Vivo en Barcelona

Before I launch into touristy visits, the sights and sounds of a fascinating and foreign place let me once more revisit my daily existence in Barcelona. I do so in retrospect and already with sentimental reflection. I am writing this on the train from Valencia to Seville. I actually left Barcelona on Friday, it is now Monday… anyway.

MY LIVING
In the house
Well in one of my early blogs I described my then household…life did move on a little but as I re-immersed myself into a student lifestyle that had seemed so distant it was inevitable that at times I felt frighteningly ancient and at other times rejuvenated (even juvenile!). I was constantly giving sage advice (oh please, how annoying must that have been for the others) on everything from shopping to washing to heartbreak to budgeting and all things ecologica!. Fucken, who’s da mama?

On the other hand I was the one swearing and telling them to lighten up – they were overly concerned about theft and study! I can proudly say in my short time they were all heard – with greater frequency – to say fuck – or more accurately fock, ferk, fook etc! I even taught the gals when/how to drop the c-bomb... I don't think I taught that one to the last addition to the household, Thomas, a most mature and sweet 18yr old French guy – so committed to his girlfriend that he wouldn’t drink mojitos (it was a personal joke between his girlfriend and him).

This is Thomas NOT getting a mojito on his first night when we went to the Gracia Festival... The bar woman was an awesome dancer when mixing drinks or not!

When 3 of the girls left and were replaced with Thomas the house was less musical but more philosophical. We (Johanna, Thomas and I) had long political/philosophical discussions in English (putting me at a clear advantage) peppered with inept – well for me - Espanol.

Cooking was fascinating. As was the kitchen itself. The oven took an hour or so to turn off if/when anyone dared to turn it on! Knives that were as sharp as the chopping board we used them on, no bowls, no zester [ ;)] We had a shelf each in the fridge and very little was shared – though that changed towards the end... hehehe.

Our lives took on a rhythm of sorts between classes and meals and siestas – the need for young people to sleep heaps and heaps is fucking well international!





The Mercado
Going to the mercado was a great source of pleasure. I could watch the daily life of those around me. Discover foods I’d never had before – these odd “squashed” peaches, strange oblong clams - naranjos? (bundled in the middle of the fourth pic), delight in the variety of ready made meals at the deli.
At my favourite “deli” – not sure what they refer to them as in Spain – I bought paella, pollo (chicken)- cooked many ways, espinac – a traditional Catalonian dish of spinach pinenuts and raisins, tripe (!), croquettas, baccalo ensalada, many other varieties of salad, gazpacho, nuts, dried fruit… it was essentially my one-stop-shop… fuck the supermarket next door!

Not that everything was delicious or aesthetically charming... I was quite confronted when I unwrapped the chicken I'd bought and discovered the head still attached. If you're willing to eat em, as I've said before, you've gotta be willing to look em in the eye - dead or alive!

Most importantly, however, it gave me real moments of human interaction unmediated by the capacity of others to speak English (the default language at home) – barely anyone spoke English here. In reflection it is here that I can track some real progress in my language learning – at the beginning it was all mime and pointing… it became short inept sentences. At all times the interactions were peppered with humour and good will. On my last day, getting supplies for the train trip to Valencia (can I recommend gazpacho that you freeze the night before and take with you… and jamon, tomates y queso boccadillos y fruta) I was able to go to three stalls talk and laugh and have NO ENGLISH exchanged, be understood and get what I needed. I was able to tell people where I was from and what I did, where I was going and what I’d done in Barcelona. Clumsily, no doubt, but effectively.


I was touched when the women at the deli I went to most regularly all stopped serving customers and came to say good-bye. Here is a picture I took of them moments before they said goodbye.

Outside the mercat were signs of a less affluent Barcelona – as is the case everywhere. But I don’t want to leave a falsely idyllic image… I’ll give you the realest I can.


OLE & MY LEARNING
OK so one of my few regrets is forgetting to take any photos of school and the people there. The experience for me oscillated from one of diabolical frustration and self-effacement to moments of victory and … again… mucho humour! It also became the source of friendship and daily ritual. I’ll talk about that in another blog I guess.
I had morning classes which was good, though despite living across the road (literally) I often ran in late.
An error was made and I was put into a class that was not at the beginning – which meant the vocabulary that was assumed … I still don’t have (eg colors) … it also meant I felt like I was drowning from the very first.
Initially I told myself that it was the speed at which they were talking that made it muy difficil, then I told myself it was a good challenge. Esentially ego and pride prevented me doing what I should have… asking to be moved to a lower level. Every other day I “got it”. But the next day “it” evaporated. The pace of the course was very intense – there was never revision or even revisiting previous stuff. Each week new people arrived. Most had been to Spain many times, many had done a year or two of Spanish at high school in their respective countries, all of them had several languages under their belt. Yikes.

But please don’t imagine a quiet demur Lisa (anyone ever seen her?). It was a have-a-crack, fuck-it-up approach I had. I was also often thwarted by my own ambition – when I should have been repeating learnt phrases I was trying to embellish and describe using my really fucked dictionary (eg the word for “gentlemen” which I can’t remember now, was defined as burro, donkey… errors like this caused me much confusion and the class much amusement when I read out my works of Spanish literature in class!) I performed and essentially was saved by my exuberant nature, self-effacing humour and a basic capacity to recognise and predict patterns in language - which is distinctly different from learning how to use and understand language for meaning. I was the quintessential “class clown”
The thing that irritated me somewhat was that the other class "dunce" was also Australian - nice enough but, well, it was pretty clear we were very different. We had heated discussions in Spanglish for the class as he described AFL as a game for poofs – and I called him a homophobic bigot (by adding o to those words ;). I suspect our teacher may have been gay but my compatriot was oblivious. He talked about Tasmania being full of incestuous two-headed freaks (sigh). he had the broadest Australian accent aaaayyyy and pretty much managed to get each class back to how a me mi gustan cerbeza (he loved beer).
HEY A FEW DAYS AFTER I WROTE THIS SOMEONE FACEBOOKED THIS PIC Valerio, Ale and Paola.

But I had a gentle, kind and patient teacher, Ale (alejandro) – (everyone sing along with my companeros de piso and Lady Gaga…. ale, ale - jandro, ale ale - jandro, alejandro, alejandro etc ) who appreciated my humour (or at least pretended to). When I didn’t get something he’d ask everyone else in the class and then get back to me... by which time I sometimes had some idea what was happening. After a week and a half of every other word I said being “Fuck” he taught me how to say it in Espanola – joder! When there were obscure phrases I wanted to learn he happily taught them to me (eg about being a tourist - I feel like a sheep being herded... can't find my Spanish notes to share with you right now... but I will.) He was indulgently amused at my frustration with the muy muy sexist nature of the Spanish language.

In the end I sat the exam – unfortunately tengo fiebre y estoy muy enfermo (I had a fever and was very sick) but determined to finish. I reckon I probably did better than the other Australian guy (who had to puke during the exam after a big night out!), did far worse than everyone else but better than I could have imagined.
I have ended my time in Barcelona with en poco vocabularia y muy mala grammatica but none the less an uncanny capacity to communicate! I was proud to give Ale a scrawled note on a serviette – not sure how much sense it made – but it included reference to hablamos en Ingles “an manzana por la professoro” with a bottle of manzana liquor – I mean what teacher really wants a real apple!