The Sound of Settling

Well, guess who just bought Barça tickets for the game against Levante in December!!!! Meeeeeeeee!!!!!!! I’m so excited—my first big European football game! The tickets were only 22 euros, which is pretty damn good. Of course, they are the highest up seats, but this will not curb my enthusiasm at all.

And once again, we’re going to go back in time to Sunday, September 11^th. An interesting note her: in Catalunya, September 11^th marks their national day (because yes, they sort of consider themselves a nation). Ironically, this was the day they were defeated for revolting against the crown, but being the cool people that they are, the Catalans made a celebration from it. Normally this day is marked with fireworks, Catalan flags everywhere, and protests (the Catalans really like their protests) and parades, but since the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York, they have toned down their festivities out of respect for the lives lost on that day. It is a really kind thing if one thinks about it, and reminded me that September 11, 2001 really did change the world. This year marked the 10^th anniversary of the attacks and it’s weird to think it’s been so long. I can still remember hanging off the back of the couches in my living room, mesmerized by the horror of watching the towers fall over and over again. I was in 5^th grade, 10 years old.

…well, even writerly me doesn’t know how to properly transition from that thought. So, let’s just jump forward 10 years.

After a relaxing Saturday, on that Sunday I decided to go to a church that one of my California friends had been attending. Everyone there was really nice and they have a youth group with a lot of people my age.

That afternoon, my friends from California and I started what has become a great tradition: Café Sundays. Every Sunday, we go to a different café in the city and catch up on each other’s lives. We started our journey at Els Quatre Gats, a café frequented by Pablo Picasso. It was buried in the old city, but is an eclectic little place. After, I spent the rest of the day stressing out about my first day of classes.

It turned out rather anticlimactic. On Monday, September 12 I rose in a nervous daze, packed myself a lunch, took the metro to Passeig de Gràcia, and walked about three blocks to campus. As it turns out, we only had core classes that day and real classes would not start until the next day.

I liked my two core classes (classes designed for students in my study abroad program) and decided to crash four classes with native students and pick two.  Finding the classes were tricky enough. All of the UB information is in Catalán, so it takes a little effort. Then one has to find classes at good times (not Friday, not the crack of dawn, not later afternoon) that could count for some requirement and that are taught in Castellano rather than Catalán.

The first class I crashed on Tuesday was Espanyol d’Amèrica. It was really early (8:30-10) and although I paid attention the entire time, the professor’s accent was just a little too thick and the material seemed a little out of my scope. Additionally, it was a two semester class and I would rather have something new to look forward to in my second semester.

The next class I had was with my cultura teacher from ILP, dearest Marcelino. He had warned us that he thought it would be too difficult for us in EAP, but when I approached him and asked him why he thought so, he said that he simply wanted us to realize that this class was serious and very different from the ILP classes. Well, duh, I thought, but I explained to him that I had read some of the texts on the syllabus and I could understand what he was saying in class. After this, he seemed enthusiastic to have me join and a few other brave souls have joined the class as well.

That Tuesday night was a Barça game, so my friends and I found an English pub where I could enjoy a Guinness and popcorn while watching the game. Yes, that is what they serve at bars for free in Spain. Popcorn. After the game, we took a nighttime jaunt and ended up at La Pedrera. (Naturally, a camera was involved. We are really cool people.) When I returned, I had to tell people on Skype to go away as Abel made up a bedtime story for me. I was quite amused, but too tired to focus.

Wednesday I crashed two more classes: one on classical literature and the other on Renaissance and Baroque literature. I ended up picking the first because the professor talked at a slow pace where I could understand him. In between the classes I went shopping again—I know, shocker, but it’s the end of September and still almost 80 degrees Fahrenheit on a daily basis, so it was time to purchase some more tank tops.

A few times that week, Abel would come into my room and we would just begin to talk, telling different things about our lives and this is how we’ve gotten to know each other rather well. He still accuses me of eating like a bird because I always buy an obscene amount of fruits and veggies to eat and he laughs with me during moments when things are lost in translation.  We get along quite well and I know he’s going to take care of me while I’m here.

By Thursday, September 15^th I had my schedule finalized. I’m taking two core classes on Contemporary Spanish History and Barcelona in Its Cultural Context. The other two classes I am taking with regular native students—the pacing is far more intense and the expectations are much higher. These classes cover Classical Literature and Introduction to Literary Canon and Theory. These classes will definitely be a challenge, but I have the necessary skills to know what’s going on… most of the time.

One thing I have noticed so far about taking classes here is that if I zone out for just a minute, I can get completely lost. In English it is easy to hear what a teacher is saying without intently listening; I can’t get away with this in Spanish and have to be paying very close attention. Also, most teachers just talk away, which means no lecture notes or visual clues: it’s all listening comprehension.

I want to talk more about university life, but I think I’m going to make a blog entry once a month with musings on different subjects. So, stay tuned!

Tomorrow’s post: fun at police stations (stop freaking out, I wasn’t in trouble), the happiest place in Barcelona, the psychological rollercoaster of a foreign exchange student, and bar hopping in el barrio gótico… possibly pictures of my piso if I can work it in.

¡Besos!

