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...

First Day of Classes and Piso Hunting

Fact: Learning is fun. Then again, I am a dork and a nerd and therefore a little bit biased, but there is something exciting about the first day of school. Especially the first day of school in one of the most prestigious universities in Spain. Especially when your university looks super legit.

Fact: Universities in Europe look approximately 20 times more legitimate than colleges stateside. Scientists have explained this statistic by the increased cool value of the architecture, the ancientness of everything, and the sweet wooden desks that look like they came from ye ol’ days of yore. Because they did.

Downside? No air conditioning.

Either way, it was nothing like I had pictured in my mind. Stone arches, large wooden doors, open quads—it’s hard to describe the atmosphere, but it has an official, old European university feel to it (because it is both old and European), as if history never left the place and kept growing as the flocks of students entered and exited its wide doors.

Our first day of classes was Wednesday the 24^th and we took the bus to the campus. During that week, UB (la Universitat de Barcelona) was openly solely for us. The rest of Europe was on vacations and the university doesn’t normally begin registration until September. So, we got put in the super old rooms… which was neat, but like I said, no air conditioning. A 1.5 L water bottle and a fan were small consolations, but our teachers were excited to be with us and seemed to be blessed with endless amounts of patience. There is a huge range in language abilities, from people who struggled through six years of language classes to native Spanish speakers. All the professors teach at the UB and are doing their utmost to get us prepared for real classes with host country students. For now, UB has its California/Illinois invasion from Monday to Thursday, 9 am to 2 pm.

We take Gramática y Composición (grammar and composition), Catalán, Cultura (which is really more like a history/literature class), and Conversación. My favorite professor is definitely my Cultura professor, dearest Marcelino. He is super excited about the material he is teaching and explains everything so eloquently that I wish I could just sit and listen instead of frantically taking notes as he plows through interesting facts and odd historical anecdotes. He told us that his earlier classes seemed a bit sleepy and said he was worried that he was boring us, causing us all to protest that he was not. We proceeded to ask him many questions to make sure that he knew we were interested. I really wanted to take a class with him once real classes start, but he’s teaching some advanced analytical literature class that he informed us would be a bit over our heads. Pouty face.

But I suppose people want to know what it’s like studying abroad. You know, the actual studying part.

In the US, and especially at UCSB, one can totally get away with wearing pajamas to class. In Spain, it’s a lot more formal and you wear your normal street clothes, which tend to be slightly more formal that what we wear in the US. It’s not okay to eat or drink in class, except for water. You do not stretch. You do not yawn. You do not show up late or leave early. Professors will call you out on anything they deem wrong. In general, they are more aggressive and hands-off than professors in the US. However, this is just what the professors themselves have told us. I’ll have to see if this proves true when I start classes with the host country students.

After classes on Wednesday, I began searching for my piso. Piso literally means a flat or a floor, but it can also refer to an apartment in Spain. Most buildings are occupied by people who own the piso and the pisos collectively make a community. However, you pay rent to the owner of the piso rather than a landlord. From what I’ve seen so far, landlords don’t really exist because most people don’t own a complete building of pisos.

During ILP (Intensive Language Program), we stay at the Collegi Major Sant Jordi (or the “residencia,” as we call it) but after it ends in three weeks, we move out into our own place in the city. Most people look for an open habitación (room) in a piso, while others have decided to stay with a señora who acts as a sort of mommy and does the cooking and cleaning as long as you live by her rules. Both have their merits, but I knew I wanted to live in a piso with people who were natives or had been in Spain for a long time. I also knew I wanted a piso in which the people who lived there were more like a family, rather than just coming to the piso to sleep. There are a number of different neighborhoods or barrios (barri in Catalán) in Barcelona and I wanted to live in the Sagrada Família or Gràcia barrios because they are well-connected to transportation, have a lot of young people, and are clean and quiet.

Even though it was the first week of ILP, people were already e-mailing piso owners to. We all used the website loquo.com, which is essentially the Spanish Craig’s List. On Wednesday, I e-mailed a bunch of pisos that seemed to have what I was looking for and gave a description of myself before asking a few questions.

I seriously felt like I was trying to propose to someone. The general gist of my proposal was: “I’m fun, but a dedicated student. I’m young, but mature for my age. I want somewhere quiet to stay, but not somewhere boring. Love me, adopt me, please pick meeeeee!!!!” Okay, the last sentence was not in there, but that’s what I felt like shouting.

