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!

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!)

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!

Getting around and getting by

Ok so, so much to say but so busy doing things that I have no time to talk about it. Tonight public transport .... Mañana por la noche voy a tratar de escribir más sobre algunos de los lugares turísticos (thanks Google translate! J)

In Melbourne I am the queen of public transport – it has prepared me well for travel mucho transporto publica internationale. Mi casa es muy cerca de metro staciones - cuatro. 4 stations within 500 metres in every direction! In fact it is quite an easy walk, 15-20 mins, to town. But back to the metro. Trains arrive within 5 minutes – ALWAYS. Why do I live in the only city this does not seem to be the case? Anyways, having said that, there are issues with getting around in Barcelona.

Going down into a metro station is like voluntarily strolling down the throat of a panting dog – an old Labrador with halitosis. Gusts of hot, fetid air that seem to be deprived of oxygen greet you when you enter any station. Most women carry fans … the men just stand close to them and/or sweat!

When changing lines at some stations – like Passeig de Gracia – involves plumbing the depths of the earth and trekking an endless tunnel. Everyone sweats, everyone has a mild creeping anxiety – is there enough air – and everyone walks more quickly as a result. For fucks sake how do those who experience claustrophobia cope? These photos were taken approx in the middle facing each direction.

Also the ever-present issue of theft. I once witnessed a pick-pocketing event but it happened so fast ... and then 2 of the girls I live with were mugged on their way home from the station. Mugged, no, bag snatch yes. But I have only been made aware of theft - never violence and frankly I feel safe. There's more obvious "bait" around for the would-be bag snatcher. Muy muy chicas - blonde, joven y obviously touristes. Besides I'm creful without being paranoid - of course that's not just an issue on P.T

On the upside catching a lot of PT has meant I have seen some astonishing buskers in the same fetid tunnels. I mean how often can you listen to a harp or Andeluvian pipes at Flinders Street?

There are many buses here too – I have had no need to explore the options here but the seem frequent. Not really sure. I do know there’s a night but given the metro runs til midnight during the week and all night Saturdays and til 2am Fridays, Ive only needed to cab it once or twice oh that reminds me…

I am quite likely to die in Barcelona – certainly I feel that way each time I get into a cab. The fuckers drive on the wrong side of the road – keep in mind I am occasionally intoxicated when in a cab so I seriously have to stop myself from yelling “stop, you’re on the wrong fucking side of the road!” This effects me indirectly too. I walk on the wrong side of the footpath. I get swamped by a sea of people walking the wrong way, I block the wrong side of the escalator and I might in fact die cos some frustrated Catalunyan wants to push me under a car for getting in their way. For that matter they mightn’t need to push … I frequently have to stop myself from walking in front of cars COS THEY’RE DRIVING ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE FUCKING ROAD!

Anyways I should also mention my attempts to book regional trains on my EURAIL pass. DO NOT BUY EURAIL PASSES – they are expensive and then you have to pay large booking fees for your seat – if there is one cos they restrict the number of available seats on each train… but despite that let me tell you about the booking process. I first went to the regional railway station to get timetable so I could plan my travels around Spain – it took dos horas and cuatro queues… TO GET TIMETABLES!

It was funny though, after standing for half an hour in one queue I could see that the guy who was about to serve me was muy frustrated – totally over it! SO I went up all perky “Beunos dias blah blah blah.” Immediately his eyes lit up and he gesticulated wildly gabbing on… obviously bitching about having to deal with foreigners - blah blah, Japoneses, blah blah Americanos, blah blah Alemanias” before I butted in with “y Australiano.” I shared a small smile before the language barriers shat him again.

When I went back to book my tickets – this Saturday I catch the train to Valencia por dias dos, Seville tres, Madrid tres before catching an overnight to Paris, yeehaa - I had a pretty good idea what would be involved. I went prepared practicing how to say “I have been learning Spanish for 2 weeks and can only speak a little, please speak slowly.” When I got to the front of each queue I’d say my line they’d smile/smirk a lot, nod and be quite kind.

The last place I had to wait used one of those ticket machines… my number was ochenta y seis (86) and they were calling cinco (5). I sat and waited chatted to many travellers – bought some nail polish and painted my nails… then went up and said my line, reserved my tickets and went home pretty fucken pleased with myself! Done.

It was only an hour or so after getting home that I realised what I’d actually said was “tiene aprendiendo Española dos semanas y habla en poco, habo lento por favor" …. You have been learning Spanish for 2 weeks and only speak a little, I will speak slowly!

Hasta manana mi amigo/as

Spanish time – the past (pasado?), present (presente) and future (futuro)

The title probably has little to do with the CONTENT of this blog (well I guess given it isn’t actually written yet… so who can say!). It is a mind play on several levels for myself:

1. I am starting to learn to use (clumsily and amusingly) the different tenses in Espanol – I can now have had a past and have a future
2. … but in reality when you’re in tourist mode it’s the most present you are ever likely to be. The past is somewhat muted and distant and everything else manana, manana (pronounced manyana - means tomorrow)
3. Yet just now I made the alarming realisation that my time in Barcelona is 2/3 over, eeks!
4. Also, in my mind, I am documenting and recounting so, sooo much... but it evaporates before it hits the blog – the tension of time, experience and documenting is ultimately insurmountable – already heady magic moments seem ordinary and cliché while new daily triumphs supercede…

But for now let me take you back into my recent past -

I’ll start with my first outing with Ana – the German girl who moved in when I did… that is if I can find my random iPhone scribbles.
We took a train into Catalunya and just started walking, randomly taking turns down side streets. She was taking pictures of graffiti while I took pictures of people and their dogs and concrete paving.
We eventually chose to sit at one of two outside tables at a small café in a windy (as in curvey not blowy) paved side street. We talked and then fell into comfortable silence while she sketched, drinking her café, and I wrote, drinking my te con leche. –We did this just for a wee while until we started gabbing on again.

ANA-THER EXCURSION
Random wanderings in old streets given ambience by smokers, passionate embraces and a family bickering. We look everywhere, unselfconsciously staring – touristing other people’s lives. On our aimless, gobsmacked mission, we eventually stop.



Sitting at a café we awkwardly attempt to place our meagre order – un café y un te con leche – our accents assault my ears but gift us a smile from the camerero. We sit, we talk, we laugh - we stop. We drink in everything even before our order has arrived.

The sound of the pavements being hosed and the cadence of foreign languages in flight, pour down the sides of balconies an accompaniment to the ivy. I watched a man meticulously hose down the pavement from one end of the small street to the other. It took us at least 20 minutes. I sat in concentrated shock and awe – a drought still too close for me to be comfortable with what I was witnessing.

Wrought iron balustrades failed to imprison distant jazz escaping an unknown balcony … it clashed in triumphant discord with the rumble of mopeds passing and an imagined child practicing piano. Violent colours of haphazardly hung washing became part of the romantic fresco palleted before me.

Where was I? I may never really know.