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!

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.

Ode to the Metro

Ode to the Metro

 

For someone who prefers to imagine the metro is, in fact, an aboveground service between buildings that just don’t happen to have any windows, I get a surprising amount of enjoyment from being on the underground.

 

Of course, any metro service has its fair share of eccentrics. Then there are the buskers, the transvestites (heading to my part of town at the weekend, Gaixample), the men selling fake designer bags, the pickpockets and far too many cockroaches on the way back on a Sunday morning after the underground has been open all night.

 

Anyway, I love it.

It’s the perfect place for people watching, eavesdropping and casual gawping. I overheard a Spaniard joke to his friend, saying “Watch out! Here come a herd of tourists”, and it’s really true. Groups of Germans, Americans and Brits hang around in packs, moving en masse from one tourist hot-spot to the next. Although it’s getting better moving into October, for a while it was quite easy just to get swept along in a tide of ‘guiris’. (guiri, noun. Normally derogatory term used by Spaniards to identify foreigner, usually from northern europe or the USA, who sticks out for their pale looks and ignorance of Spanish culture)

I have already picked up the very Spanish habit of mocking sunburnt northern europeans. I glance with disdain at anyone showing a pink nose, and chuckle inwardly at glimpsing white strapmarks contrasting sharply with a reddened décolletage. Even worse are the foreign visitors who come straight from the beach without even bothering to change out of their sarong and flip-flops. They couldn’t look more out of place in a carriage full of people commuting to work, who in any case wouldn’t head to Barceloneta for less than 30⁰.

Perhaps it was so easy to be caught up in their group because, much as I might pretend otherwise, I’m quite obviously a guiri too.

Several times I have been asked, quite seriously, why 'my people' wear socks with sandals

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“A guiri is not just a foreigner, it is a plainly obvious foreigner that is subject to ridicule”

“Debido a su desconocimiento del sistema económico normal y su empeño en utilizar moneda extraña, los sagaces vendedores y tenderos de los países de visita, sobre todo en la Costa Brava y Barcelona, les venden cutradas y objetos inútiles a precio de oro.”

A Barcelona Overture

If there’s one thing I can’t stand about Barcelona, it’s the noise. It could be that I’m overly sensitive. Maybe I had an excessively quiet childhood growing up in Suffolk. Or perhaps it’s just that the windows of my flat don’t close properly.

I think the problem boils down to the fact that Spain is constantly under construction. From 8.30 in the morning I am rudely awoken by the building works next door, whose hammering is then accompanied by the flat downstairs getting up. Every word echoes up from the first floor and finds its way into my sleeping ear. Every. Single. Word.

At night there are car alarms, drunken songs, police sirens. But the worst, the most insufferable, is the snoring from upstairs. It’s a well known fact among the residents and visitors of this building that the man who lives on the third floor is an unapproachable, bad-tempered tyrant (more of him in future posts). His snoring is, without doubt, his worst attribute.

 Every intake of breath that passes his unruly nostril hairs creates a prolonged snort followed by the wheeze of his mean-spirited lungs. This delightful lullaby is only worsened by the amplifying qualities of the indoor patio, and the fact that I can imagine him, sleeping directly above me.

Obviously these aren't the nostril hairs of He Who Lives Upstairs. I would never dare get close enough, and besides, his are far hairier.

Of course I know the noise is the downside of living in a city. But what can I say, I want it both ways. Silence while I sleep, yet the hustle and bustle of over one million people just outside my doorstep. I think I know the solution: earplugs.

Man vs. Bull

 

So I thought I might ramble about bullfighting.

I know, I know. I can almost hear the disbelieving groans and cries of “cliché!” from the back of the room. But first let me justify myself. I mean, it’s a theme with a dose of old-fashioned gawping at the misfortune of others, a dash of gore and a cultural-political twist. Still not convinced? Well…recently, this happened to a matador:

Juan José Padilla after being on the wrong end of a horn

 

Ewwww! Got your attention there, right? I don’t want to go into graphic details about what happened to him. Let’s just say that horn met cheek met eye. I’d rather not taint the pages of my blog with the worst photos of the incident, but I’ll leave the link for those of you with strong stomachs.

I can’t help it, but I have a morbid fascination with bullfighting. It’s a cruel activity which I cannot agree with, especially when there are equally entertaining alternatives in which the bull is neither injured nor killed, and which maintain the much vaunted “art” of the tradition. I have extremely limited sympathy for injured matadors. If you put yourself in a ring with an angry bull and poke it with a sword, then what do you expect?

But I just can’t help it. Like the desperate hispanophile I am, I guiltily search for the worst “cornadas” on youtube, google stories of Spain’s deadliest bull and woke up early to watch the Pamplona bull run live on TV.

As I’m now living in Catalonia, this kind of thing has to stop if I truly want to blend in. After voting to ban the sport in the region, any good wannabe catalan has to be proud to live in an area where watching bulls die slowly for fun is illegal. Maybe I am a little proud. But is my fascination with bullfighting likely to die down any time soon? No creo…

Related articles

• Last bullfights in Spain’s Catalonia before ban (sfgate.com)
• End of a Bloody Era: Both Outrage and Celebration Mark Catalonia’s Last Bullfight (newsfeed.time.com)
• Bull Gets Revenge on Bullfighter (futuretwit.com)

Unusual things to do in Barcelona no.1: Parrots and cake

After a Sunday afternoon well spent here in BCN, here’s how you can repeat the experience.

Step 1. Find yourself a companion with an affection for both exotic birds and cake.

Step 2. Take the metro to Jaume I, or find your way in Bicing. From there it should be easy to find yourself in Plaça de l’Angel.

Step 3. It’s time to get some cake. On the corner of the Plaça is one of Barcelona’s most well-known cake, pastry and sweet shops. Stock up.

 

Step 4. Wind your way through the Barri Gotic towards the Plaça Reial. It’s a short walk if you go directly, but I would suggest zigzagging through the side streets for a more interesting route.

Step 5. So you’ve arrived in the Plaça! Take a seat on one of the chairs around the square, or perch on the edge of the fountain in the middle. Look up at the palm trees, and watch the parrots flying in between, while you enjoy a well earned munch of your cake.

But don’t parrots only live in more exotic climes? Not any more. Pet parrots were set free by their owners, who took happily to life on the mediterranean coast and the lack of natural predators. So they multiplied just to add a bit more sparkle to your Barcelona visit, you lucky thing.

Bienvenid@s!

So lets start with a ramble on one of my favourite topics.

This stunning creature:

Spanish women only get better with age...

As you may or may not have heard, one of Spain’s most colourful characters got married just a few days ago. The 85 year old Duquese de Alba has so many titles that some claim the Queen of England would have to bow down to her, and she was shown dancing flamenco to celebrate her marriage to a man 25 years her junior. Yes, that’s right, 25 years younger than her, and also her third husband. Could he be after her titles, I hear you ask? Well the Duquesa’s children certainly seem to think so, obliging her to give them their inheritance in advance. A not inconsiderable inheritance either, as the Duquesa owns so much land she could walk the length of Spain (perhaps unlikely at her age, but still) without stepping off her territory.

Here’s a video of the lady in action:

If you ask me, she seems to be having a pretty good time for an 85 year old. Here in Spain she makes frequent appearances in ‘Heat’ style magazines, and I have to say I’ve become enough of a fan to actually want to buy this t-shirt:

The latest fashion in Seville

Which apparently the creators will retract if it displeases her. Read more about the fabulous duchess apreciation clothing here.