Me encanta la vida nocturna, quiero boogie – I love the nightlife, I wanna boogie…

Or... nights out in Barcelona!

It took me two or three days of being in Barcelona before I was ready to REALLY go out at night… and Ole (the language school I went to) organizes a weekly gathering where everyone meets at a spot in town and then two of the teachers take us to some venue (that the school gets a commission from heheheh) – frankly as a teacher, I hope they get paid a lot… though I suspect not!!

NIGHT ONE
Anyway I was kinda dreading that first night, already feeling somewhat antique at home I thought that going could actually trigger immediate bone calcification and senility. I had a picture 15-20 ex-student-age-gente and I staggering into a bar and crawling home… well it turns out there were at least 40 gente some as old as treinta (30) – I pretty much clung to my housemates… at least for a while.

We went to a theatre/bar called “L’Antic Teatre” it had two terraced areas and an inside bar… given the size of most venues I guess this was one of the few where we’d actually fit! I met a few of the people the gals already knew and then started chatting to Valerio and Paola. But on this night I mainly talked with Valerio who is an Italian language student who was always so generous in helping me with my Spanish… one arvo we did a language exchange… but that’s a whole other story!

Naomi was muy bored – no dancing! The rest of us chatted and I drank mojitos – have I told you how they make them here – the usual sugar, ice, lime and mint but then they free-pour the rum … usually close to half the glass. FUCKING YUM – a little dangerous but…!

Anyway I staggered off to get my second mojito and took a photo of a poster because I thought about coming back to see a show – local arts blah blah blah! The barman tapped me on the shoulder and introduced me to the woman behind me – she was the writer and performer in the show. We had a great chat/flirt and then I looked around and the venue was shutting. Yoikes. Promised I’d come to the show (more about that later). I didn’t join the others who were off to find some dancing but headed home. Really happy with my ability to speak Spanglish … remember I am talking about night 4 or 5 of my time in Barcelona.

It was close to midnight – I jumped on the first metro train that pulled in. Joder – it was the wrong line… got off next stop.. changed trains got off at right stop. Walked in THE DARK ON MY OWN – smiled at those I passed, saw a woman talking in an animated fashion to a tree – guess mental health is an issue here too – got closer and realized her partner was pissing against said tree and was talking back.

NIGHT TWO
I discovered that the Buskers Festival was on so this time it was my turn to drag dos companeros de piso (Naomi and Ana) out to Barcelonetta – the local beach where there would be 10 stages of buskers. When we arrived it was just a bit before dusk… I saw some contemporary interpretive Flamenco but didn’t stay to watch too long cos me companeros de piso were not too interested we headed on.

An awesome salsa band. We tapped feet, gyrated hips and admired the view… when they finished we moved on again.

This time a folky chick duo – their harmonies were great but their sound equipment was shit and so they were almost inaudible unless a kind sea breeze blew their music in your direction.

What I was already really loving was the crowd… todas las edades (all ages), genders, “types” and mucho mucho perros (dogs) J,

We saw several more bands vibrant and interactive, performative and multicultural – AWESOME. I loved watching people dance - I've included the dodgy shot of the couple in yellow cos they were so into the night and so into each other that they opitimized the moment - and the conga line at one performance was a spontaneous bonus.

The last act we “saw” (actually you couldn’t see it, it was too crowded) was a massive drum band. Heart thumping, feet thumping, fire twirling excitement.

I bought last years cd… cos I didn’t have the dinero (cash) on me for this years ;(... can't work out how to upload a soundtrack for ya... yet.

NIGHT THREE
The next Ole night – we headed out into the world with dark ominous clouds looming. When we emerged from the metro at our destination it was pissing with rain … absolutely bucketing! We huddled under restaurant umbrellas… this time there were only 25 or so folk. But some older folk too! Laurie who was in my class – fucken funny French chick who I hope to catch up with when in France, Paco, also from my class, and his wife both Canadians who were great to meet, Daniel, also a lovely guy from my class, who lives in Stockholm. Other notables met – or gotten to know better - on this night were Ian from England and Jan (as in yarn not the chick name) … also from England.

