bye-bye Barcelona!

Ok it is sunny again here at the chateau, now a rare thing as autumn sets in with cloud and mist and wind with mere glimpses of sun. Today however a gentle blue sky and sun on my face inspires memories and I am given a moment to recall. But this is a quickie, a last fleeting flit through Barcelona – meeting up with good people and getting ready to head to Paris. Just one day… and my notes are gone so… relying on my terribly holey memory!

Arrived and committed a heinous crime… headed straight to McDonalds. Not cos I wanted a burger or fries but because I needed internet – how else could a scraggly bunch of travellers catch up?

It’s funny really; I had always given Emre a hard time for eating Maccas and frozen food when in Spain… I mean really? What a fucken hypocrite I ordered a third of my default Maccas order (you know the order you ALWAYS had when you were a kid… mine used to be a Big Mac, chocolate thickshake and fries – now even writing it makes me wanna barf) – So fries and warm water it was, as I got online and confirmed a meeting spot with Hanna and Jan… 9with help from mobile phones too) they in turn told others. I first headed to Jan’s flat for a catch up and a mini cd download sess and a pit-stop.

We headed to said park to meet others near Barcelona’s Arc de Triumph (a prelude for all things French?)

I met the guy who had moved in after me as well and a few others. (Holy shit two auburn coloured squirrels skittered past me at the chateau - soooo cute!). We wandered around the park enjoying sunlight (some nursing hangovers!) sitting, watching others frolic.

We laughed at the OTT gold-gilt water features, but let’s face it, it's these garish touches that mark a place as special, as a space to laugh in!

This boy was so intent on the pond that he stayed in this possie for well over 15 minutes… Holiday lifestyles eh?

Eventually we kept wandering through the park where the others (not me!) had a crack – and failed – at this popular “sport”/activity. Essentially elastic is strung up between trees and the aim is to balance across – eventually doing fancy stuff. The people who had it set up were great and they kindly indulged a pack of tourists (us) who wanted a go too.

Time for a drink at an outside bar. Very touristy but let’s face it we were marking time, til I had to gather my things and head for a train - all of us reminscing our time in Barcelona, some of us starting to turn our minds to our next stop. The company was pleasant but the food I ordered was not - some fish salad thing. I barely touched it. Unusual given I knew I had a 14hr overnight train trip coming up.

Anywhoo I said good-bye to the others, jealously, and headed to Jan’s apartment to pick up my luggage and chuff-chuff off.

Now I must say Jan has proven himself a bit of a hero - twice… first with the Lemsip (a few entries ago) and secondly by storing my stuff for 2 weeks while I flitted around Spain. No biggie you say? Well you try to haul my erm rather heavy luggage up and down 3 flights of these rickety stairs!

He also kindly waited as I (in full panicked traveller mode – where’s my ticket, where’s my passport, where’s some water, where’s my ticket, where’s my passport… you get it, right?) paced and fanned myself. The train arrives – goodbye Jan, goodbye Spain – stampede. OH FUCK.

TRAIN_TRIP FROM HELL!

Suitcase handle breaks as I lug my case onto the train – drag it (picture huge fuck-off case and me with small backpack sidling my way through =narrow passages) to compartment… are you FUCKING kidding me – no luggage storage and a full compartment. The bed I’d booked specifically at the bottom has magicked itself to be a top bunk.

By now I’m flustered and crying – I had booked and paid for a first class sleeper THIS squishy closet with 3 other women was NOT what I was anticipating. I spoke to the train attendant about the luggage ticker I'd been given for luggage storage - she laughed, no such thing! And the bunk thing? a shrug of the shoulders - last day of the holidays - no spare bunks, tough luck. I was going to deck the bitch but I was so flustered and upset I ddn't have the energy. Turns out there are 3 levels of first class – this was the lowest.

The women in my cabin (kindly – if grumpily) help me get luggage in and try to pretend it didn’t worry them. Another even MORE kindly swapped beds – no-one spoke more than two words of English… or Spanish – they were French.

At 9:45 the train inspector came in and lowered all the beds, overhead lights out – bed time… my light didn’t work I was getting leg cramp, had my period, the little bit I had eaten at the bar was not agreeing with me and our cabin door didn’t snib properly and it kept slamming on the edge of my bed near my head randomly through the night. NOT HAPPY! Certainly not the romanticised idealised indulgent European train ride I had fantasized about... or paid for. It was one fucking long, sleep deprived train trip from hell … but it did eventually land me in Paris.

... but that’s next entry folks!

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!