L’Eixample

After more than a week of negligence, brought about by loads of work and a short surf trip, I am back to finally deliver a treatise on my current neighborhood, l’Eixample (the pronunciation of which I can only begin to explain: the X makes a sort of zh sound, and the whole thing sounds French).

Named for the Catalan word for “Extension,” (Catalá often sounds French), this was a planned expansion of Barcelona’s original, old city (Ciutat Vella), essentially filling the space of Growing Barcelona and the outlying towns of Grácia and Sants (which are now Barcelona neighborhoods).

Conceived by architect Ildefons Cerdá in the mid-19th century (let's call him The Fonz), it’s distinguishable by the fact that the corner of each block is cut diagonally (originally to allow space for a horse-and-carraige to turn around). The resulting, especially wide intersections give each monolithic block a rather imposing stature, as if the perspective makes you think the buildings are bigger than they are (which is pretty big). The full scale of The Fonz's plan was never realized, but you can see what he envisioned in the below illustration, bearing in mind that most of what exists today is found in the lower left half of the rectangle.



Now that I’ve gotten the Wikipedia stuff out of the way….

I mentioned before that my entrance to the neighborhood was heralded by Gaudi’s Casa Batlló, but the truth is there’s a lot of great architecture here, and even several weeks into my stay I often find myself glancing upward when I walk the streets, eyeballing the fine masonry, and marveling at the notion that buildings could be beautiful and functional at the same time (not that strip malls shouldn’t grace the American landscape…).




All of the pictures I’ve taken in l’Eixample were within 2 or 3 blocks of my place, many within a single intersection. It’s difficult to capture in two dimensions.






As it turns out, the location is quite central to all things worth seeing in Barcelona, which is another way of saying I haven’t really made it out of a walkable radius. But, really, why bother? If I don’t want coffee from the place across the street, I can get it across the street from any number of landmark buildings. Also across the street is essentially a permanent farmer’s market, where fresh produce, charcuterie, fresh baked bread, artisanal cheese, fresh seafood and recently butchered meat may be purchased from a number of independent booths. Underneath that is a basement grocery store where all the packaging (including familiar American brands) is written in Catalá as well as Spanish, which I mention because that particular language is pretty much spoken in Barcelona and the surrounding province and few places else in the world.

In fact, the street signs, advertising and assorted storefronts wear Catalá words, consonant combinations like –tg and –bt, borne like blunt instruments against my already stunted comprehension. Fortunately, many signs (and menus and ingredients lists) feature a second line written in Castilian, which is the word exclusively used to refer to what I’ve always known as ‘Spanish.’ I guess if you try to tell a speaker of Catalá that Spanish is not the language he grew up speaking as a native Spaniard, he might take offense.

Because tourism has blossomed since Barcelona hosted the Summer Olympics in 1992, there are also a lot of signs and menus with another, English translation. This, and the continued willingness of the local populace to see through my cunning attempts to cover what remains a slow, stumbling accent, has prevented me from getting too much valuable practice at Castilian, though I have taken to reading the local paper, and even managed to watch a movie that had been dubbed into Spanish. Granted, that movie was the comicbook Greek war flick, 300, so it wasn’t too hard to keep up, even with no subtitles. (Okay, that –bt makes some sense, but what do you to when it looks like this—‘subte?’)

I am approaching the four-week mark in this country, though, and a lot of the local culture and language has settled in. I know now that drip coffee is hard to find, so I betray myself daily by ordering the Café Americano. I understand what I might get when I order a bocadillo, and that my concept of a sandwich includes a bit more than just meat and/or cheese. And I do have some Spanish constantly bouncing around in my head, even when I write or speak in English, so that sometimes I confuse either language when faced with the anxiety of speaking to strangers, as when I bought the tickets to see that movie, requesting “Dos para Tres-Hundred, please.”

l’Eixample is my daily reality now. It’s what I expect to see out my window. Its flavors are what I crave, whether beer, wine, pickled white asparagus or tapas. And when I go to one of the many nearby English or Irish pubs to look for a televised basketball game, I am a little bit disappointed when I’m greeted in a Cockney accent. But, what are you gonna do? Sometimes you just feel like a Guinness.

Mi Piso de Barcelona

Potentially, the hardest part of moving here was going to be finding a furnished, affordable place to live, especially as high speed internet was mandatory. Fortunately, for those who haven't already heard the story, this was made easy due to my good old friend, Roy Dank. Yes, the Co-star Rica Roy.

He put me in touch with Phil, an American expat and music journalist who lives and works from here (it would seem he's better at commitment than I am). Within thirty minutes and eight emails of Roy's initial message, Phil and I ascertained that I needed a place to stay, he was out of town for a few months, and that his roommate, Omar, was cool with the idea of me subletting Phil's room until early June. Voila! As my father remarked, I have a habit of falling in shit and coming up smelling like roses, which I guess would make Roy the shit.

So it was Omar who answered the door for me that soggy Tuesday, welcoming me to the flat. Note: I don't use the term 'flat' in a pretentious I-have-been-to-Europe way. Or maybe I do. Here, it's referred to as a 'piso,' which translates literally to 'floor' (as in floor of a building), aka 'flat.'