Seek Happy Nights to Happy Days

“Go girl, seek happy nights to happy days,” says the Nurse to Juliet in Shakespeare’s famous play Romeo and Juliet. While we must consider that this is the bawdy Nurse we’re dealing with and she may mean something a little more suggestive, it is still pretty good advice.

Right now, I’m not taking the Nurse’s advice too well. On Sunday night I began to feel a tickle in my throat and Tuesday morning I woke up rather disinclined to do anything but stay in bed, drink tea, and watch romantic period pieces featuring a strong female lead (thanks for the stereotype, Netfliks). It really was just a sore throat, but it put me in a rather bluesy mood. I bought a bunch of fruit from a produce stand and some orange juice, so I’m hoping a bit of sleep and vitamin C will kick it. I figure that it is a result of having stayed up all hours for the Festival of Mercè, one of the biggest and craziest weekends in Barcelona. But this night is currently not our concern. (I think it will take me three years to go through the pictures and videos, ha ha!)

I’m going to take you all back to Friday, September 9, my last day in the residencia. With two of my friends, we ventured to a famous shoe store on Carrer Avinyó in the old city where they sell traditional Catalán shoes. I didn’t buy anything and instead had a tortilla de patatas and pa amb tomàquet at a charming little café down the street. Tortilla de patatas is not actually a tortilla as we know, but more like an omelet with egg, potato, and sometimes onion, fried in olive oil. Delicious! Pa amb tomàquet is Catalán for bread with tomato. Now, my family knows I’m not too fond of tomatoes, but Spain is, so when in Barcelona, I eat tomatoes. Before everyone gets excited, there really isn’t that much tomato—just a little bit smushed over most bread. Pa amb tomàquet is bread, olive oil, salt, and tomato—super simple, but a very yummy and traditional snack.

I went back to the residencia, grabbed my luggage, and began to make my trek to the other side of town. I took a bus to one of the streets that cross near my apartment and I suddenly realized how much of a slant I lived on. From the peak of the street, I could see all the way down to the beach! The street was so slanted that at one point, you have to take an elevator or stairs down to the lower part.

I moved in all of my belongings to my room, showered, and took a nap before Abel came to the piso. He laughed when I stumbled out of my room and shuffled over to say hi to him, but now I do believe he is quite used to this spectacle—I am notoriously incommunicative in the mornings. For our evening out, I wore some of the new clothes I bought earlier that week and thought I looked pretty darn good. This was about the time that Abel, being the darling big-brotherly type that he is, began to bemoan that he would have to beat back hoards of men.

And thus began, “Classy Nights, Part 1,” with interludes of “Wine and Judgment” and “Struggle City.” It is important to note that the word “classy” is being used very ironically. However, up until the Mercè, this was definitely my favorite night in Barcelona.

It began with a bottle of wine and a pair of scissors. I had traveled back to the residencia to eat dinner with my friends and enjoy some wine before going to the bar that Abel works at. You see, we failed to realize that a cork opener would be helpful in situations like this. It was already after 10 pm, stores were long closed, and so we had to improvise. This lead to slowly excavating our way through the wine cork with scissors until we managed to push it through. I somehow made an art of it and managed to not get any cork bits in the wine, nor did I get wine all over myself. Never before has a €1.75 bottle of wine tasted so good. My friend Diego did not have as much luck (he lacked a feminine touch, I suppose) and had to change his shirt.

After finishing our wine, we took the metro to the bar and got a little lost on the way, to the point where Abel proclaimed that he thought we would never make it to the bar and we all desperately had to pee. The bar was really cool: it’s called El Jardinet d’Aribau and its interior is sort of like a little garden, complete with trees and swings. We bought a giant strawberry daiquiri to split between the four of us and Abel bestowed us all with shots.

At one point, it became clear that one of my friends had overindulged and it was time to go home. Not wanting to leave this friend alone, my other friends decided to catch a cab and return to the residencia. I was a little bummed until Abel declared that if I just sat around and waited until closing, he would take me over to the club with some of the waiters. I sat and listened to all their conversations, laughing whenever I heard a swearword I knew. Abel told me that everyone in Spain yells when they talk to each other and I explained, “Abel, my family is Italian. This is normal for me.”

Abel knows everyone in this city. Or at least it felt that way.  From the bartenders at the club to the bouncers, to the old people in our apartment, everyone always greets him with a smile and a wave. People in Spain are just very affectionate, I think. Pet names (ranging from nice things like guapa to calling each other bastards in jest— ¡cabrón!) and people stand close to you as they talk and will often touch your arm or leg to make a point. It’s just something to adapt to.

I was doing pretty good, making the usual conversation (“I’m from California. I’ve been here three weeks. Oh yes, I like Barcelona a lot. I’m studying literature at the UB.”) and then I had to open my mouth.

“Spanish girls can’t dance.”

In my defense, it’s true. Okay, so they can salsa (I’m learning how!!!) but just hanging out on the dance floor, one would think they had forgotten they had hips. Of course, I couldn’t be all talk and no game, so I got pulled onto the dance floor and passed around to all of Abel’s friends. People in Spain dance face-to-face, which is quite nice, and the boys here can dance. And lead. It is brilliant!!!