A moment about Jan – he will die when he reads this – when I had previously seen iPhone photos of him hangin out and clubbin with Naomi and Melanie and other young blonde chicas I thought "what a sleaze" – he is younger than me but not thaaaat much ... but on meeting him I discovered a lovely, funny guy with a brain and conscience– thank fuck!

Anywhooo back to the night. We waited for ¾ of an hour and a big no-show from the teachers.. what they’re afraid of a bit of rain? So Ian directed us to a pub he’d liked on another of these nights… “The Manchester”. Pardone, ¿Estamos en España o en Inglaterra? But we went and they played trashy 80’s music – everything from The Smiths, The Cure, The Bangles, The Petshop Boys… felt like I was in a gay bar … or my loungeroom!

frm left: Johanna, Paco, Jan, Jan (again!), The Virgin (see below), Laurie, Paco's wife who's name I've forgotten (sorry!), Naomi, Anna and Melanie

Well I must say I was in fine form flitting about drinking mojitos – for those that read facebook posts this is the night referred to as me being muy comico. The woman who I've labelled The Virgin was actually introduced to me by Laurie (with her French accent) as The Belgian... but that's not what I heard! It was also from this night (I think) that I earned the nick-name "Paula Noche" ie por la noche... keep your eyes peeled for my next performance. I think I’ve mentioned before the free-pour the mojitos and they taste great and… well was mucho fun

The décor in the venue was full of all the accouterments to make it seem English but in a very camp/Spanish way… I loved the record player that was just twirling and twirling without a hint of vinyl!

NIGHT FOUR
Nyaw… we had a farewell night for Melanie and Naomi… the usuals were there Ana, Daniel, Rohn, Ian, Jan and Johannah. We went to tapas, while most people liked it, too much was friedo and potatas and nachos (!) and mal curry(!) The venue was lovely but muy toursitico I mean what tapas bar serves no anchovies!

Then I had a huge debate with Ian – who called me an extremist radical lefty cos I wanted to imagine a world without borders (not saying it’s easy to achieve but an ideal to aspire to). He on the other hand espoused @#$*& - erm other - dogma about “them” – I think especially, but not exclusively Muslim... anything not so "western", “do you want to have to live like them” etc golly can’t bare to repeat it… others got somewhat uncomfortable as I sat calmly continuing to argue but without taking any of the shit that was being espoused. I guess in this sad world I might be “extremist” – nothing like throwing meaningless tags in a pathetic attempt to nullify an actual argument.

Talking of right-wing racist dogma, how is Australian politics going?

Sigh

After the conversation was diffused we headed out and wandered the streets til we staggered into a small bar/dance place where I danced to more daggy eighties and reggae and early nineties stuff some remixes while Ian tried to hit on Ana (don’t do it Ana!). I was intrigued by one of the djs… but that’s all I can say and I really liked the venue it was underground and like a weird little cave – unfortunately after a couple of hours the smokiness got to me and I had to run away.

NIGHT FIVE
I found out there was another music festival – bollards and posters are this gals best friend, I take photos of them then take them home and try to decipher them, then google them then… go! I decided I wanted a night out on my own – some contemporary jazz followed by tapas and then that play – how cultured of me eh?

The venue was amazing. And, I really liked the jazz... it was just an hour long concert but they did some magic with the piano and sax. Some odd breathy playing and actually reaching in and plucking strings of the piano – were moments I remember. Even though it was a formal venue the musicians came out in scruffy t-shirts etc. Some people clearly loved the music, some fell asleep!

Found a little bar tucked away and had a beautiful glass of red – don’t ask me what, I never know. I also had this sensational warm tuna dip thing – rico!

Then I toddled off to see this piece of theatre. Ordered a drink and asked about tickets… only prob the actress had just called in sick and was cancelling the show – joder! Oh well finished my drink wandered the streets and went home… never did get to see the play – wasn’t enough time!

