So I am now back in Portland, OR, and already find myself missing specific bits of Europe. I'll focus on food, because I like it. A) It is now difficult to enjoy dinner before 9 p.m. B) I crave the ability to walk to a neighborhood fruit/veggie market or bakery to pick up delicious but low priced foodstuffs. A week ago I paid 30 eurocents for long English cucumbers, and today, a puny one from Safeway cost me a dollar! This whole semester I thought that Europe was incomparably more expensive to life in the U.S., but between the gas I must use to drive to these stores, and the inflated price of fresh produce here, I am beginning to re-assess expenses in certain areas. (I cannot help but mention, of course, the many secondary costs of the U.S. food system.)

I don't want to give the U.S. an undeserved hard time. A reasonably priced meal is easier to find here than most anywhere I traveled in April and May. After my program in Barcelona ended in late April, I worked my way through France, Belgium, and Germany with a friend of mine from my Spanish university and through the Greek islands with some U.C. kids. Because our budgets allotted us approximately 3 decent meals over 3 weeks, apples, cheese, bread, and late-night kebabs were the staples of the first part of the journey, and cucumbers, tomatoes, and canned tuna, the second. We wisely decided to spend the rest of our money on transportation to the most amazing places I have ever been!

Fragmented memories of each location follow, beginning in France

-Nice: Beautiful Mediterranean coastline. Huge market between the center of the city and the beach overflowing with colorful flowers, fruits, jellies, vegetables, and breads. Tiny streets with lots of white clothing. Authentic Nicoise salads and Italian-like pizzas and focaccias. A hostel with two toilets total and no sinks in the bathroom.


-Monaco: An afternoon trip from Nice. Second smallest country in the world after Vatican City and, in my book, the most boring. Should I have the misfortune of living there, I would probably drive my new Jaguar XF off my seventh floor, with-a-view balcony into the yacht-filled ocean to end my suffering. Saw a changing of the guard in front of the palace--also boring. Good views, though, and neat buildings. Probably more luxury car stores per square mile than any other city/country/principality/whatever it is, but don't quote me on that.

*Traversed Marseille for 2 hours with 35+ lb. backpacks while waiting for train to Lyon. Even in pouring rain, was a verypretty city, with a neat, lively port. It was the first stretch of water not totally geared toward tourists that we had seen.


-Lyon: Amazing bridges. Two rivers run through it (Maclean/Redford reference intended). Enjoyable newer city in between the rivers, gorgeous old city to the east. Rain. Cathedral at the top of the east side offers magnificent views of red slanted roofs. En route to the top, a lush, well-landscaped, impeccably maintained garden, full of wisteria and ivy. Dinner at a restaurant crammed with wooden tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths. Wine in small carafes--beef buillion cube-like soup--white toast covered in roasted peppers, capers, and anchovies. Only cheap bill in France.

-Grenoble: Day trip to a college town in the French Alps. Deep green everywhere. Gorgeous, fog-encased mountains overlooking the Rhone River. Hiked up through castle ruins for 2 hours before it got dark. Broken train to return to Lyon meant a 2 hour bus ride.



-Paris: Birthday in the capital city. Climbed Eiffle Tower before total darkness (thank you, daylight savings time). Met with our relocated Spanish friend, Emily! Went to Lonely Planet-recommended vegetarian restaurant only to find its dishes cost twice what the guidebook said. Thank you, Lonely Planet. Ended up dining in a Middle Eastern cous-couseria obsessed with FC Barcelona (fitting) and Christmas (weird) with great food and horrible wine. The Louvre: overwhelmingly enormous (surprise!).
Tiny stores in the Montmarte district. Best falafel ever. Gross, confusing Metro that ate my tickets. Met a friend of Santi's, who rented the most beautiful student housing I have ever seen. Luxembourg Garden. Legs too tired for the whole Champs Elysees. Incredible Notre Dame cathedral. Beautiful plant-clad buildings. Hostel reviewed in Architectural Digest and NYT, meaning we shared space with snarky, unsatisfied vacationers who do not realize it is still a place for cheap travelers with small rooms and creaky bunk beds.