On Thursday the 25^th I went to visit my first piso after class. It was in Gràcia rather than Sagrada Família, so it was a bit further away than I expected. I was running a bit late, but Abel, the owner of the piso, said it wasn’t a big deal and buzzed me in when I arrived. He greeted me at the door with a wide smile and immediately invited me in, telling me to walk around like it was my own apartment. He showed me into what would be my room and it was smaller than I had expected. He was showing me the closets, which were quite ample and I said that it would be plenty of room, considering my personal belongings could pretty much fit into two suitcases.

“Excellent!” he said. And then jokingly, “You can always sleep in the closet.”
“Like Harry Potter?” I asked.

I know, I’m a nerd. I was completely going out on a limb, hoping that he would not think I was some silly American girl. So, I was completely floored when he said, “Or it could be like Narnia!”

Cue jaw dropping to the floor. Pretty much from that moment, I was sold. Abel’s warm, welcoming personality brightened up the little kitchen, eclectic living room, and bathroom shared by three people (the other roommate was Carla from Mexico who had been living in Barcelona for a year). However, the highlight was the outdoor patio. They had couches and awnings and there were already people out there, just chit chatting in the shade. The girl currently living in the room I was seeking was Italian and she poured me a cup of espresso and we all talked for the next 45 minutes about everything under the sun. They sent me out the door with an apple for the road and a skip in my step.

After that, nothing could compare. The next piso was nicer and cheaper, but as soon as the guy opened the door, I knew it wasn’t the sort of vibe I was looking for. The inhabitants of the piso worked and lead separate lives and I wanted a little more camaraderie. I saw another piso on Thursday owned by a Nicaraguan couple and while it was nice, it still couldn’t match up to my feelings about that first piso. Abel told me he would let me know by Saturday morning if they would take me, so I kept my fingers crossed.

Meanwhile on Friday (the only Friday we had class), Gemma, our coordinator for UC EAP in Spain, gave us The Talk. She told us to be careful, that it was our first weekend in Barcelona, and that we had all year to party hard, so there was no need to cram it into two days. She urged us to avoid the discotecas in El Raval while we were still so new to the city and suggested instead to stick to more cultural events, like the Festa de Sants (Sants neighborhood festival). Although a number of people did not listen and felt like we were being nagged, Gemma was absolutely right.

To be honest, the speech was directed at the Santa Barbara kids because all of them (us?) think they know how to party, but Isla Vista is not Barcelona. Barcelona is bigger, with people from all walks of life. There are drug addicts, pickpockets, and people who specifically prey on young tourists. The reality is that we are new here and most of the time don’t know where we are going and that’s just asking for trouble. It’s super important to have fun, but you can’t have fun in a hospital. That’s my theory, anyway.

By Friday afternoon, I was already twiddling my thumbs. What if Abel didn’t like me as I thought we had clicked? What if I had to start my search all over? What if he liked someone better? What if no one wants a 20-year-old American girl with good intentions and a dorky attitude to live with them? Why is this happening to me???

Luckily, I was spared from much more agony because I received a call on Friday afternoon from Abel, saying that I was their favorite person who had expressed interest in the piso and that he would like me to come live with him and Carla. I was over the moon as he told me how no one else had the same qualities as me and he felt like we would get along as roommates awesomely. I put down my reserve for the room on Saturday.

There are moments when I have doubts: What if I rushed into this? What if there’s something better out there? Should I have looked at other places? But then I find all these fears are washed away when Abel greets me at the door or when I am sitting on the patio, enjoying the Barcelona summer sun. Additionally, Abel is a bartender so he has connections. I’m going to be so popular.

So, it feels like everything is coming together. I’ve gotten quite lucky because it’s now the third and last week of ILP and some people have really struggled to find a piso that they like. I have settled in very well in Barcelona. On the way back from the metro, I was walking on the Avinguda Diagonal (one of the main roads that cut through Barcelona) and I found myself stepping on crunchy leaves. This is something I would do at home, so it must mean that I feel at home here. I even totally called the freak rainstorm we had that Friday afternoon because it felt the same way as in California before a thunderstorm, when the air is heavy and sticky.

Oh, and I hit a milestone: I remembered to not walk over the metro vents while wearing a skirt and instead went around it. It’s about the small victories, right?