking of cats, these are a rarity and to be approached with extreme caution. Much as you might miss your English cat (for example), don’t be tempted into interacting with the local felines, as they will more than likely attack you (ahem). They are the lions of Barcelona, if you will.

• Mice. They are everywhere. I take heart in the fact I’ve yet to see a rat. Best not to think about it really, but if you are in Barcelona reading this, there’s probably a rodent of some description next to you RIGHT NOW.

• Parrots. So here is the upside! There are parrots, and they don’t seem to be leaving for the winter. They make up for the lack of a dawn chorus, as they are constantly chirping around the place. *Disclaimer: I’ve been told by several disappointed visitors that these are not parrots, but in fact parakeets. Well I’m afraid I refuse to listen to your biology lessons. Parrots they are in my head, and as parrots they will be referred to in this blog.

So there you have it. I suppose I could go to the zoo for a much needed animal fix, or pass by the Ramblas and ogle the miniature rabbits and guinea pigs. But of all the creatures in Barcelona, the most interesting animal of all is the human being.

Just kidding.

It’s got to be the dog with the voice of a whale that I can hear from my window, howling incessantly in what appears to be a bid to contact its friends out at sea.

An early Christmas special

I think I promised in one of my last posts that I wouldn’t talk about Christmas until December. But with one thing and another I ended up discussing my Christmas plans for when I return to the UK, as well as spending the weekend talking about Christmas traditions in Argentina, Belgium, England and the US, it seems like a good topic for this latest post. Also, and perhaps most importantly, the trousers I’m wearing are a festive dark green.

So to summarise briefly:
I’m guessing you’re already familiar with Anglo-Saxon Christmas traditions. It’s more or less the same in Argentina, but with the heat turned up to 35 degrees outside and all the windows wide open while people sweat through the Christmas meal. Strange to imagine Christmas in the summertime, but nothing too surreal.

OK, so in the UK and US children believe in elves and flying reindeer, but I’ve normalised this from a childhood believing in the same. For me, it seems that Belgium take things to another level of crazy, with Sinterklaas arriving from Spain on a steam boat, ready to leave presents in shoes.

This is nothing compared to Catalan Christmas.

On the 8 December, a log is brought into the house, normally wearing a traditional catalan hat and cheerful smile.The log is then fed every day. He is of course wrapped up in a blanket, lest he get cold in the night. Then on Christmas Eve, after the log has spent all December eating, he is beaten with sticks and encouraged to defecate, while children sing around him.

The song they sing is the following:

Shit log,shit turrón, hazelnuts and cottage cheese, if you don’t shit well, I’ll hit you with a stick, shit log!

Caga tió,caga torró, avellanes i mató, si no cagues bé et daré un cop de bastó. caga tió

To the more delicate among you, I apologise for the graphic nature of the translation. It can only be blamed on the graphic nature of the original. Equally, I apologise for the images of violence against logs.

So there you have it, perhaps the strangest tradition I’ve heard of, and one that I fully plan to get behind this year, when the Caga Tió (as the log is known) arrives in my flat in a few weeks time. I can’t wait!

[Just in case you don’t believe me, check out this video of real life Catalan children abusing a harmless log for material gain]

Brings a new meaning to ‘crap presents’. Eh? Eh?

Barcelona time travel…

While struggling to accept the fact that I had watched my the final episode of Downton Abbey, I decided to head to Plaza Catalunya. [The character Mary is a poster girl for anyone with extremely pale skin, and I had decided that 1920s clothes might be the way forward. Why I thought I might find them in Zara, I don’t know]

I decided that I wouldn’t take the easy route along Gran Via, and that I would use my reknowned sense of direction to weave my way through the side streets, thereby approaching Placa Catalunya from a sidestreet of the Raval.

Obviously, I failed hopelessly.

But the journey was not a loss. Before retracing my steps and finding my way back to Gran Via, I happened upon a couple of interesting shops, far removed from the huge chain stores that occupy the Rambla. Have a look for yourselves…

Founded in 1933, this shop sells miniature nativity characters, for the Catalan tradition of making your own Bethlehem scene at Christmas time. The scatalogical sense of humour of the catalan people means they also include a Caganer, which in recent times is more often than not a famous footballer or celebrity.

I’m not sure that Messi was present and having a poo at the birth of Jesus, but that’s what Barcelona would have you believe. No, I’m not even kidding.

Aaaanyway, in this delightful little store all the miniatures are handmade, and you can even see the little old man in the back making more. Imagine him like the woodcarver in Pinnochio. So cute!

Anyway, I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s far too early to be talking about Christmas, so I’ll move on. Just cast one more glance to your at the photo above, where you will see a close up of the window with all the tiny christmassy models. Aww!

The next shop I found was even better, the kind of place I could spend hours browsing and trying to smell things when no-one is looking. It might seem a bit sleazy with its flourescent lighting, but it’s actually a second hand/rare book shop.

As well as all of the old books (I just love the smell of dusty, other-timeness), there are old comics, records and sheet music. There were posters and general nic-nacs, but my favourite thing was the collection of postcards. Not only were the images beautiful, but in many cases there was writing on the back from the original sender. I tried not to spend too long reading the letters on the back, but it was fascinating, a window into another world.

Things like that are what make language learning worthwhile, for me. And despite the lack of Downton style dresses, it turned out I did get my taste of the 1920s afterall.

Seriously now…

I thought it was about time for my ‘serious post’. Previous entries to the blog had been far too light-hearted, I thought to myself. It was time to do something about it. Sweep away the frivolous remains of the fish and chips and move into a more austere, serious future. In this future, I would tackle key issues for the outsider living in Barcelona, perhaps moving on to general issues in Catalonia. Then broadening out to Spain in general, expanding into the European Union… eventually the whole world would be mine! Mine!