Just to humor myself:

1. Lisbon was nice. Relaxing--not an overwhelming number of things to do or see. Jessica and I walked along the port in tank tops for 4 hours on Sunday just to reach a famous bakery. The Portuguese are generally very hospitable people. Drinks come in plastic cups so that everyone can leave the small bars and socialize in the streets. They're cheap, too--Portugal's economy was hurting long before the current crisis.

2. My parents came here for 10 days with their friends. We ate tapas--lots of tapas. I am still not convinced they know that other forms of food preparation are alive and well in Barcelona. I learned there are a lot more things to do in Barcelona with a more flexible budget. Speaking of money, my dad chased down a pick pocket and got his wallet back--pretty baller. All in all, it was a lovely trip, although I was not able to spend as much time with them as I would have liked. Also, I discovered several cool restaurants after they left. Bummer.

3. Bolonia plan: My brain is not up to this level of thought right now.

4. Sevilla: We paddle-boated down the river at sunset with cerveza. What more could you ask for? Maybe a huge, beautiful Cathedral, perfect weather, delicious, cheap tapas, and a precious family-run pension. I am quite disappointed I will not have a chance to further explore Southern Spain.

Last thoughts

This morning I ran to the top of a hill that overlooks the city. Our daily AM Spanish class that had prevented me from doing so before now has finished, like the rest of our classes. My life in Barcelona is coming to an end so quickly, so abruptly.

On my way, I passed through narrow streets full of rush hour (9 a.m.) traffic. Commuters rushed to their Vespas holding helmets and tinfoil-wrapped bocadillos. Parents gripped their childrens' hands and walked to nearby schools. Most teenagers strolled to the Metro with their friends, some holding croissants and talking loudly, while a few poor latecomers sprinted past with half-open backpacks. As the only living creature within miles in shorts, a bright T-shirt, and tennis shoes, I received the expected stares and occasional "Guuuappppa" comments.

And then, with one steep turn to the right, I left it all behind and ascended into the morning quiet of the dirt trails outside of Parc Guell. The requisite ten minutes of why-am-I-doing-this-I-am-so-out-of-shape gasping pain to reach the top of my beloved rocky outcrop were, as always, worthwhile. I danced like crazy to GirlTalk as I watched the city come alive, and I realized how much I am going to miss this place.

It is not my home. Nowhere I've been has felt anything like home, and I doubt Europe ever could. That is why I am ready to leave here to explore other cities--to watch how others live, but without lingering so long that I lose my busied excitement and realize how out of sync I am with the pulse of a strange place.

But Barcelona is a special place: Animated with pride for a nation and regulated by a general love for people that transcends demands of time or language. Intolerance exists here too: I have experienced or witnessed displays of racism, sexism, and ethnocentricism here as much, if not more, than in the U.S. But I will remember instead the parents coming to walk their hijos home from school for almuerzo...the two gossiping girls gripping each other in avid conversation...the brusque forn de pa worker who knows his customers by name...the two old women walking arm and arm, blocking my rapid path up the escalator, because, quite frankly, I just don't matter. I think I have learned a lot about human connection here that I missed growing up surrounded by America's proud, rugged individualism.

Hmm.

I will not fail at this!

Things I will write about (once I insure I will actually pass my classes):

1. Lisbon
2. The incredible consumption of food that was my parent's visit
3. The Bolonia plan protests
4. Sevilla

Lists help me.