As for the actual floor (suelo) of this flat, it's remarkable.



The building, along with all the others in l'Eixample, was constructed in the 19th century (again, more of this later). Apparently, in 19th-century Barcelona, architecture was king (and still is), the preference being high cielings, ornate moulding and, in this case at least, hand-tiled mosaic floors.



Yeah, these pictures are of mosaic; not laminate squares of repeating patterns, but painstakingly laid out pieces of stone tile (see the crakcs between pieces).



Apparently, back in the day, there were enough patient craftsmen to not only puzzle together such decorative flooring, but to lay in different patterns in each room.



The piso is laid out railroad car style, our apartment number being Entresuelo 1a, 'entresuelo' being the word for 'mezzanine.' One long hallway runs the course of the place, with bedrooms, kitchen and bathrooms adjacent, with the front door in the middle. In front, a small balcony overlooks our street, Carrer de Girona (Of the local, not-quite-Spanish language, Catalá. The double-R's rolled and the G making the same sound as the S in measure). In the rear, we have a quite large patio, perfect for barbecuing and being seen by a full city block's worth of neighbors.



Now, with the 15-foot ceilings we get doors tall enough that even Yao Ming could walk through without stooping. The windows are also very tall, allowing maximuum sunlight to enter, and affixed with wooden shutters that, when closed, instill a cave-like darkness (all the better for siesta).

As for the ceilings themselves, they are often as, or more remarkable than, the floors.



Adorned with some seriously detailed cornices, friezes and other architectural pieces I don't even know the name for, these things are pretty amazing to see staring down at you while on the verge of sleep, whatever time of day it might be. Here's what I see when the jetlag overwhelms me at odd hours (much better than the traditional American cottage cheese ceiling).



Essentially, it's a sweet pad, made moreso by how centrally located it is, with two metro lines no more than four blocks away, anywhere I'd really want to go within walking distance and a spectacular grocery store and collaboritive market just across the street. Within fifty meters of my door (dear lord I've gone metric!) there are even bins to recycle batteries, cans, bottles, plastics, mixed papers and a couple of other things I haven't yet translated from Catalá. But enough, I'm stealing content from my next post.

Thanks to Phil for having it so good, and Omar for being gracious, helpful and tolerant of the way I constantly switch between english and spanish, his native tongue. This is definitely not a bad place to keep my feet from getting wet.

After 20 Years of Travel, I Finally Arrive in Spain

When I was 12, each student in my 7th grade social studies class was assigned a European nation on which to write a 3 page report (which seemed like a lot at the time, though I'm sure I'll outdo it in length with this post). Mine, as you might have guessed, was about Spain.

Now, I have a good memory for the names and places and events of my life. 7th grade examples: the teacher, Mr. Cyrus, had a blond mustache and named his newborn first son Bradley, because he wanted "a good, strong, masculine name" for his boy; one day, a friend of mine distributed Pop Rocks candy to the bulk of the class and, at a predetermined time, we all tossed the full packets in our mouths, creating a cacophany of fizzing and cracking sounds, incapacitating said, gentle Mr. Cyrus with rage; the class pet, Alice Pierce (who did not participate in the Pop Rocks gag), would always have an extra pencil to loan me, as I repeatedly would lose my own (this trend would continue in 8th and 9th grade history classes, but it still blew my mind years later when, on my first day of college, in my first class on the Ancient Mediterranean, I turned to the girl next to me to ask for a pen, only to realize it was Alice).

The impossibly long point is: I hardly remember a thing about that paper. Spain had some catholic royalty at some point, had a civil war, and exists on the Iberian Penninsula. Nevertheless, I came away from that week of school with a burning desire to visit the country. In the time since, I have been to Japan, Mexico, Australia, Canada, Costa Rica and, according to some classified government reports, Cambodia.

At last, 20 years later, I made it to Barcelona on a Tuesday morning. After a long walk through the airport, a longer wait at baggage claim, and an excruciating long time trying to report my missing suitcase, I finally boarded a train heading towards my new temporary residence, the excitement of decades beating hard in my chest. At last, sunny, tapas-and-sangria-infused, post-catholic, socialist, siesta-loving Spain was mine to behold.

Too impatient to let the escalator do the work, I climbed the stairs out of the subway station only to be greeted by a cold, hard rain. I hadn't even packed for this in my missing suitcase. Never mind, though, because the first thing I see is celebrated turn-of-the-century architect Antonin Gaudi's Casa Batlló, essentially a tall townhouse he was hired to refurbish. As you can see from my photo, the results are astounding.



In Barcelona the streets have names, though you might not know it to look at them. I'll have photos of my neighborhood, l'Eixample, in a future post. For now, let's just say it took me awhile to get my bearings in the rain, as the massive edifaces filling every city block look remarkably similar to the hasty eye. Eventually, I figured out that the street signs are generally placed on the corners of certain buildings, affixed subtly to the stonework and, after walking a few circles, soaking wet and nevertheless giddy, came across my new pad.