So I racked my brains thinking about my serious post, and the first step on the road to world domination. Suddenly, a cheer broke out. While encouragement is welcomed as I’m writing my blog posts, I was fairly sure the noise in question came from the bar next door, and not from a personal support team urging me on. I was also hopeful, although somewhat less than certain, that the noise hadn’t come from my own power crazed imaginings.

Obviously, it was the football. (We’ll leave the ‘serious post’ for another time, shall we?)

Whenever Barça are playing it’s possible to know the score just by sitting quietly and waiting for the inevitable cheers to erupt from any bar, café or room with a television. It seems like everyone watches. My housemates and their friends watch every game, and you can see the televisions flickering in the houses opposite.

This is where my love of the underdog comes in. I mean, Barcelona win all the time. If they draw, as they did on Sunday, it was due to some colossal effort from the opposing team and is treated in the same way as a loss by the supporters. Even as a mild football fan I can appreciate the skills of the players… but… it’s just so boring watching the same team win all the time!

 Of course everyone supports Barça with their goody-two-shoes winning antics. Ugh. Perfect Messi can never put a foot wrong. But it’s not for me. I like a bit of a dark horse, a longshot. Which isn’t to say that I would turn down a touch of Barcelona’s magic for my home side. Jealous? Me? Perish the thought!

Of fish, and chips

I didn’t seek it out deliberately, I promise!

After enjoying an exploratory wander through the Raval, I stumbled upon something most unexpected. In the district of Barcelona best known for its high immigrant population, halal meat shops and (let’s be honest here) prostitution, a genuinely British Fish & Chip shop was the last thing I expected to see.

Naturally, as a self-sacrificing blogger, I had to venture in and check out the food so that you, my loyal readers, might know whether it was a haven of British cuisine, or simply second-rate grub for grease-starved tourists.Rest assured that my research was undertaken with the utmost care and scientific standards. Assistants were drafted in to provide second and third opinions, and the endeavour was undertaken with the seriousness that befitted it.

Featuring the option of a full english breakfast in addition to the generous traditional fish & chip shop menu and a sign announcing, “real english chocolate”, if anything the café offered more than one might normally find in your average local chippy.

Aside from the menu appearing in Catalan and Spanish there was little to suggest we were in Barcelona at all. The drizzle and grey skies outside only added to the authenticity of our experience. A certificate even proudly proclaimed all the produce to have been sourced in the British Isles.

And what about the actual food?

Here we have an example of my personal favourite, chicken and mushroom pie and chips, accompanied by a dr. pepper.

I’m pleased to report the chips were suitably greasy, there was a noticeable quantity of chicken in the pie in question, and the dr. pepper was served well chilled. Vinegar was offered, but declined. Salt and ketchup were accepted.

On your right is an example of the classic fish and chips. A small portion size was chosen, gravy was the condiment of preference, to be accompanied with the somewhat unusual choice of a Nestea. The batter was found to be crisp, the fish succulent, and the chips once more pleasantly greasy.

I’m getting hungry again just thinking about it. A return visit is definitely in order, but I’m going to have to make an effort to tone down my guiri ways in future. A recent comment that I was turning a bit, to quote, “Costa Brava tourist” has made me think carefully about future blog posts.

So look forward to a higher Spanish content in future posts, dear readers.

Even if I write them while drinking Yorkshire tea 😉

http://www.fishandchipsbarcelona.com/en_who-we-are.htm

Stereotypes

Stereotypes

As my previous posts on bullfighting, guiris and marmite go to show, I love a good stereotype. As I see it, there is a thin line between pinpointing the culture of a country and generalizing about the habits of its people. In Spain, it’s a two-way thing. Which came first, the restaurants selling overpriced sangria and paella on the Rambla, or the tourists eager to pay for it?

And so it was on Sunday night when I ended up going to a flamenco show. Now, I won’t pretend that I know anything about flamenco. I was lucky enough to see Pepe Habichuela perform live, but I couldn’t tell you much about the art form in general. In fact, I was looking forward to seeing flamenco dancers for the first time, with the added highlight of an acquaintance singing in the show .

Yeah, get me, mingling with the locals.

Not that there were any locals watching. The restaurant was the worst example of a tacky tourist trap. Themed to look like an Andalucian tavern, complete with plastic grapes adorning the walls and a rustic ’well’ in the centre of the room, it was filled with slightly bewildered looking Russian, Japanese and American couples. Everything was an over exaggeration of “typical Spain”, from the golden statue of the Virgin Mary to the terracotta tiles jutting out over the alcoves.  At the entrance was a stall selling castanets and fans- because what self respecting tourist could go home from Spain without them?

Don’t get me wrong, the guitar playing and the singing were excellent. I find it incredible the coordination between dancer, singer and guitarist, not to mention that the friend in question was only on her second night, without ever having practiced with the others.

I suppose my point is this. A desire to see something of an authentic Spain is, in my opinion, admirable, and far better than using the country solely for its beaches and weather. But it can sometimes turn into a vicious circle. Tourists want Spain, and the more “Spanish” their experience the better. So those who sell the spanishest things get the most business, and the whole thing gets warped. The natives mock the tourists dim enough to pay for the products they’re selling, but the visitors themselves don’t know any better.

Anyway.

The main conclusion I have drawn from the whole experience?

I’m going to take up flamenco dancing. ¡Olé!

Me, in the near future.