Things to which I've become accustomed that at first seemed notable:

-People carrying long skinny baguettes at all hours.
-Dog poop sitting in the middle of the street, waiting for my shoes.
-Nothing being open on Sundays. Except maybe the hospital.
-Everything but cafes and restaurants being closed from 2-4 p.m.
-Olive oil (of the delicious variety). Everywhere. Usually with salt.
-Eyes looking at me when I eat shell fish.
-Newspapers that do not hide their (Obama) biases.
-A total distaste for most sarcasm, regardless of intonation. "Es un CHISTE" currently is the important phrase in my vocabulary.
-My ever-loosening grasp on coherent English.
-Indoor smoke.
-The popularity of low rider bicycles. My friend remarked that finding a good road bike is more difficult than finding "the ones with the tiny wheels." (Image coming when I have completed my midterm.)

Human tetris pieces, ninjas, angels, devils, chickens, Spidermen, draq queens, and whorish nuns have filled Barcelona's subways, streets, bars, clubs and beaches the past few days. Por supuesto--es Carnaval! If I'd begun to take this city for granted, this weekend kicked my sensory system into an overdrive that promptly reminded me.

The six day festival of decadence that precedes Lent seems to me fitting for a region with few practicing Catholics but a rich religious history. Food, alchool, and dancing are kings in anticipation of 40 days of restriction. On Friday my friends and I went to Sitges, a beach town 40 minutes from the city center famous for its Carnaval revelry. Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday--especially Tuesday--are the most notorious days in Sitges, but even on Friday the streets were full until the first train went back to Barca at 4:48 a.m. (I am sure of this time because by about 4 a.m. no amount of dancing would keep my sockless feet from freezing in th 7 degree C weather. Yes, I occasionally lack street smarts. And no, a longer 40 minutes I have not passed in a while.)

This is what happens when you instigate feather mask headbutt wars. (The mask had feathers all across the top when I purchased it.)

Two weeks prior, my former roommate Alyssa, who is studying in Rome, visited me. She is just as amazing as I remember. I spent a lot of time with her friend, Brittany, and in total we were the only triplet of curly blondes I've seen in Barcelona. In hosting her and, later, Brett, I have learned a lot of interesting facts about Barcelona (read: Gaudi). Too bad forgetting is inevitable.

No one is allowed to request postcards now. Alyssa has it covered. (On the roof of Casa Batllo.)

Also, I went to Madrid last weekend. Now, I've experienced some strange weather patterns in Oregon--24 degree temperature shifts in 24 hours, for example, or heavy snow immediately followed by torrential rainfall. But nothing beats Madrid's weather last weekend. I toured the city comfortably in a long sleeved T-shirt less than one week after snow had covered the streets. It's pretty sweet when bipolarity works in your favor.

I really enjoyed Madrid. I saw Guernica in person, a dream I've had since high school. Unfortunately, this naive dream also involved me standing solitary in front of the artwork, when the reality of the Museo de Reina Sofia on a Sunday afternoon situated me among a pack of about 50 onlookers.

What a hard life, no?

Sorry for the lack of updates; I know you all (five or so) have anxiously awaited updates on my life. It is so exciting at times even I can't stand it--like today, when I spent a grand total of 8 hours in subways, buses, and an airport to go...nowhere. RyanAir canceled my flight to Shannon, Ireland, an hour after it was supposed to depart. A frazzled service agent offered me another flight 10 hours later, but I declined after calculating that would mean more hours spent traveling than with my incredible friend Erin. Instead I requested a full refund, which she gave me along with a corresponding receipt. Then, when I opened my email inbox after the 1.75 hour bus and metro ride home from the airport, I read that I would only be credited one third of that amount. Some poor soul at RyanAir will have the pleasure of reading a rather unhappy message from, and no one at RyanAir will have the pleasure of seeing my discontented face ever again, if I can help it.

What almost went down at the cashier's desk. AP photo.

But really, as I discussed with the amazing Stephanie M Lee, who is also trying to keep an updated online account of her life in Europe, the term "travel blog" has some internal tension: if one is actually traveling, one cannot blog all that much. Kind of like, if you're trying to inhabit another culture, documenting every experience with a camera is difficult; although, a Universitat student told me, many Americans try.

