raining on my spanish parade?

17.10.2008

It’s raining in Barcelona. the raindrops seem heavy and they fall with determination. today, i have only left the house to buy a few groceries at a supermarket on my street. my street, Avinguda Sarria, is full of contradictions. three girly clubs share the length of this city block with a grocery store, a movistar ( the local telephone giants), a filmoteca (that shows only odd, independent, usually foreign films),  Moli Vell (a cute little bakery), a peluqueria (a normally empty barber shop), and i, have the unfortunate pleasure of living next to the veterinary clinic. and while the puppies with their big sad eyes stare longingly at passersby, the scent of the place wafts into our building all the way up the stairs to my front door, so that most of the time, coming or going, it is the first thing to greet my senses.

the hallway to my apartment, gives off a sense that the rest of the building is more pristine than it really is. it is wide, and the floor is white marble leading up to a tiny, antique elevator, made of maple-stained wood that is surrounded by grated black metal. living on the second floor, i often use this mode of transportation, not because i’m lazy, it’s simply that stairs are not the form of exercise i’d choose, if i did choose to work out. (however, i did discover a yoga podcast, called yoga to the people, which keeps me limber and healthy, when i find the motivation).

when we have visitors, they never fail to marvel at the size of our apartment. apparently, i lucked out in the IES apartment lottery, all of us have single rooms,  it seems that many kids in our program have to share their space. we have two bathrooms and a large living/dining room. the floors are parquet, which i didn’t even know was a kind of floor until i moved in here. it is a burnt orangish-reddish brown color, like bricks, and the square tiles cover the entire apartment. my room is street side, so while i have a window that lets in a nice breeze, the street noise often swarms in and pollutes the otherwise peaceful ambiance i’ve created. blaring music from cars, horns, tires squealing and ambulance sirens can be heard at any time, often intruding on my dreams. but i’m becoming more and more accustomed to it.

tonight, we have an 80s power hour planned. oh how i love(d) the 80’s. i will be playing with some of my roommates and friends that probably barely remember the 80’s, regardless, they seem to have an appreciation for that epic time period that almost matches mine. almost.

the rain, though it is trying, is not ruining my weekend, one bit. i see it as an opportunity to relax in the comforts of my apartment and not feel guilty. it is a chance to reflect, to write, to sleep, to reconnect with friends across oceans. i have never resented the rain, growing up in Seattle, it actually has the opposite effect on me. it is familiar, which is something that Barcelona is not. in the midst of all this newness, this constant parade of strange and wonderfully foreign adventures, i welcome the rain.

another night turns to day in Barcelona.

12.10.2008

it’s early morning, and i’m walking down las ramblas, staring up at the crimson sky. it is very surreal, my eyes are transfixed with this emboldened night scene. i look away only to maneuver through the crowds stumbling around me. Pakistani men, of all ages, offer me cervezas, samosas, or roses at almost every step. i’ve grown tired of telling them ‘no gracias,’ all the time, so now, i simply walk past them as if they weren’t there. for many men in Spain, eye contact is an invitation. an invitation to what, i don’t want to stick around long enough to find out.

i’m walking to the nit bus (pronounced neat –boose), which essentially is a bus for drunken people on a budget, as the only forms of transportation available on the weekends here are nit buses or taxis. unfortunately, just to get in a taxi, there is a 4-euro surcharge, and the metro for some strange reason closes at two a.m., just when the night is getting started for most of Barcelona. the choice is obvious, free or not free, so i take the nit bus.

the bus is usually full of debauchery in every language, and often someone is playing their i-phone loud enough to rock us all back to the party we just came from.

i once rode the nit bus for a good two hours, as i was tired and drunk, and missed my stop. when things started becoming less and less familiar, i nudged my friends awake and asked if they knew where we were? and hadn’t we been on the bus for a little bit too long? as we drove onto a highway with signs reading Barcelona and arrows pointing behind us, i laughed defiantly at myself, put my friend in charge of talking to the bus driver and took in my new surroundings.

now, last night, i went to two of my favorite bars: ovisu and traveler’s bar.

ovisu is eclectic, and full of Spanish hipsters. chupitos (shots) of jameson are 2,30 euros, which doesn’t hurt. but the drinks are secondary here, mostly i come to feel a sense of something familiar, something that reminds me of home, while at the same time being completely new and foreign. dreads and ninja pants abound, this place is like a cross between something i’d find in Chicago and Portland. Chicago hipsters meet Portland hippies. (but about these ninja pants; they are reminiscent of hammer pants, for us children of the 80’s, only  the crotch will extend past the knees or all the way to the ankles. if that reference doesn’t ring a bell, then what do you think of when i say ninja pants? yep, that’s it. they are extremely guay (cool ) in Barcelona, and surprisingly, they look good. i don’t know if it is the lack of fat that the entire Spanish population possesses that makes baggy clothes so attractive and stylish, but whatever it is, it’s appealing.)

the walls at ovisu are decorated with murals of blue horses and other nonsensical things. there are benches wrapping along most of the walls, and a communal feeling to many of the tables that only come about two, maybe two and a half feet off the ground. one of the bathrooms has the coolest graffiti on the inside of the door. the music is mostly american, indie rock. the lighting is warm but not too bright. i’ve yet to try the food here, but i can only assume it will not disappoint.

