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)

The Man Who Lives Upstairs.

It’s been so long since I wrote my last proper blog post that I’m not even sure where to begin.

As I’m sure you can imagine, my life has been a whirlwind of adventure over the past few weeks. I left Barcelona for a visit to the place I like to think of as my Spanish ‘homeland’, Galicia. A 10 day break away from Catalonia did me the world of good, as it’s always nice to get out of the bubble I find myself in between teaching my English classes, the masters and the flat.

The flat in particular had been in troubled times before I left. Trouble caused by… the Man Who Lives Upstairs.

I’ve mentioned his snoring before. Loud enough to wake me from upstairs, the snorts forced me into shutting my window and enclosing myself in the muggy summer air to have any hope of an unbroken sleep.

Then there is his refusal to answer the phone. How it is that it seems the MWLU has his bed and his phone directly above my room, I don’t know. And how it is that people continue to ring him despite the fact he never, ever answers just baffles me. I feel like it’s personal. Perhaps he plans it, alternating between snores, rings and opera in a deliberate attempt to infuriate me while he cackles madly from above.

Anyway, the week before last, things had worsened. Not content with the work he was already doing to annoy, the MWLU upped the ante. I awoke one morning to find the flat without electricity. After deciphering the trip switches it turned out the kitchen lights were to blame, and after ringing the electrician, it was revealed the problem was a leak coming from… where else, but upstairs!

It seemed the plot had thickened, and the MWLU was now pouring water through the floors in a mad attempt to leave us without electricity. He knew exactly was he was doing. The electrician tried to get in contact with him, but MWLU doesn’t open his door to strangers. The only option was to get in contact by phone. Which he, naturally, refused to answer.

Cooking in the dark with an unsolved leak over my head, the endless ring of the unanswered phone meant that I just had to have a break from Barcelona.

You won that round, Man Who Lives Upstairs.

Filler

I’m currently on holiday in not-so-sunny Galicia, and loving it.

In the meantime, please enjoy the first thing I’ve written that’s been published. You know, like a real person. Porktie, click read it here, then page 16.

Real post to follow detailing my adventures when I return!

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!