My long post speaks to this point: with travel plans decimated, I am blogging.

Last weekend I spent some time in Montjuic, a beautiful lush mountain rising out of urbanization. At the top are facilities constructed for the 1992 Olympics, but the hike there is far more captivating (at least when no world-class athletes around). On our way down we went to Fundacio Miro, the beautiful museum that houses much of Joan Miro's work. Watching the painter's perspective change internally and spurred by external factors was fascinating, from his take on the dominant aesthetics, human beings, and the Spanish Civil War and WWII--realities gruesome to the point of unreality. All this even though I was incredibly hungry: no mean feat, Miro.

Also, at some point I went to see a Flamenco show. Ten minutes in, the (main) female dancer hurt her knee and didn't perform again. The man was amazingly talented and worked very hard to make up for the loss--he was dripping sweat--but alas, I imagine Flamenco in Sevilla is slightly different.

And just because the beginning of my post was so bitter...

I like to watch the city and the sea unfold from the top of Parc Guell, or this jardin by my home--it's absoluteley incredible. And when I do, I always remember the views of Berkeley from Grizzly Peak, the Rose Garden, Indian Rock, or the lookout point on the firetrails behind the football stadium. And I remember that despite the rich experience I'm having here, my heart still lies with the people of Noregon.


Next: my planned petition to Governors Schwarzenneger and Kulongoski to annex Oregon with Northern California, no feds required!

More inauguration ish

I love my school, and the Daily Cal.

Bama Bashes

I hope President Obama (how nice does that sound??) doesn't develop a God complex. That said, He collaborated with other heavenly energies and transcended land and sea to make this one of my best days so far in Spain.

At 5:15 I arrived at an uber-posh hotel in the tourist region of Barcelona. Two days earlier, I'd purchased a ticket for 15 euro to watch the inauguration on some big screens with a free drink and tapas. Sponsored by the American Consulate, Democrats Abroad, and The American Society of Barcelona and others, there were--SURPRISE!--a lot of Americans. But for the first time since I've been here, that was just perfect. And I did not regret the price--also a rare event. Waving goodbye to George W. Bush would not have been the same in a bar full of Spanish people.

(Above: people watching Obama and dripping in hope)

That does not mean Spaniards were absent from the celebration--my friend's homestay mom excitedly kissed my cheeks after Obama's address, repeating how exciting it all was. Several others whispered in Spanish that they thought Cheney was faking his back ailment. And for the record, Rick Warren's creepy utterance of the name of Obama's daughter, "Sasha" is disturbing in all languages. (See 4:07 in YouTube link.)

Indeed, the coverage of Obama's inauguration in Spanish media has been incredible--and this is coming from someone acutely aware of the immense change in foreign policy this transition (hopefully) will inspire. For the past week, every Spanish newspaper I've seen has had Obama somewhere on its front page, and those I've actually read have several or many more articles inside. I can only imagine the saturation of Obamamania in the U.S. Tangentially, the Spanish media's coverage of events like the war in Gaza is very interesting. I'll post on that later.

So yeah, that was pretty exciting--hearing Obama referred to as President for the first time at 12 p.m. EST. But then things just got better. My friend and I went to a supermarket to buy more minutes for our cell phones, only to hear the teller say that Vodafone, our service provider, is not currently working in the greater Barcelona area. As we walked La Rambla afterward, dejected, the man who'd been in line behind us tapped me on the shoulder. He'd liked my Spanish pronunciation of zero ("th-ero") and we'd struck up a "conversation"--i.e., with him speaking really fast and us nodding at the few words we understood.