NIGHT SIX


As it happens a local festival was on for my last week in Barcelona – kinda like the Brunswick music festival in that it was in the suburb I’d chose to live in and there was music – but kinda not cos it totally rocked everynight. It was packed ALL the streets had stages every night… it celebrated Catalunyan culture and I was looking forward to it as soon as I heard about it.

I told a few folk and we arranged to meet up. When we emerged from the station the streets were absolutely teeming with people. We found our friend but then waited as they waited for other friends… then we walked half a block to wait to meet some of their friend’s friends - bought a mojito … then we walked two blocks meet some of their friend’s friend’s friends and so on – they primped they posed they flirted… they’re all 20ish. Joder!

We’d been at the festival for 2 hours and skillfully avoided seeing anything. Basically I cracked it and said I was too old to be bothered waiting around for . It was great watching – again all ages mix and have fun, people drink but no-one (local) gets embarrassingly drunk. The streets were decorated, I bought some earrings at a local jewelry makers stall. There was a salsa band on. It was hot, sweaty and really fun. I kept fanning this toddler as we danced. She got a little fixated and when I left she chased me – oops in the big crowd we had to find her mama… we did.

Just as I arrived at the Metro to catch the last train home (1am that night) I ran into the friends I’d arrived with – amazing given the size of the crowd. What was equally amazing was the numbers of people arriving for the festa on the last train. The Spanish don’t get enough sleep… even with a siesta!

NIGHT SEVEN
On my second last night I was pretty crook with a head cold thing – coughing, sneezing and feverish… but determined to go out for tapas and some more festa. It was a smaller crew – Ana, Johanna, Thomas, Emre, Jan and his partner, Hermana. We found a cute tapas place with appropriately aloof management and ordered chatted etc.

What was funny for me was that all of them had FAR superior Spanish yet I was the one who made most of the attempts to communicate … often while they argued about how to say something! Basically don’t give a shit about getting it wrong (which I often do) cos it just leads to laughter and friendlier camereros!

It also led to finding myself face first in the (augmented) breasts of a tranny as we were about to leave the bar. I’m not entirely sure how! We tried to chat... but her very thick Venezuelan accent inhibited me getting her English and by then my Spanish had evaporated … down her cleavage I suspect!

There was mucho mucho lluvia (rain) and we were already late to meet the others at the festa… my mobile wasn’t working and I was truly fading.. feeling not at all well. I decided to cut my losses and head home – the others were undecided but came as far as the metro – we were all absolutely drenched! Then the rain stopped and they walked back to the fiesta. I left the metro and caught a cab deciding I wasn’t up for staying in my drenched clothes and negotiating two train lines. Another great if stilted cab conversation (I’m getting to be a master of those… soon I’ll have to learn the classic line – so is this the beginning or the end of your shift). At last I got home and had a hot hot shower. No pictures of any of it I'm afraid... I musta been outta sorts!

The next day – my last and the day of the exam I was truly unwell (as I was for most of my time in Valencia ... but that’s a whole other entry… sorry!)

ME SIENTO COMO UN BORREGO CONDUCIDOS

I am writing this on the terrace of the hostel I am staying at in Sevilla (a great hostel by the way… Samay) – to the left of me is a group of doce (12) or so travellers all speaking English – American accents dominate though they are clearly outnumbered. Snippets of conversation sharpen into focus… apologistic platitudes regarding “Stateside politics”, how sweaty everyone is and, repeatedly, how difficult it is to find non-touristy places in Europe...

(THIS IS NOT THEIR PIC - but you get the idea) This pack gather, they are drinking muy cervezas, sangrias and have just started on the tequila shots. They are about to be unleashed on Sevilla – they’re off to do a “pub and flamenco tour” where they will drink as many shots and mojitos as they can. I have been beckoned by the two Aussie gals I was chatting to last night. I wince and point to my half-eaten dinner – could they just all hurry up and fuck off already! It’s 11pm.

I don’t bag their drinking – that would be muy hypocritical but for fucks sake they hate the touristiness of Europe and yet they’re doing what they’re doin?

OK, I have now slunk back to my dorm.

Of course, all that’s a perfect segue into the next theme for my blog – “me siento como un Borrego conducidos” or, I feel like a sheep being herded!... the inevitabilities of being a tourist.

