Stupendous Stuff from September

SEPTEMBER MUSINGS

So, throughout the month of September, I took notice of some interesting stuff/observations/tips that never quite made it into my blog entries. As a result, I’ve decided that every month I will have a post where I simply describe interesting cultural/societal things in Spain, Catalunya, and Barcelona. Here we go!

University Life

 ·         Teachers calling students out

“Joan, why don’t you have your handout with you?” “Helena, are you chewing gum?” “Manuel, did you even do the reading?” Yep, these are normal things to hear. Professors really have no qualms calling students out. These professors are here to teach, not to do hand holding; however, they are passionate about their field and are eager to have students participate and ask questions.

How to avoid getting called out? Don’t give them a reason. Show up to class attentive and prepared.

·         Expectations

Professors have high expectations. Like I said before, there’s not a lot of hand-holding. You are expected to come to class having done your reading and any further research to fully understand the text. Most of the time there is a “required” reading list and a “supplementary” reading list; also most of the time, the “supplementary” list might as well be “required.” You are expected to do things on your own; a lot of the time, professors don’t spell out quite clearly what you should be doing to prepare yourself for midterms.

So, what should you do? Honestly, I’m still trying to figure it out myself. There is an ideal way to take notes, to do the readings, and to study and I’m still picking up on what I should be doing. I’ve decided I’m pretty much going to live in my professor’s office for the next few weeks once I have myself all caught up. In the meanwhile, I’m going to class (with print-outs of the reading, because it is expected—I caved a bought a printer), taking notes, and trying to keep up with the readings… sigh. Easier said than done.

When in doubt, ask.

·         Lack of emphasis on grades

American students care a lot about their grades. In Spain, there is definitely less of an emphasis on grades. I don’t know why or how, but that’s just how it is. So, don’t be a point whore. These classes are harder because they are in a different language and that’s going to reflect in your grade in all likelihood. Instead, just try to learn—that’s sort of what the year is about.

·         Taking notes

The Spaniards take notes like beasts. They will go through pages of legal sized printing paper in an hour and a half class. Sit next to someone who seems diligent about writing notes. When they write, you should be writing too. Also, it is quite helpful to sneak a peek when you missed a point or if you get lost during the lecture. J


Food and Dining

·         Orange juice

Zumo de naranja… orange juice. It’s a hit or miss sort of thing. Usually it’s not too good from the grocery store unless it’s not from concentrate, but there is nothing like going to a café and getting a bocadilla and fresh OJ. Don’t be surprised if it comes with a pack of sugar. I don’t know why.

·         Pay for bread on table

You know when you go to restaurants and they put out bread on the table? Stateside, I’m squealing with joy: “Yay! Free carbs!!!” Here, not so much. You touch your bread and you pay for it. So, unless you are starving and willing to pay the extra euro, wave over your waiter and tell them you don’t want the bread. Or, shove the bread clearly onto the other side of the table.

·         Ofertas and judging cafés

When going out for coffee with friends, always look at the ofertas. These are combo deals that let you know what the prices of the café are like. Things like café con leche and a croissant, una bocadilla and zumo… these deals are usually written on a chalk board outside the café.

If you’re going to a café for lunch, check out the menú del día. This a meal (usually one or two plates), dessert, and a drink all for a set price, usually between 8 and 12 euros. When you’re in the mood to sit down and have a real Spanish lunch and thoroughly enjoy your siesta, this is the way to go.

·         Coffee is damn good

Coffee here is universally good because they make it the right way. Yes, there is Starbucks here, but let’s face it: Starbucks makes shitty coffee. Do yourself a favor and go to a café. Any café. You will be irrevocably changed.

·         Bars and prices

Bars are wonderful places, especially on nights when there are Barça games… but get there early so you have a seat! Also, if you are at a bar/restaurant and want to get a drink, get it from the bar. Oftentimes on menus, you will see that food/drinks are different prices depending if you get them from the bar or from a table. The bar is usually cheaper.

·         Bread

Bread is always fresh. Which means it’s ten times better. Don’t be lame and buy sliced loaves of bread at the grocery store—instead, pick up a baguette or fresh round bread. You will never go back.

Also, it’s totally not uncommon to see a person walking down the street with five baguettes in a grocery bag. Yeah, they take their bread seriously.

·         Waiters

It is not customary to tip in Spain. Tips are included in the waiter’s salary, so they are not going to brown-nose in hopes for a little extra dough. This means that if you want a waiter’s attention, you will have to vigorously flag them down, usually by waving a hand and saying, “Disculpe,” which means, “Excuse me.” Also, waiters will be outwardly angry if you come in at a meal time, take up a table, and only get drinks and tapas. So try not to.

