Tweedledum and Tweedledee

If I had to sum up the weekend, I’d say it’s been a successful one for speaking Catalan. Most people are kind of bemused as to why I’m learning a language that’s only spoken by a small number of people in a small part of the world. But hey, I enjoy it, and it’s only polite to make an effort. So, personal successes in speaking Catalan this weekend included:

• Actually understanding a joke on APM without having to ask what some of the words meant.

• Being invited to spend a future weekend in the country house of a Catalan family, at least in part because of my ability to string a few words together in their language. If I’d have known that being invited to Cadaqués was a possible side effect of learning Catalan, I would have paid a lot more attention in class last year.

• I managed to maintain a conversation with the old ladies who live on the fifth floor.

The latter might not sound like much, but it is a very real achievement. They live nearly at the top of the building, and are possibly as old as time itself. They have lived through the entirety of Franco’s dictatorship, and the civil war that preceded it. I like to imagine they are as old as theflat they live in. Of all the people who live in the flat they are the ones I most frequently bump into, as the sheer amount of time it takes them to walk up and down the stairs increases the possibility of bumping into them significantly. (Thankfully the Man Who Lives Upstairs is a rarely sighted creature, although sadly the mantra chanting Argentinian man and his wife don’t often venture down from their flat on the roof.)

They are always spotted together, and are almost identical. Imagine tweedledum and tweedledee in ancient Catalan form, and there you have it. Just as they are always together, so it is that they must also talk at the same time. I am normally left smiling and nodding while I play spot the difference between the two.

But! This weekend we managed a coherent exchange. I’ll spare you the details, as it wasn’t the content that was important, rather the fact we managed to communicate in some way. Who knows, perhaps by the end of the year we will be on first name terms…

Home Sweet Home

So the Genuine Catalan Popstar came and went in a disappointingly ordinary fashion. There were no diva-like demands. Instead of groupies, he brought a girlfriend, and although he mentioned going on tour, there was no boasting about his fame. The mushroom soup was a resounding success. The refined dinner party was not the uncontrolled hedonism one might expect when entertaining a local celebrity. Perhaps next time.

Instead of bringing you tales of bacchanalian excess, I’m going to talk about one of the things I love most about Barcelona; the architecture. It seems that every other building has a beautiful facade, an ornate entrance or a nod to modernism. The attention to detail is one of my favourite things. Even living in Eixample, the part of Barcelona designed in blocks to accommodate the growing city population over a hundred years ago, has a touch of beauty to it if you know where to look.

My flat, for example.

The initial stress of finding somewhere to live meant that I accepted an offer through a friend of a friend without much thought. The price was right, it was in the centre. I didn’t know quite how lucky I was, and living here is one of my favourite things about being in Barcelona. As you know, my relationship with the flat hasn’t always gone smoothly. I’ve complained about the noises from above, below and outside. Perhaps it’s the sunshine outside, or my particularly good mood this morning, but today I can’t imagine a nicer place to be. Take a look at the floor:

Then there’s the ceiling, the ornate windows, and the amazing engraved coffee table. They really knew how to build houses at the turn of the 20th century. Not to mention the outside of the house itself:

Beautiful!

If only it were a few degrees warmer on the inside…

Related articles

• The Astounding Design Of Eixample, Barcelona (presurfer.blogspot.com)

Prior Escapades

First full day back in Barcelona completed successfully, and the apprehension of yesterday seems completely unfounded.

I was toasty and warm last night in bed, my marmite eating has resumed and as yet I’ve heard not a peep from the Man Who Lives Upstairs. A parrot has even found its way into my bedroom. Nonetheless, an adventure has yet to cross my path, and I must revert to prior escapades in order to entertain you, dear readers. Prior escapades that I will tenuously link to Barcelona, in a vague attempt to make this post in some way relevant.

So the other day I was lucky enough to be invited to Bilbao. Not only invited to see the city, but to see an art exhibition and eat in a fancy restaurant. The kind of restaurant where the tapas have dry ice smoke billowing out of them for no apparent reason. Understandably I think, I was nervous about what the meal might have to offer me. It turned out to be delicious, although it amplified my impression that the part of the holidays I spent in Spain was a drawn out version of a feast in the court of Henry VIII.

I don’t think I have ever eaten so many different animals in such a short amount of time. It wasn’t so much the quantity, but the variety. Pigs, cows, lambs, chickens, tiny birds- possibly quails or partridges, squid, mussels, assorted fish. None were spared. Aside from my other new years resolutions (sleep at reasonable hours, write a bit everyday, actually use the running shoes I bought last year), I might have to cut down on my meat eating antics in a ceasefire with my consumption of the animal kingdom. At least for the rest of the month, anyway.

Still, this evening will bring if not an adventure, then hopefully an interesting tale. A Genuine Catalan Popstar is coming to my house for dinner tonight, and I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes. Will he throw about any diva-like demands? Will he bring along any groupies? And most importantly, will he enjoy my mushroom soup? Find out tomorrow!

New Year, New Blog Post

New Year, New Blog Post

I can’t deny that I’m a little apprehensive about my return after the Christmas holidays. Not to boast or anything, but they were pretty amazing, and I’m unsure how Barcelona can compete. Christmas was made even more special this year by the visit of a Spanish friend of mine, which gave me both the pleasure of showing my family’s particular brand of Christmas to a newcomer, and experiencing it all through her eyes. I loved it! (Who knows though, perhaps she was secretly hating every minute. Find out here, when her English Christmas review eventually comes out.)

Anyway, I’ve gone from the well-stocked cupboards of home to a few scrapings of dry lentils on my shelf in the shared kitchen. Not to mention the leap from a roaring fire endlessly stoked by a certain borderline-pyromaniac member of my family, to an unheated flat. I know my blood should be thicker as an Anglo-Saxon and all that, but I just can’t stand the cold. My nose in particular suffers terribly when the temperature drops below 15 degrees, and there is no way to warm up a nose.

You might be thinking the real reason I’m reluctant to move back to Spain is that I will be far away from a constant source of my favourite brand of yeast extract. This is not the case. Despite my near constant talk of the sticky nectar (I promise I’m not being sponsored) not a drop of Marmite passed my lips while I was back in Britain. Strange.

So let’s see how it goes anyway, this returning to Catalonia business. I’ll keep you posted anyway. Although one of the latest additions to my flat is a television and it’s such a novelty that I might be kept from any future Barcelonian adventures as I sit glued to the screen, watching Aquí no hay quien viva. Spaniards reading, you know what I’m talking about…