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!

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!

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.

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.

Be careful what you wish for…

Be careful what you wish for.

Hello all, apologies for the shortage of posts while I enjoyed a brief Madrilenian interlude (of which more later). I arrived back to Catalonia very late last night, only to discover that, all of a sudden, the season had finally changed to autumn.

I say finally, dear readers, because for me this has been a long awaited moment. I have a wardrobe stocked with jumpers, and a longing to wear socks. My eyes are tired of watering in the glare of the Mediterranean sunlight. I yearn to snuggle up in my 13.5 tog duvet. But most of all, I wanted the chance to wear my coat.

Some might call it foolish, buying a winter coat in August.

Indeed, some did.

 “A waste of money!”, they cried. “You’re moving to Spain!” they chorused. Perhaps rightly so, there being no need for a wool-lined hood in a city with parrots and palm trees, at least for a few months more. So I have been willing the weather to grow colder, glancing at my overpriced abrigo hanging forlornly from my bedroom door. The arrival of autumn would silence the coat critics, I thought, as the beauty and warmth of my coat prevailed.

So autumn finally, finally decided to arrive in the form of dangerously high winds across Spain, lashing rain and a two hour delay to my flight back to Barcelona. When the airport was finally in sight, the turbulence was so bad that I thought one more gust of wind could easily have nudged us into the sea beside the landing strip.

But I have to say, I do look rather dashing in my winterwear.

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

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

“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.”

Comida

Comida.

We’ve arrived at a topic which lies close to my heart (and of course, my stomach). It was always going to be tough moving away from the culinary delights of my university home. I kid you not, students we may have been, but we took food seriously. We had pancakes in the morning at the weekends, a different chef rustling up a meal every Sunday. Sometimes in-house cooks, sometimes guest turns from visitors.

So obviously, I knew that food would be an important factor for my wellbeing in Barcelona. Of course, I already knew I was a fan of jamón serrano, squid in its own ink, chorizo, lentejas and tortilla de patatas.

                                    

The capital of Catalonia is also famous for its grub, and I had heard of many local delicacies before arriving. I was all set to settle happily into a Mediterranean diet.

But it was not to be.

Readers, without Marmite there is a part of me that just doesn’t function properly. I need it to keep going like oil on a bike wheel; without it I squeak slowly to a halt and begin to rust. For a while I held out, sustained by chorizo toasties and a desire not to be an expat Brit pining for home.

The weeks ticked by until, ambling around the city one day, my yeast-extract deprived body subconsciously found its way to this shop.

Almost like a mirage in the desert, I rushed in. It seemed too good to be true, as my eyes fell upon a shelf full of the sticky brown nectar.

Marmite it was. But at €11 for 500g, I could see such an extravagant purchase turning into a habit that would spiral rapidly out of control as I gorged my way through jar after jar, saving together pennies to get my next fix.

Life without my favourite spread continued. Try as I might, I could never quite push it out of my mind. Breakfast times were particularly trying moments for me, and I would often brush away a tear as I took out the jam from the fridge.

So you will understand my utter joy when this weekend brought not only much loved visitors from my native land, but visitors bearing Marmite! I’m trying not to overdo it, but I’m sure I can find a way to give Mediterranean dishes a salty, moreish twist; the best of both worlds.

❤

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.