The experience of being a tourist is immediately conflicted – on the one hand you want to pioneer (a colonising urge?) to experience something unique, you also want to experience something authentic but you don’t want to miss out on all a place is famous for. Of course, inevitably, all three will/do happen – you can ONLY experience anything uniquely, there is something authentic in every interaction… even in recognising the shallow frivolity… and why avoid the things that are popular because (usually) they are in some way impressive.

We arrive with a to-do list more pressing and more daunting than the ones we have at home... but like the one I have at home I never expect to actually complete it!

BACK TO BARCELONA BABY!

Here are the muy touristico things I did in Barcelona

I went to the Picasso museum – Melanie and I headed off on our cultural adventure… we wandered around and couldn’t find it… did find a great jewellery shop – Melanie went back and purchased matching rings for her sisters (nyaw!). We found a craft market and I bought a trashy ring and choker…. Eventually we found the museo - the most visited museum in Barcelona.

Proof it is muy touristic is this embarrassing interaction with a street performer – don’t wear hot pink – you look like a beckon and the come-a-runnin. sigh.

After queuing for ages we got to the front of the line to discover our museum pass would have let us through without waiting! If you go to Barcelona and are into galleries etc DO buy the pass even if only to avoid queuing!

I was a little disappointed by the museo itself - this is where I first felt me siento como un Borrego conducidos. There was a strict path and it was hard to deviate, too crowded and rushed and frankly his early work, while remarkably and technically impressive, fails to move me. A bit like Shakespeare I guess. Just call me a philistine. In addition there was this nauseating and loud father and daughter duo who really fucked me off – she was desperate to impress him – he lectured knowledgably about art styles and techniques. She kept trying to impress him but missed the mark – hardly surprising she was about 6 – he was a total tool.

We then went for a cuppa that I was far more impressed with – in a really cute cafe. But what’s wrong with this picture? People are smoking – was still taken aback by that in an eating establishment… more impressed with the very cute tea pot and fresh tea… and Melanie’s company of course!

I went to the Casa Batillo – Gaudi and stood outside after my previous being herded experience I didn’t wanna pay $30 for the privilege! (go on, say it, philistine!) It is beautiful on the outside and has the best – and I’m an expert – paving outside… but, really? It was fun watching others watching!

I went to Sagrada Familia and didn’t even do that much. Impressive as it was, everyone I spoke to said it’s disappointing inside because at the moment the ongoing construction really limits what you can see – besides it was a Sunday and muy muy gente were cramming in - baaa.

I went to La Pedrera – Gaudi museo y edificio. Here I was very conflicted – his work is amazing – its organic genius is... spectacular. But I was a sheep – I listened to the audio and did learn (I didn’t know he designed furniture for example) and gain greater appreciation BUT I feel like you can’t get truly transported by what you are seeing while everything is labelled, you are surrounded by hoards and cordoned off.

I just wanted to stroke the curves of his buildings and sit on the steps of the roof terrace and watch. I did do both – briefly…

Of course I sound downright misanthropic and I'm not - I loved watching families interact - kids hide or, alternately look bored and resentful, people looking as disorientated as I was at times...

I seem to be able to either contemplate people or art - not both.

I went to see some flamenco. If I'm honest I kinda went cos the others in the piso were going... I'd like to see some authentic flamenco but not enough to actually chase it... if it happens it happens was my attitude. Well this is what happened we went to the MOST touristico possible - in Placa Real in a venue that has 3 shows a night - but hey I really liked it. I know there'd be better but I'm hardly an officionado on the art form I just love it's attitude and the music is powerful (when the speakers aren't screeching feedback... but that ade it more real) - the dramatics the hard thumping fucking sexuality and rhythm - the gentle and unually dissonant timbre of the vocals... all in all a great night with great people. It was one of those moments however where I didn't want to see the whole show through the lens of a camera - another danger a tourist constantly confronts... the tension between capturing and experiencing!

I am going to stop for now but there'll be more coming in the next few hours - I hope... some touristico pero no todo

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!