The night wore on and the general theme of the night became confusion: a sleepy Courtney plus Spaniards assuming that they could talk a mile a minute and be understood led to a lot of awkward silences where I realized that people were asking me questions and I had completely zoned out, unable to keep up with conversations. And then there were moments where I was pondering if I had heard right, and if he was talking about his boyfriend in Panama that he hadn’t seen in awhile… or was it his girlfriend? Brother? A few people tried to speak their broken English to me, assuming I didn’t understand at all, but I explained in Spanish that they just needed to slow down and not all talk at the same time and I would be just fine. Well, they tried. It is a good thing Abel knows all too well my “confused” face because he will stop and explain things to me.

Eventually we went out to breakfast at a bar/café where Abel knew one of the waiters (surprise surprise). Breakfast consisted of a grilled ham and cheese with OJ for me, a hamburger for Abel, and a hotdog for Eric (one of the waiters from the bar). Odd, I know, but we ended up at the bar around 1 or 2 am and had gone to the club around 3 or 4 am, so we needed the pick-me-up.

As we finished our meal, the sun was beginning to rise, slowly lighting up the wide, grid-like streets of L’Eixample. The boys were trying to catch a cab when I made my first joke in Spanish (it’s really hard to be funny in another language). I announced that I was a girl in a skirt and that I could do anything easier, especially catch a cab. Abel was in the middle of crossing the street when I announced this and stopped then and there to laugh.

The drive back to the piso was lovely. I stuck my head out the window like a dog and Abel made fun of me for having my eyes as wide as saucers as I drank in the sleepy city. I changed into my pajamas and grabbed my blanket before sitting with the boys on the comfy terrace. Eventually, I forgot how to speak Spanish (granted it was about 9 am at this point) and fell asleep.

The rest of Saturday was spent sleeping and watching movies with Abel. He’s kind of my best friend here and sometimes I really don’t know what I would do without him because he’s a fountain of knowledge and yet still really cool, funny, and laid back. I’m so lucky to have such an awesome roomie!

It’s now the end of September and my other roommate, Clara, is moving out and we’re getting a new roommate! I wonder who it’ll be…

Ikea Adventures and Hipster Photo Contests

Okay, so it’s been approximately a million years since I’ve updated last. I know, I am a horrible person, but this week I am resolved to update every single day. Currently, this blog is about two weeks behind. Eek!

So, I’m going to take you back to Thursday, September 8^th… okay, that’s probably closer to three weeks ago. (Bad, Courtney, bad.)

It was my last day of classes for the Intensive Language Program and it was a little bittersweet. All we had to do was just show up to class essentially and it still felt like summer, despite the late Sunday night homework binges. Alas, these nostalgic days of yore were over and we would be serious students by the following Monday.

But before that, I had to prepare my piso for my impending move-in. We all know what that means… IKEA TRIP!!!

Ikea was actually on the other side of town and took over an hour to get there from an odd combination of public transportation and walking. I was rather confused upon my arrival: the Ikea was different. I know, one expects all Ikeas to be universally the same because Ikea is universally wonderful, but this is not the case. There was a showroom and then you actually picked up the stuff you wanted to buy downstairs. So here I was, going slowly through the showroom and writing down exactly what I wanted, only to realize that all the info was also downstairs.

About five years later I exited Ikea looking pretty much like a boss. I had bought a few ceramic bowls and mugs and had wrapped them up in paper and nestled them among my pillow and blanket in one of those giant Ikea bags. Then in my hands I had a six pack box of wine glasses. Glass wine glasses. Fragile, breakable, glass wine glasses. I know, with my track record and all the grace that has been genetically bestowed upon me (Thanks Mom!), it pretty much spelled disaster. I’ve tripped over my shadow before.

My stuff was heavy, so I booked it in the direction where I thought the bus stop was. Key word “thought.” I started walking down some street and suddenly felt like I was being watched. Well, I was, by a bunch of men in the back of their sketchy trunks. I walked faster and kept my head down, waiting for the evitable, “Hola guapa.”

Which brings us to the lesson on the many facets of the word guapa.

In most contexts, it is a rather nice thing to hear. It can mean anything from “pretty” to “attractive” or in general is used as a term of endearment. Hearing “Hola guapa” from a roommate, friend, or cashier is positively normal and usually makes me grin like a loon. Who doesn’t like being called pretty? And then there are always the dear vendors in the market who say, “Hola guapa” and then proceed to tell you all the bargains they have and yes, just for you guapa, they will throw in an extra nectarine for free. And yes, they are just after your money, but I’m a sucker for flattery. And yes, I think I will take that extra nectarine.

The negative side of guapa is when you are just walking down the street in your normal street clothes and there is some creepy (possibly old) man (or men) that watch you very intently as you are going by. These men are 99% harmless and only look before dropping their typical line (“Hola guapa.” Cue cringe.) as you pass, but it doesn’t feel fabulous. Then again, these are things I would have to deal with in Isla Vista (“Hey babe! Where are you going?), so it is completely manageable.

But here I am, caring an Ikea bag full of stuff, I’m sweating like a dog, and I get an “Hola guapa.” Really now. Really???

I make it to the corner and consult my map. No help. I find a bus stop and locate a map. This is about the time when one begins to improvise: I knew that all I had to do was find a bus that could take me back to Plaça Catalunya and I could navigate the metro from there. As it turned out, there was a bus stop right in front of the Ikea. In this process, I learned the proper use of one of the many swearwords in Spanish when one girl missed her bus. Life lessons, right there.