My roommate met me at the door, showed me to my room and set me up with the wireless connection. Not to sound too boring, but I went straight to work. I had the energy and intent to explore, but with several hours and, as it turns out, days of rain yet ahead, I chose to fill the afternoon catching up on some business and corresponence and take a siesta. To be quite honest, despite my conversational experience in Costa Rica and a recent, rigorous study to reenforce my spanish language education, once I was face to face with native Spaniards I found myself a little intimidated, unable to comprehend much or find the words I wanted, leaving me trepidatious about venturing too far into the city.

Fortunately, the rain stopped for awhile in the late evening, giving me a chance to get lost in the streets again, finally discovering how close I am to the center of it all, Las Ramblas, where I at last settled on one of the myriad tapas restaurants for some pork and croquettes. This would prove enough of a first day. After all, I will be here a couple months at least, and it behooves me to pace myself, both in my adventures and with regard to this blog. So that's all for now. ¡Lo Siento!

NYC & London: Brief Intervals b/w Sleep

Leaving San Diego this time proved easier than my past few departures, strictly because I took a redeye rather than flying at some godless early morning hour, and was able to sleep through the entire flight to New York. I wish I could say I spent the next few days soaking up all the classic New York experiences, but aside from a late night run to an all hours Chinatown restaurant (Wo Hop), a mid-evening dining experience at NYC's original pizzaria (Lombardi's) and a short stroll through central park, my priority was catching up with all the great friends I've accrued who currently call the city their home.

That done, I woke up on Monday at one of those godless early morning hours to catch my flight across the Atlantic. I have not been to Europe since my British childhood, and that is only remembered through a five-year-old's height and perspective, so obviously the excitement was nearly unbearable as I took my middle seat between a couple of young Eastern European women and set forth to London's Heathrow airport.

So unbearable that I only slept the first five hours of the seven or eight hour flight. This is an important detail when you consider the time zone change. Whatever the difference, my 8:20am departure resulted in a roughly 9:15pm arrival and, of course, I was well-rested heading into the 11-hour layover my budget ticket bequeathed me.

So, as the crowd deboarded and rushed to the immigration line, I took my time, figured out which terminal I needed to be in, and took a few moments to freshen up in the restroom. I then went to catch the inter-terminal bus, only to find that the last one of the evening had departed. When I asked if I could simply walk there, I was informed that Terminal 1 was several miles away, on the other side of a restricted zone, so, no.

It's at this point I take umbrange with the several people who told me what a great airport Heathrow is, and how a prolonged layover is no problem. Here it was, barely 10pm and the place was shut down. Granted, I was in Terminal 4, which is apparently in some remote area with genetic laboratories and bomb testing grounds, but the same proved true when I finally made it to the more populous Terminal 1.

Now, here's what was supposed to happen: I was to take that bus to terminal 1, where I would remain, sequestered in a secure area, never having technically entered the UK. There I would spend the night with a few other passengers, staring at some ugly carpet in the middle of a locked-up, shut-down, duty-free mall until sometime after 5am, when things would slowly start to come to life.

Here's what really happened when I missed that bus: Informed that I could probably still catch a train to Terminal 1, I was forced to be one of the last few people going through the immigration line, getting a stamp in my passport without any paperwork when a confused and tired employee asked "You're just spending the night here?" I caught a train to the right Terminal where the young, sleepy woman at the security stand infomred me I couldn't get through til the morning, dashing all hopes of staring at the ugly carpet in the darkened mall.

She did give me one sound piece of advice, though. How to catch the N9 night bus back to the airport.

With nothing to do, and free from the beaureucratic purgatory (stamp or not, I'm still not sure I entered the country legally), I hopped on the tube at 11, disembarking at Leicaster Square (pron: Lester, apparently) not long before midnight.

So far as unplanned trips to the center of London go, this one was lovely. I had soup and coffee at a small sandwich shop just off the Picadilly Circus; saw many a brave Londoner suffer bare legs in the bitter cold for the sake of a stylish skirt; grabbed a whisky from a friendly bartender, and gave what may or may not have been a tortured Zimbabwean refugee a pound (one bob, four quid--I'm not sure how their monetary slang works).

The only downer proved to be the 3am night bus. Not because of the bus, which was, of course, a comfy double-decker where I was eventually able to grab a front seat and gain an unobstruted view of the city passing by, marveling at the antiquated architecture while listening to cinematic music on my ipod.

The real problem was those embarrassingly obnoxious Americans. A group of a dozen or so college age midwesterners sat behind me, drunk, loud, and by the sounds of it not particularly bright. Even as one quipped that they were being the stereotypical dumb yankees, their boisterous behaviour continued, earning disdainful glances from the native passengers. I kept my mouth shut and prepared to answer any questions in Spanish.

Clearly, I made it back to the airport with time to spare, was at security when it opened at ol' Terminal 1, and caught my plane safely to Barcelona, where my spanish is only good enough to convict me of being American. But that's another story, for another post. Soon, I promise.