People

·         Rolling cigarettes

Most people here roll their own cigarettes. It’s really cool to watch.

·         On getting sick

If you tell a Spanish friend, “Oh, I have a cough,” their next question is always, “Do you have the flu? Have you taken anything for it?” Your response is usually, “No and, um, no, it’s only a cough,” but they will have none of that. If you tell them that you just need some more sleep and a little vitamin C, they will laugh at you. However, if two weeks later you still don’t feel fabulous, suck it up and go to the pharmacy. Don’t worry: cough syrup is universally disgusting.

·         Swearing

The Spanish like to swear, so it’s very easy to pick up on swearwords here—all you have to do is listen to normal conversations… which is easy, because the Spanish tend to yell. A bit like Italians, really, so I ought to be used to it with my big Italian family, but it’s a little scarier because you only understand 50 percent of the words with how fast they are speaking. Nonetheless, one catches on. Good stuff. Swearing is so wide spread, that it’s not even uncommon to hear a newscaster swear. Yep, welcome to Spain.

·         PDA

PDA: Public Displays of Affection. In Spain, it is not uncommon to see couples continuously—and passionately—making out on a street corner. Or a restaurant. Or a bar. Or (my favorite) the metro. I explained to one of my friends that this is a big no-no stateside and that it makes people, including myself, quite uncomfortable.

“So what do you do?” he asked.
“Holding hands is fine. A quick kiss. But nothing too long,” I responded. He thought about it for a moment.
“How frigid!” he at last cried out. “Here in Spain we are a little more passionate.”
Passionate. Well, that’s one way to look at it, I suppose.

·         Touchy feely

Fact: people here are a little more touchy-feely. This can go one of two ways. The first way is great: close friends are really affectionate. Cheek kisses all around, hugs, back massages… it’s nice. The other way? You’re in the club, getting your groove on, and guys are grabbing your hand, pulling on your arm to direct you, making awkward physical contact as they pass by… not fun.

However, this sort of comes with a culture. If a guy thinks you look good, he’ll let you know. My friend and I were walking down the street at night and every time we passed a group of guys, they would shout to get our attention: “¡Guapa! ¡Oye, rubia!” (Yes, apparently I’m considered “blonde” in Spain. Dislike.) No harm in shouting, but it’s really hard to continue a conversation when someone is shouting that you’re blonde. Just sayin’… however, it’s just something to get used to.

·         In da club

Unless you’re in a salsa club (great fun, by the way), people dance a little more reservedly. Also, people dance face-to-face, which is not at all like in the States. So, don’t go grinding on other people or your friends unless you want strange looks.


Style/fashion

·         Half shaved head

This is one of those things that I cannot give reason to and only explain. There is a trend with the girls here to put a deep side part in your hair and simply shave off the side of the part with less hair. It’s quite a badass look.

Among other interesting styles are the Mohawk, the mullet, dreadlocks, or even better, the mullet/dreadlock combination. Can you say súper sexi?

·         Heels

Fear not thy heels, ladies! In Spain, there are more options on finding cute shoes with heels. No longer will you have to pick between stilettos and flats, because there is a happy medium. Same thing with boots. Plus, with all the walking you’ll be doing, you’ll go through shoes surprisingly quickly. Invest in a good pair.

·         Makeup

Makeup seems to be kept fairly simple here. However, there is definitely a hopping punk culture here. (Think Avril Levine.) One thing I’ve noticed is that girls like to wear dramatic lipstick—a bright pink or red.

·         Blackberry

Blackberries seem to be the phone of choice because like iPhones, they have that texting-via-internet doo-da called “Wassup.” Terrific name, I know. But, future exchange students, you will probably have the cheapest, shittiest phone possible. Embrace it.

·         Jewelry

You can never have too many bracelets on your arm here. Seriously.

·         Fashion as a social marker

Fashion is definitely a social marker here, but perhaps not as much as in Madrid. Brand names are very important and people like having that logo show. However, clothing is not as “loud” in Catalunya as it is in Madrid. Reasons for this phenomenon will be provided in “Catalan Culture/History: On money.”


Transportation

·         Crossing streets

Cross when you see the little green man. Or if you see the red man, look one way and walk if you see no cars. Note: the second part does not apply to large streets. Also, the blinking green man to warn you that you don’t have enough time to walk is not shitting around. You have three seconds if you’re lucky.

·         How to stand in the metro without dying

In the metro, the best way to stand is so that you are parallel to the tracks. Keeping your feet shoulder-width apart and slightly staggered should keep you fairly well balanced. Having a rail to hold onto is also nice.