With an Ikea bag on my shoulder, my purse on the other, and a box of wine glasses in my hands, I trekked from bus to metro to my piso without breaking anything. Can you say éxito (success)?

After moving my stuff in, Abel took me grocery shopping.

I like food. I really do. I like cooking food, eating food, watching food be cooked… yeah. Food is good. I think grocery shopping is fun because you can just wander through the aisles and decide what you want to eat for the week. I think that Costco is a beautiful creation and that Nutella should always come in packs of two.

Food shopping in Spain is a little different. Back in ye old days, everyone used to shop at their local mercado, open air markets that are in every single distrito. Fresh everything, amazing sights and sounds, and great prices, these places are really fun to go as long as one keeps an eye on their purse. The mercado tradition is in the process of being revived in Barcelona since the boom of supermarkets.

But by “supermarkets,” we’re talking about stores less than the size of Trader Joes. Which brings me to the next point: I miss Trader Joes. There is something awesome about getting everything you could possibly want under one roof at a decent price and knowing that what you’re eating is most likely not made of crap. The only “super” part about the supermercados is the prefix in the name. Really nothing to be excited about. At all. Additional pitfall: there is no peanut butter in Spain because it’s really expensive and needs to be imported. It was a sad, sad discovery to know that I won’t be eating a PBJ any time soon. My only consolation to this thought was that grilled ham and cheese sandwiches do exist… they are just called bikinis. One does not question these things when hungry—one only eats.

However, the one exciting thing about grocery shopping is the specialty stores. You can’t go more than a few blocks without running into a fruit and veggie stand or a bakery. Bread here is pretty much its own food group and fresh bread is highly valued. I’ve become such a bread snob and I already have favorite little bakeries in different neighborhoods. So yes, bread is always purchased at bakeries. One thing to grow accustomed to at the produce stands is that there are flies. Yes, most Americans would be freaking out that there are bugs within a fifty foot radius of their food, but this is normal.

That Thursday night brought a pleasant surprise. With some of my friends, we decided to celebrate our almost last night by having a metro adventure. We grabbed a camera, walked to the nearest metro stop, I spun around three times and pointed to a random spot on the metro map. We were to go to that stop and then figure out how to get home.

I ended up picking Sagrada Família. At first it was a bit of a buzz kill because we had all been there, but then we realized something important… we hadn’t been there at night. Once again, my mind was blown and I was humbled by this amazing building. Flood lights made the building glow, illuminating details I had never seen before.

To make the night pass with laughter, we decided to have a hipster photo contest. Now, for those of you who do not know what hipsters are, it is a very difficult concept to explain. Hipsters are people who try very hard at not trying hard at all. One can identify a hipster man by his flannel shirt, horn-rimmed glasses or Ray Bands, skinny jeans, and his retro film camera. He will probably be riding a bicycle. A female hipster may be identified by her billowy skirts, eclectic print tees, hippy headband, retro striped sweater, nerd glasses without the lenses, and her organic soy latte made from locally grown ingredients and contained in a recyclable/reusuable mug. Yes, hipsters sound a little like hippies, but their concerns are not with saving the whales or humanity and free love, but instead they enjoy all things retro and not mainstream. Hipsters are people who take pictures of flowers while denouncing the bourgeoisie and ranting about how the public university system is destroying the creativity of their generation on their blog before skipping off to Spoken Word club. Not that I have anything against spoken word… it’s actually super cool, but I feel like hipsters congregate at these sort of things.

And YES, there are hipsters in Spain too.

So, what does a hipster photo contest actually entail? Taking pictures of things that aren’t mainstream, or so mainstream that they are actually hidden jewels, or anything ironic. Because the hipsters like things only ironically, whatever that is supposed to mean.

Anyway, below is a mixture of some of my favorite pictures of the night. We all had a turn with the camera, courtesy of my awesome friend Gema.

Next update: move in and my first big Barcelona night. J

Murphy's Law and Mullets --> Dislike

Murphy’s Law: anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

A rather pessimistic view and I don’t normally hold it, but there are days when it proves unfortunately true. I had a little fling with Murphy on Monday, September 5. I had been up doing homework until 2 am and then had classes at 8:30 the next morning. I had to print my CV (curriculum vitae, aka résumé) so I planned to eat breakfast quickly, print it, and catch the bus. However, the cafeteria did not open on time, so I went straight to the front desk to get my CV printed. The printer wasn’t on, so the man at the front desk got it warming up. After ten minutes of waiting, I asked him if I went to get something to eat quickly and returned, would it be ready? He said yes, so I shoveled some breakfast down my throat and came back, only to find out that he didn’t have the login information for the printer. I waited for nearly ten minutes before deciding that I would just try to print it at campus.

Murphy’s Law decided it would rain. And so it did. I was not prepared for this, like the rest of the students who were all in shorts and tank tops, and was sufficiently showered by the time I got to the bus stop. We waited for about five minutes for the bus and 20 of us students watched as our bus slowed down and then rolled on by without stopping. The look on our faces must have been priceless because we were all in shock and horror. It was raining and our bus had deserted us.