Now he was speaking rapidly again, this time saying something to the effect that the teller was a big liar and to follow him. Apparently, some workers, like the teller at the supermarket, just really don't like credit card transactions and will lie to get out of it. And we did follow him, being naive, trusting lambs desperate to resuscitate our means of communication. He brought us to the store front of a rival service provider, telling the employee we needed minutes ASAP to call our home country. Not really true, but whatevs, because she did as he said. Afterward, the man gave us his unopened can of orange juice, which was was the only thing he'd bought from the market.

Either he was an angel or we looked pathetically distraught. Probably a mixture of both.

Afterward, I ate a really good falafel gyro, greek salad, and baklava, so that was cool too.


I'll close this post with the vapors of a song that's occupied a lot of space in my brain today, as I remembered that Bush was never near me, to comfort and cheer me and that he caused most of my sad tears, falling (baby) from my eyes.

Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey-ey goodbye

(Above: another pretty good singer)

Finally, Reverend Joseph Lowery's hope for the world that a time will come:

When black will not be asked to get in back; When brown can stick around, When yellow will be mellow, When the red man can get ahead, man,
White would embrace the right
*last line: and when white will embrace what is right. difficult to color code--perhaps symbolic of some greater structural problems in his classification schema, however catchy it may be?

(un)Important Notes

Hola!

I learned a lot about Barcelona the past few days. Including the following:

-Lungs harden incredibly fast.

-Runners wear dark sweats, long sleeve shirts and are usually male. Bright shorts, blond hair, and breasts are atypical, and elicit concerned/confused stares and comments.

-It is not abnormal to see a 5 year old dressed in flowers and patterned tights walking the streets with a parent at 2 a.m.

-Skype is the best thing ever.

-In Spanish, cucumber is pepino. In Catalan, it is cogombre. And yet I still cannot understand Catalan to save my life.

-If America seems too far away, the 4 square block Starbucks is a great place to drown in English. So too are the clubs near the sea, where any Castellano phrase is greeted with, "Dude, you speak English, right?" But if you really have a craving to speak Spanish at one of these clubs, the 40 year old creepers with poorly disguised male pattern baldness are happy to help you--as long as you are a young female clearly struggling with the language, and with her sobriety.

-Cabs will take you for a ride, always, and not necessarily to where you want to go.

-But the cheap night bus will NEVER take you where you want to go.

-A pay per minute cell phone is extremely liberating.

Today I went on a walking tour of Barcelona's Gothic Quarter. It's the oldest part of the city, established by the Romans a really long time ago. The specific date escapes me, like most everything else the guide said. Honestly, I was a brat during the tour, unable to shut up about how cold I was, and how I must have incipient deafness and blindness, I was having such trouble following the guide's stories and visual references.

[Above: some exemplary Gothic architecture, probably with a meaning that I didn't hear.]

But for at least a few minutes during the tour, the history of the area gripped me. We entered a plaza in the heart of the Quarter, with a small, dry fountain in the center and a school on one edge, out of which kids on recess were maniacally running. Next to the school was a wall suffering conspicuous decay, unlike the rest of the Quarter, which has undergone, or is in the process of, restoration. The guide explained the decay was the remnants of shrapnel from the Spanish Civil War, when massive violence swept through Barcelona, the last holdout against Franco's nationalists, and devastated the Gothic Quarter. This particular wall was left unchanged to commemorate the children who died inside when Nationalist fire destroyed the makeshift orphanage it shielded.

When Franco took control, he attempted to erase Cataluyna, the autonomous community of over 7 million here in North Spain. Speaking in Catalan meant imprisonment or execution, and not until the fascist leader died in the 1970s did Cataluyna truly begin rebuilding itself. The history made me realize why this language, Catalan, and the culture it represents, is so important. I had been nervous to learn Spanish in a region with two official languages, and where most prefer Catalan at that, but now I wouldn't change a thing. A study of the complexity of human nature is unavoidable, particularly how we choose to associate and the fear that can arouse in those on the outside looking in. It really highlights the horrors occurring in the Gaza Strip.