If you are sitting on the metro and you see an elderly person, a pregnant woman, or kids get on, you should always offer your seat to them. It’s a nice thing to do and I see it all the time.

·         Dealing with skirts

Skirts are lovely to wear when it’s 30+ degrees Celsius outside, but one must be wary in the metro. Moving trains + drafty tunnels = billowing skirt. Also be careful walking up and down stairs in the tunnels because the air can get up your skirt. Also, avoid the metro vents when walking on the street. It only took me about three weeks to learn.

·         Fun with hills

Depending where you live, you may have the blissful joy of walking up and down hills to get anywhere every single day. Wear good shoes and stay positive: “My butt is going to look awesome!”

·         Orienting yourself/context clues

If it weren’t for the high risers, it would be pretty easy to orient yourself in Barcelona. When giving directions, many Catalans will either tell you to go toward the mountains or go toward the beach. National monuments, like the Sagrada Familia or Montjüic, are also helpful.

For me, the hardest part about orienting myself is right when I get off the metro—here, I get all turned around. There are usually street maps of the blocks surrounding the metro near the exit, but they are not oriented properly. However, they do show building numbers so you can figure out if you are heading in the right way.

And as always, carry a map. I have three. No shame.

·         Lanes

Car lanes are tiny and drivers don’t always manage to stay in them. However, a super cool thing is that the furthest right hand lane is designated for buses and taxis. Also, the streets in the district of L’Eixample are cut at a 45 degree angle, which is also perfect for taxis to pull aside.


Catalan Culture/History

·         Flags and symbols

Flags and symbols are very important in Spanish and Catalan culture. For instance, the flag of Spain under Franco is absolutely illegal. Also, there are two Catalan flags: one official flag and one independista for those who want Catalunya to become independent from Spain. Because of this popular mentality, it is sort of rare to see a Spanish flag in Catalunya. 99 percent of the time, you will see the Catalan flag.

Another symbol is the national hymns. Like the Franco flag, the Franco hymn is illegal to play. However, our teacher did play a little for us, but only got about fifteen seconds into the song before he shuddered and stopped. Our teacher is young and was probably not even born during Franco’s time and it still brings out bad feelings in people. These things are to be taken quite seriously.

·         On old people

Old people are great. On weekend afternoons they practically live at cafes and watch Barcelona yawn and bustle (depending on the time). They talk to you on buses and are always super nice if you help them out or lend your seat. However, these old people are deceptively badass.

With a higher quality of life, advances in medicine, and the lowering of the mortality rate of children, the average woman in Spain is expected to live until 84 and the average man to 77—a pretty big difference when compared to the early 1900s, when men were only expected to live to 36 with all the wars. Hence, Spain is sort of becoming a more “antiquated” city because there are more older people than younger people.

But, these people have lived through Franco’s regime, so they are tough cookies. Also, they are quite mobile, always walking around the streets. Don’t be surprised to see them in the middle of a protest, just as passionate as the 20-something-year-olds. Indeed, these old people are cool.

·         On money

Catalunya has always been a fairly industrial area, which means lots of new money. It’s a battle between the old aristocracy and new bourgeoisie. While aristocrats are seen as idle money-flaunters, the bourgeoisie tended to view money more as a form of security rather than a bragging right. The latter mentality is typical of Catalunya and can be reflected in a number of ways, especially in how people dress. While brands are quite important, Catalans will not mind this as much and tend to dress a little more conservatively (without as many intricate details) than people in Madrid.

·         On politics

Politics are complicated, so I’m only going to try to explain a few things. Republicans here (republicanos) are not conservative, like in the States—instead, they support the Republic of Spain. Also, you have centralistas and autonomistas. The former supports a central government in Madrid, while the latter is more in favor of have the different autónomas in Spain govern themselves (Catalunya is one of Spain’s 17 autónomas).

Politics are complicated and messy. There is a liberal and a conservative party in Spain, but I think more of the problems they have are between the autónomas and Madrid. Many autónomas, such as Catalunya, Pais Vaso, and Navarra, seek independence and dislike taking orders from the central government in Madrid, causing a huge rift. That’s why people here take Barça v. Madrid games super seriously—it’s not just about the game. It’s about national pride.

·         On protesting

Protesting seems to be a national hobby. As foreign exchange students, we are to avoid it at all costs, but it’s interesting to watch at a distance. Police block off the streets and the protesters do their thing as everyone else simply continues on with their lives, not grumbling about the blocked street, noise, or anything.


Welp, that’s all I got for the month of September! I’ve been crazy busy lately, but I’ll try to get back to my usual posts. I’m still weeks behind. Oops.

Besos!!!!!

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