It felt like nothing else could go wrong because it already had. I would come to class late and without my homework. In the wise words of one of my friends on the bus, “You know who’ve hit a low point when a bus rejects you.” We sang our woes in a jazzy tune entitled “The Struggle-Bus Blues” on the way there and ended up walking into class a half hour late. Our teacher was less than pleased that only one person had managed to make it to class on time. However, she saw how miserable, embarrassed, and genuinely sorry we were, so she forgave us and even let me bring in my CV a day late without penalty.

Yep, things were looking up. Murphy’s Law had its fun and would leave me be for the rest of the day.

It was our third and last week of classes and everyone was getting antsy to move out while others were still struggling to find their piso.

On Tuesday, I went shopping with a few friends. Now, I don’t normally go shopping because I kind of hate shopping. It’s annoying. It’s boring. And sometimes, it’s depressing. But mostly just annoying. However, when shopping, I realized how despite my attempts, I still look rather American. Now, I’ve never been a terribly fashionable person or even cared about fashion, but now I do. The goal is to fit in and feel confident, to have people come up to me and assume that I’m Catalan. I want to be one of those fashionable European types! (Who would have thought the day would come?) So, as I was just looking around, I was filled with these terrible thoughts: Was I doomed to look like an apparel-challenged American for my trip? Should I even bother trying if I’m totally not cut out for this?

But on Wednesday, I was resolved: I was to return to the stores with money and try. However, earlier that day I had a field trip to the Catalunyan History Museum, so my friend and I walked up the Ramblas to Plaça Catalunya. We were determined to return from the store victorious and super monas (super cute). I came home with a few good buys, but I still feel like there is room for improvement.

The Spanish, even on a basic, everyday level, have a different sense of style. People here are in good shape and wear clothes that fit them well. I don’t know how, but they just put their outfits together differently and they do it well. Additionally, I have become quite used to seeing men carrying bags. In fact, most of the men are quite well dressed. I could definitely get used to it. My favorite thing, however, is seeing men in nice suits riding their motos to work.

Things I will never get used to?

• Mullets. For men and women!
• Pants with the crotch down to the knees.
• Mullets. For men and women. Really???

So, I’m trying to look European. We’ll see how it goes…

Everything's Magic

So, since my last post, we’re going to backtrack a little bit to Thursday, September 1^st after my frustrating adventures at my empadronamiento appointment (I can almost say it now without sounding unfortunately slow!). That night, a group of us decided to hit up the Fuente Mágicas (Magic Fountains) in the Plaça Espanya. It was a beautiful sight to watch the water rise and fall, the lights changing color as classical music played in the background. It was a warm night, making the mist most welcome as the Palau Nacional was lit up on the hill above the fountain.

We lingered here for a long time, taking photos and enjoying each other’s company. I felt very relaxed at the fountains and will probably return there to contemplate life. Or to have a romantic date with friends and dessert. Yep.

But the night was young and one can only be entertained by water for so long, so we decided to explore the rest of the plaza. Across the roundabout there was an old bullfighting ring that had been converted into a shopping mall on the interior.

(Fun fact: The Catalans really don’t like bullfighting. In general, they are rather progressive compared to the rest of Spain and find bullfighting to be rather cruel. Plus, bullfighting is more of a pastime of Madrid and the south of Spain and is more “Spanish” rather than “Catalan.” In fact, there is a law that will ban bullfighting in Catalunya.)

So, here we were at this bullring/mall creation and we were just about to assume that it was closed when people walked out of it. We knew the roof was open for visitors to enjoy the view so we made our way to the escalators. (It was a tall building!)

It was rather magical. The city lights glowed, yet we could still make out the Palau Nacional and la Sagrada Família off in the distance. The hills above the city sparkled with lights and houses. I could have stayed up there forever, simply drinking in the night.

I think that moment was about as close as I had gotten to realizing that I was in Barcelona. Skipping to present day, tomorrow (or the day after, depending on what time zone you’re in) will mark one month of being in Barcelona and I can say that it’s finally sunken in. To be honest, it’s an odd feeling to reconcile: being in a foreign country for an extended period of time where so much is different. Indeed, times are a’changin’, but more on that later.

We took our time at the bullfighting ring and by the time we were ready to go home, the metro had closed (midnight on weekdays, 2 am on weekends). So, we pulled out our maps, oriented ourselves, and began the trek home. It only took about 45 minutes and we were in a large group, so it was perfectly safe. Needless to say, I slept well that night.

So, Thursday night was kind of magical. More magic: I got my keys for my apartment on Friday afternoon. I also did laundry, but that’s not exactly magical. Well, it was at the time because I did laundry in my piso after not having clean clothes for three weeks. Simple minds, simple pleasures.

I was having a jolly good time as Abel, my roomie, talked about the routines of the piso and I got to meet Clara, my other roommate from Mexico who has been living in the city for about a year. I laughed over my failed attempts with the door of the washing machine (it’s a sensitive soul) and then bid farewell to Abel, who had to go work at a bar (his weekend job, he’s an architect during the week) and to Clara, who was going out with her boyfriend for the night. So, it was just me, my keys, and my piso. Magical, right?

It should have been that moment where I was like, “Wow, I’m in Barcelona!” But it was more like, “Wow, I’m in Barcelona.” Essentially, I hit my first wave of homesickness. It was an odd feeling to have a new home, however temporary it was. I had not had this feeling when I was in the dorms or my apartment in IV. It wasn’t like I was moving in with my best friends where we would figure out routines as we went. There were already two people in the piso who had figured out all the details, details I had to remember as I tried to assimilate into their lives. Feelings are confusing.