[Above: Catalan government building]

Unfortunately, I could not take a picture of this wall because the minute I began focusing my camera, a little kid ran up to me screaming "No pictures of ninos, no pictures of ninos!" and the guide launched into how photographing children is very illegal in Barcelona. Although I had no intention of photographing the narcissitic demons, I nevertheless left my camera in my bag until we exited the plaza and the penetrating glares of newly attentive parents.

Also, I bought slippers today because hardwood floors get dirty and I'm going through socks way too fast. Here is what 2 euro will get you:

I'm a little distracted right now, but I've realized that if I only post when my attention is entirely and centrally focused, this blog will never happen. Also, after thinking in Spanish all day, writing in English is somewhat difficult, so please bear with me. For the record, the source of my distraction is a movie with incredibly bad dubbing.

[Above: a walkway in Gaudi's Parque Güell]

So...I'm in Barcelona. And I love it. I live in the northern part of the city, on the third floor of an apartment building overlooking a busy street and a really amazing barrio. Granted, the barrio is amazing mostly because I am a foreigner. Truly, its existence is not unique--like every other neighborhood in Barcelona, it is packed with tiendas, farmacias, restaurants, cafes, bars, bar/cafes, cervecerias, etc. etc. I've only been here a week, but in all my walking--and that has covered many, many miles--I have yet to find an area of housing unattached to a barrio. Unlike in the U.S., where surburbs dominate, every home has a "local" everything; even though the residents of Barcelona love to drive, there is no need. You could theoretically never leave your barrio and manage to furnish your apartment, keep a well stocked kitchen, and remain clothed and caffeinated. But if the three mile radius around your home becomes a bit stifling, the public transportation is great. There's a very fast and convenient heavy rail--as long as you catch it before 12 a.m. during the week, which sucks just as much here as it does with the Berkeley BART.

I live with a single woman, Pilar, who is a 48 year old preschool teacher with the energy of someone much younger. She's very patient with my minimal Spanish skills and difficulty understanding the local "s" to "th" accent. (Here's looking at you, Chrithtine.) I really like the schedule here. Big, late lunches and then late dinners at 10 or so turns is really relaxing. There's no rush to finish errands by 7 p.m., and it saves me from needing the second dinner I eat in America. But the going-out schedule will take some getting used to. Bar hopping starts at the earliest around 11 p.m., and going to clubs pretty much doesn't happen before 2 a.m. Last night I came home around 5:30 a.m and am still recovering. For those of you feeling disappointed you won't be able to make fun of my lack-of-party-animalness, rest assured that I would still be better off home at 2 or 3 a.m; after all, I wouldn't want to remove such a ripe source of fun for you.

Interesting notes: everything is expensive here because the Spanish economy is hurting too, and of course because the dollar sucks, but wine is cheap. Yesterday I went to a calcotada, where you peel and eat long and super thick onions, along with--at least for our group--an incredible quantity of accompanying foodstuffs. Even though nearly everyone here does speak Catalan with each other, if they hear you are a stupid American struggling just to speak and understand Spanish, let alone another language, they switch to Castellano. And just when I thought I was leaving abnormal weather (see: Portland snowpocalypse), Barcelona and the rest of Spain has been experiencing cold and rainy weather since I arrived. In this sense, my luck is regrettably predictable.

But I want to give the most emphasis to how incredibly nice most of the people here are. They are so patient with my lackluster speaking--even though most speak some English, they will put up with the Spanish conversation out of politeness. I feel so at home with the culture. Everything is relational: people greet one another with kisses, gesture at and touch one another while speaking. And coming from someone with an impenetrable personal space bubble in the US, that is saying a lot.

If you are still reading, I applaude you. Come visit me, ya?

-Sam

[Above: Bench in Parque Guell overlooking city. Gaudi made a mold of one of the construction worker's rump and repeated it in the long, winding bench, making it as comfortable as a cold stone seat can be.]