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.]