I hung up my clothes to dry (driers, for all intents and purposes, do not exist here) and made my way back to the residencia with my keys in hand, still unable to shake these odd feelings. One of the girls in my program posted this lovely, mellow song about California and now it’s the song I play when I miss home. So, I definitely had this on repeat most of that night.

I guess the magic happened the next morning because all the icky feelings were gone! I brought some clothes over to my piso to make move-in easier and folded my dry clothes while enjoying an apple on my beautiful patio. I let my mind wander and remained there for a few hours, nearly falling asleep. All my anxieties had faded away and all was well. The rest of that Saturday was devoted to procrastinating doing my homework.

Sunday, September 4^th brought a more serious application toward homework, but some of my friends decided to go to the Picasso Museum. A number of the museums in the city have discount days and the first Sunday of the month at the Picasso Museum has free admission! Things were a little complicated meeting up with everyone and there was a line out the door of the museum, but it didn’t put a damper on our fun.

The museum was really interesting even though most of it went over my head. I’m not exactly a visually artistic person—just ask my mother, who rearranges picture frames in my room when I’m not home. I didn’t know much about Picasso beforehand and I can’t say I know much more now, but I did see the progression of his work into cubism, his influences and obsessions, and his art outside of painting. I embraced my friend’s life motto to look up and laughed as we decided what we would eat from some of the plates that Picasso sculpted and painted. (“Nachos. Definitely.” “Picasso is probably rolling in his grave…”) There were no cameras allowed in the museum, so I held onto our ticket as a memento. In my room in my piso, I have a corkboard that I’m using to hang ticket stubs and brochures.

So in conclusion, this city is magical. Barcelona never ceases to catch me off my guard and remind me that the world is vast and wide and there is so much I have to see. A few days ago I made a bucket list (la lista “cubo”) of all the things I wanted to do in the next year. Hopefully I’ll be able to check off a few in the coming weeks because there is so much to do!

Besos de Barcelona!

Less Than Stellar, But Inescapable Things

Being here is a learning process and it isn’t too often that you learn by your victories. Hence, lots of mistakes, miscommunications, and getting lost. It’s sort of a rite of passage and it’s bound to happen to everyone. I’m going to talk about four less than stellar, but rather inescapable things that happened.

The first was a restaurant misadventure.

On Monday, August 29, I forgot to pick up a bocadillo (sandwich, meaning a piece of bread with tomato smear and a piece of cheese) so my two friends and I decided to go out for a real Spanish lunch. The day before everyone in my program had stayed up insanely late because we forgot that we were students and had homework to do. Oops. So, we were all struggling to stay awake the next day.

The plan was to eat a great lunch (the Spanish normally have bigger lunches and smaller dinners) and then take a beautiful siesta.

After wandering around near the residencia in a zombie-like daze, we found a restaurant that had a menú del día (usually the cheapest combo plate) for only €8. We spoke in Spanish and the waiter explained to us the different plates before taking our order. I was feeling adventurous (be proud, Mom) and ordered a paella-esque rice plate with a seafood broth, then chicken for the second plate, a Coca-Cola (so much better in every country except the US), and crema catalana for dessert. I didn’t much like the paella dish but I ate it all like a good girl and the crema catalana is a cross between crème brûleé and a pudding... ¡súper rico!

Even though the waiter explained to us the menú del día twice and I had two Latina native-speakers with me, we all somehow missed the fact that the €8 deal came with one plate, a drink, and dessert while the €12 deal came with two plates, a drink, and dessert. So when the bill rolled around, it sort of killed the mood. We paid and went home full, but feeling rather duped. However, my siesta was a thing of beauty because I desperately needed sleep and was stuffed.

Not stellar, but inescapable thing, part 2: everyone got sick.

Essentially, it was like being in the dorms as a freshman all over again. New people, new germs, new country, new time zone, new routine, new food… by the beginning of the second week, everyone began to get sick. We’re talking from bothersome head colds to full on fevers and vomiting. A handful of people even needed antibiotics and number of people ended up with pharyngitis. One poor girl missed most of her ILP classes because she was so sick.

My roommate didn’t go to class one morning, but I managed to avoid getting sick and only had a tickle in my throat on the last day of ILP.

Not stellar, but inescapable thing, part 3: cita de empadronamiento.

First of all, empadronamiento is one of the hardest words to say in Spanish and we all had to say the word so slow that we sounded retarded. What it is a cita de empadronamiento? An appointment to get our empadrón. What’s an empadrón? I’m not quite sure. We were just told to take our appointment number and show up at some government building with our passport. However, I do know that it is part of the process to get our residency card and NIE (número de indentificación de extranjero, or foreigner identification number). So, it’s not something you want to mess up.

The government office where we had to go reminded me of being at the DMV. No one wants to be there, everyone is cranking, there is such a bothersome bureaucracy, there are screaming babies, a little yip-yap dogs outside, and French girls who decide that it’s a really good idea to carry on a phone conversation in the waiting room while everyone is already on edge… yeah, I pretty much thought I was going to have a mental breakdown.

