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.