we left ovisu and headed for what has become probably my most frequented bar in Barcelona. though english is the dominant language of this bar, the bartenders hail from all parts of the globe : London, Manchester, England, Croatia, and Austria, to name a few. the name of this bar is quite literal and it really is a meeting point for all kinds of travelers. they serve a meal every night at 8pm for 1euro, and it’s free if you’re a student. what really keeps me coming back here though is the sangria. it is the best sangria in Barcelona i’ve found thus far. it’s strong and delicious and only 2,50 euros, and is usually accompanied with a free shot. it’s a hard deal to resist. i’ve made friends with this british bartender Caitie, and one of the door guys, Daniel, who was born in Croatia. It is my Spanish version of Cheers. they all know my name.

while at travelers, i overheard some british drinking songs, and saw a boy who had had way too much absinthe, and was wearing a tiara with his face painted like a lion. he was actually a friend of a friend of a friend. but i took his presence along with his other dumb, young, and drunken friends as my cue to exit. i waited for my roommate out front for a while and passed the time with Daniel and Sam, the bouncers. they shared some funny stories about some of the intoxicated people who’d passed through here before, and let me act as the bouncer for a while. i practiced my scary bouncer stance, and asked some obviously older gentlemen if they were 18 as they entered. i gave them the thumbs up as they nodded and looked at me a bit baffled.

and then there i was. waiting for the nit bus. taking in the whole night. staring up at the crimson sky. as two asian girls passed me, i overheard them say kanye west, which made me giggle a little, as i could understand nothing else of their foreign tongue, but at the same time felt very connected to them through our common knowledge of american pop culture. as i waited, i stared at the monuments of plaza catalunya, towering over me, i stared at all these strangers around me. feeling grateful.

as i sat at the bus stop, a girl sat down next to me and opened a large book ( at least 500 pages) that consumed her lap, and began reading from the first page. what a strange time i thought, to begin a literary quest of such magnitude. i glanced at the page, the chapter was titled ‘comprometido’, which can mean, engaged, committed, or delicate and awkward depending on the context. it seemed like an interesting enough beginning.

i realized that in my silence, i could have been just as Spanish as she was, that though my thoughts were in English, she did not know this, and i could have been contemplating life in her native tongue, for all she knew or cared.

i smiled to myself, happy with this thought.

330 am, alone and waiting at the nit bus stop, as another night turns to day, in Barcelona.

me and the roomies at ovisu

joanna, lindsey, satcey at ovisu

mikey, me, laura, and matt at ovisu

sweet graffiti at ovisu

ovisu’s back room

looking towards the bar at ovisu

on the nit bus to nowhere

still on the nit bus to nowhere

are we there yet? still on the nitbus to nowhere…

some traveler’s bar wisdom

first impressions.

Two weeks in Barcelona.

Two weeks away from home, without the feeling that this place, this city, is now where I belong. Such a strange feeling, to inhabit the body of a foreigner. I constantly question the intentions of those around me, and mine as well. What do I mean to say? Where is it that I am headed? Why am I here? Of course these questions have answers that are sitting within inches of my face, they are logical and they are instinctive, and yet they are also complicated and inexplicably floating just outside of my reach. But, I am closing in on them, slow and sure. My fingers are grasping at the air that contains them.

In the morning I awake late. I put the kettle of water on the stove. I light the burner with a match; I am not yet alert enough to not burn my finger every time I do this. I fill my single serving stainless steel coffee filter with my deliciously dark roast of coffee, or espresso. I am not sure there is a difference here. I wait for the whistle of the kettle, which sends signals to my brain and body that in five minutes or so we will be jolted to life by my coffee addiction. Here in Barcelona, un café solo, is 1 euro at most places, and I enjoy the experience of sitting at the outdoor cafes and people watching, and pretending I am Spanish, as long as I keep my mouth shut (how would anyone even know?) I do not mind that to sit in the terraza, everything costs 20 or 30 centimos mas. It is worth it to not be suffocated by the cancerous clouds of smoke circulating inside most of these cafes. I eavesdrop, unsuccessfully most of the time. I enjoy sitting by families, often times I can understand los ninos better than the adults. Usually they have more interesting conversations anyway.

I am learning the metro and the bus system here. It is much more efficient than I am used to in Chicago. It is cleaner, faster, and perfect for people watching. Every now and then I find myself unintentionally the center of attention on these rides. The kids in my program, they travel in hordes. They do not seem to care how they are received by the locals, and often hold very loud, very meaningless conversations in English. It can be hard to disassociate from them, and thus I am marked an American tourist. Joder. Slowly, I am meeting the people who are here to learn the language and the culture, and who really mean to become a part of it. As time passes, I suspect I will be spending more time with them, than with tho ones who are here for more of the same, just in a different zip code.

What surprises me  most about Barcelona is the pace. Though it is a huge metropolitan city, everyone lives as if they have all the time in the world to enjoy the finer things in life. The days are longer, you eat often and sometimes for hours at a time, but the portions are smaller (hence, the rarity of spying an obese spaniard). No one ventures out into the night until way past dark, midnight seems to be the norm for getting festivities started, and even then you will show up to a bar and maybe be only one of a few patrons anxious to get the party started. And the party. It is nothing like the states. Here, some of the kids in my program insist on pre-gaming. Getting drunk to get drunk. brilliant. Similar to Jim Gaffigan’s joke about explaining what an appetizer is to a starving person (” it’s the food we eat before we have our food”) would be explaining this phenomenon to a local.  I have found many bars that I like, and some that I love. More on this to come.

Right now, we are in the midst of one the biggest holidays in Barcelona, La Merce. I have danced under fire, seen some cool bands, and have drank sangria in the streets. Again, more on this later. Right now I am using this new blog as an excuse not to do my homework.

chupitos en fuego!

my new weakness : Gelatto

Ovella Negra, una barra super guay! (cool)

stilts walker en el barrio Born

la sagrada familia

me at the gaudi museum.