My appointment was scheduled for Thursday, September 1 from 12:20 to 12:40 and I showed up ten minutes early, put in my appointment number, got my ticket with the number they would use to call me, and I waited. And then I waited. And then I waited some more. 12:50 rolled around and I decided that even if they were running late, they were running beyond late and I needed to say something. I walked up to the front desk and told them that I didn’t want to be a bother, but I had a pre-scheduled appointment at 12:20 and I had been waiting for over a half-hour… so I got a new number and was told that I would be called up next. I was and I literally got what I needed in five minutes. Waiting over a half hour for something that only takes five minutes is one of those things that universally puts everyone in a good mood, so I got back on the bus feeling quite chipper (sarcasm), chipper enough to not bother going to class because it would end ten minutes after I got there. Needless to say, I had an excellent siesta that day as well.

Less than stellar, but inescapable thing, part 4: pick-pocketing.

Before everyone freaks out, it wasn’t me who got pick-pocketed.

My second week at the residencia was rather dull, the only exciting things being my lunch misadventure, my empadronamiento, going to the Fuente Mágica (next post!), and my beach misadventure.

On Friday, September 2, we had a meeting at the UB (la Universitat de Barcelona) to discuss classes and internships. It was a helpful and informative meeting, but everyone was exceptionally restless during the meeting. My mind certainly lingered to the beach a few times, so once the meeting was concluded, everyone all but leapt out of the classroom. We got on the metro and went to the Ciutadella/Port Olímpic stop and settled down on the beach. Things were fine and dandy until one of my Illinois friends noticed that her camera was missing.

We searched and asked her questions, hoping that she had just left it somewhere until she also realized that her 50/30 metro pass (50 trips in 30 days, costs about €30) and her €15 in cash were also gone. Then, it sank in: she was robbed. She had been robbed at the beach, even though we had been watching our stuff the entire time. I personally felt terrible, considering I was the only person watching everything at one point during our stay. She took it quite well, but after everything sunk in, she put on her sunglasses and I saw her chin tremble. Feeling guilty, I stood up from my towel and suggested to her that we go for a walk.

She was upset, but explained that she got the camera for free because it was refurbished, so there was no point reporting it to the police. She didn’t blame anyone and said that these things just happen… which is true, but it doesn’t make it right and it doesn’t make it suck any less. It rather put a damper on the day, but she cheered up quite quickly.

Moral of the story? Don’t take anything valuable to the beach. The pick-pockets are super sneaky… you take your eyes off of your stuff for a moment and it can be gone in the next.

The truth is that this sort of thing is common. Chances are that everyone will know someone or be that someone who has been robbed by the end of the year. Probably even before Christmas. We had been lectured repeatedly and thought we had been doing rather well until we had our wake up call. Hopefully, never again.

As I said before, it’s a learning process. We are bound to make hundreds of mistakes, but that’s just part of life. I think as long as I handle it with a level head and a decent sense of humor, I’ll probably be fine. J

Beach-Going in Barcelona

So, on Saturday, August 27^th (the day before the Castellers—we’re traveling a little back in time) I went to the beach for the first time. I freaking love the Mediterranean Ocean.

However, initially I got very lost because a lot of the beaches in Barcelona are man-made and you have to take a walk down random ramblas to get to the beach. It took me quite awhile to locate the sand and then meet up my friends, so I pretty much dropped my beach bag, took off my sun dress, and went straight into the water.

It was the perfect temperature: just cool enough to make the summer heat perfectly bearable and warm enough to bob over the waves for a good hour. However, the water is much saltier than the Pacific, so reapplying sunscreen gets a little painful because the salt dries on your skin and then you’re rubbing in sunscreen… yeah, you get the point (white girl problems). However, when the salt water dries in my hair it looks awesome and essentially acts like hair goop to hold in my curls. This lead to me not wanting to wash my hair for a few days and has significantly contributed to my desire to be like Shakira. Seriously, I want her life. I’ve been listening to “Gitana” pretty much non-stop for awhile.

One interesting thing about beaches in Barcelona: lots of women don’t wear tops. This totally explains why everyone is freakishly brown here and no one has tan lines. It didn’t take long to get used to it  because people young and old do it. However, if you think about it, it’s sort of a liberation of the female body. Breasts are just another part of the human anatomy.

However, some people can’t handle it. As we were tanning (tops on, thank you), a group of American boys were walking down the beach and we overheard this delightful chunk of dialogue:

“Dude, I just saw another girl to add to my top ten.”
“Do you think anyone will mind if we just light up a blunt on the beach?”

This caused raucous laughter among our group and the boys probably noticed because we were laughing so hard we were crying.

Indeed, people watching is an excellent past time. At the beach, there are all walks of life. Perhaps my favorite sight was Doughnut Man. This French guy literally ran around the beach balancing a plate of doughnuts on his head. This lead to me singing a song that got stuck in everyone’s head: “Doughnut man, doughnut man… Be my friend, Doughnut Man.” In my defense, it had a catching tune. However, it is best not to question these things.

Also on the beach, a lot of people sold mojitos, water, sunglasses, dresses, coconuts, beer and scarves, or offered massages or braids. Club advertisers often carry out their business on the beach, offering free entrance to the clubs before 1 am. Except who goes to a Spanish club before one am? Dumb Americans. And I am not a dumb American. Everyone knows you go to a bar around then and not go to a club until three. Ah, Spanish nights… but more on that much later. I am still two weeks behind on blogging.

Nonetheless, the beach was amazing. I only took a few pictures because it’s not too safe to bring valuables to the beach, like I learned later.

I am like 99 percent sure this photo is directed at lazy Americans...

Videos of the Castellers

As promised, videos of the Castellers! See previous post for details about the Castellers.

Catalán, Carpe diem, and Castellers

Okay, so this post is about three super cool and important things that start with the letter “C.” And no, I’m not one of them. Give me a break guys. Well, I ought to get right into it.

Barcelona is part of an autónoma (autonomous community that has its own laws while still being a part of Spain) called Catalonia. In this region of Spain, as well as down the coast toward Valencia, the Balearic Islands, and a bit of France and Italy, there is a language that derives from vulgar Latin, making it a sort of brother language to Spanish, Portuguese, French, and Italian.

This is Catalán. It is not a dialect, but a language that was once spoken in courts when the Roman Empire stretched its arms over the Mediterranean. However, it has come into some tough times because Franco banned the use of the language in order to promote his Madrid-centric ideals. Catalonia (or Catalunya, as the Catalans spell it… it feels weird to right it in the English way) had always been a bit of a rebel child, with its ports and modes of communication to the Mediterranean, the fact that it was always on the outskirts, and its rich, unique history that extended long before the region was conquered by the rest of Spain. I think it’s a lot more similar to French than Spanish in some regards, but either way, it’s a very different language than Spanish with completely different pronunciation and spelling.

Catalán is everywhere. We’re talking street signs, menus, instructions, advertisements… everywhere. You cannot get by without learning some of it, so they are giving us a crash course in ILP. I am a language person and pick up on these things quickly, plus I took a quarter of Catalán prior to ILP, so I find it fascinating and very interesting. Other people are definitely struggling with it, but a little Catalán gets you a long way.

People like it when you make an attempt to speak their language, especially if you aren’t expected to know their language. So with Catalán, we say good-morning and good-bye, please and thank you, and simple things like that. It isn’t difficult to make that extra effort and worst case scenario, the person starts babbling away in Catalán and then you have to tell them that you only know una mica catalán.

Actually, the worst case scenario is if you stumble across a catalanista. It is important to note the differences between catalans and catalanistas. Catalans are the people of Cataluyna. They have great pride in their culture and language, but also recognize that yes, they are a part of Spain, and should also acknowledge and understand the worth of castellano (the general dialect of Spanish spoken throughout the country). Catalanistas will refuse to speak in Castellano and refuse to understand you if you do. My professors have said that they think it is a bad thing and a sign of ignorance, but it’s not my place to say here or there. Nevertheless, I think I would rather be friends with Catalans.

Catalán is simply something one has to deal with while in Barcelona, but I think it adds another interesting layer onto the culture. Then again, it’s not something to “deal with.” Catalán and the cultura catalana is something to embrace. I knew it would be an obstacle going into my journey, but I prepared myself and was excited to take on the challenge of another language. And never fear, UB (la Universitat de Barcelona) offers free mini-courses on Catalán for foreigners.

Onto the next “c”: carpe diem

Latin for “seize the day,” immortalized the amazing movie Dead Poets Society, blah blah blah, we got it.

It’s sort of the Spanish motto and I think it’s what makes the Spanish people and the lives they lead so magical. They don’t care if they forget to make dinner until super late at night because they have stayed up watching a football game. Bars don’t fill up until after midnight and no one goes to a club till after three. They take naps because they can. They sit down and eat lunch in the early afternoon and don’t get up for at least an hour. They go on walks when it cools off and do nothing when it’s hot. These people live in the moment with little care of the consequences as long as the detriments don’t eclipse the benefits. This is carpe diem.

That, and they eat croissants and pastries and sweets for breakfast. And who wouldn’t be a morning person when you can shove crispy, sweet, buttery goodness down your throat with a cup of coffee every single morning?

So, we’re at Saturday the 27^th, but that was a beach day and beach does not start with a “c.” So, we’re going to skip ahead to Sunday, which was when I saw the Castellers at the Festa de Sants.

The festa began the week before and a group of us had gone to check it out on Friday night. It wasn’t as cool as the Festa de Gràcia, but still quite nice. All locals, beer and mojitos all around, fun bands, and some delicious crepes.

Sunday was the close of the festa and the castellers always showcase that day in the big park near the Sants Estació. I’m not sure if “castellers” refers to the people or the towers they make, but it’s not a detail to get hung up on. What is fascinating is that these people stand on each other’s shoulders and make a human tower. No safety net, no ropes, just people. You have people of all sizes and ages, from burly men at the base to tiny primary school children all the way at the top.

Another milestone: a woman approached me and asked where the team of Castellers was from. In Spanish. Because she thought I was Spanish. ¡Qué chulo!!!

Anyway, watching the human towers build and fall was absolutely amazing, as well as seeing the trust and camaraderie between the members. They had learned to fall without fear—a good life lesson, I suppose. When they fall, they fall on each other because those not climbing create a huge base around the foundation. In this manner, their people are their own safety nets. It’s kind of beautiful to think about metaphorically and amazing to watch in person. Pictures below, and I will add videos once I figure out how to flip them...