Adios España

Disculpe! Once again I have been remiss in updating the ol’ blog—in fact I am now two countries removed from Spain, both sequentially and geographically. I will write about Prague and Berlin (my current locale) sooner than later, and promise more than a couple more posts in the next week, and even a few photos, I think.

But, for now, here are some reflections on my ten weeks in Barcelona. It’s easily the most elegant city I’ve ever visited, inhabited by sophisticated folk who, at times, party maybe a little too hearty. Las Ramblas, also known as Ciutat Vella (Catala for Old City), are a prime example of this.

Described by my subletter as the “dense warren of streets below l’Eixample” and above the Mediterranean (apt I thought), it’s a fascinating labyrinthine hodgepodge of medieval through 18th century architecture, with narrow, cobbled brick streets and alleys winding every conceivable direction. A smattering of museums, churches and landmarks dot what is otherwise a heavily-touristed gothic urban playground. At odd hours of the night, revelers from the world over indulge on tapas, sangria, paella and single cans of beer sold at every turn by South Asian immigrants for 1 Euro (a much better deal than any of the bars offer).

As I have discovered in too many of my global wanderings, prostitution runs rampant on the streets, in this case mostly African girls, who are as beautiful as they are strong and predatory. Often in my meanderings, one of these lovely ebony women would spot me from a block away and chase me down, grabbing my arm and soliciting me with the sort of sex-service lingo that I can only imagine they learned from sailors on shore duty (as humorous as they are, I will let your imagination run wild on this one). A simple “No,” usually would not suffice, however firmly stated, and the tricky part was extracting myself from their vicelike grips. As powerful as some of these girls are, however, they are not as scary as the brick-built German six-foot blondes Max and I stumbled across last night while searching for an East Berlin dance club. Like I said: everywhere.

I did, however, spend plenty of time in nearby Barceloneta, a small, triangular neighborhood stretching along the town beaches. A short walk and a shorter train ride from my apartment, an afternoon on the sand took over my siesta hour as a retreat from work and the Vegas-like atmosphere of the Ramblas. The Mediterranean, of course, is flat, so my normal interest in the ocean was not met, but on non-crowded days I found no deficit of relaxation.

I should point out to anyone who doesn’t know: I am not your typical tourist. I don’t visit museums for the most part, I don’t stand in line to mill about any famous landmarks, I don’t take walking tours, bus tours or bicycle the streets. In Costa Rica I did not visit a volcano nor hike through a rain forest preserve. My interest is more in seeing the people of a local culture do their thing, to eat what they eat, and to figure out what they do for fun. This may be a boring way to travel—I don’t know—but I have little interest in shopping and less in being photographed in front of places made famous by postcards.

In ten weeks of Spanish living, I fell into a sort of easy routine. On weekdays I would wake up and head down to the local café, where I’d order a coffee and small sandwich on a brioche. There I would sit on the terrace, sipping two or three cups and writing in a notebook—a story, or maybe even a book that hopefully one day will be read (I still like it anyway). I’d then go home to fit in a few hours of work before heading to the beach or taking a walk around different neighborhoods. Then I’d come back to work some more until later in the evening, when I’d go out to a local bar to play pool with my roommate, or seek out a tapas bar, or some small café bar where they had relatively cheap beers and low key music. Occasionally I’d meet up with some fellow expats and discuss anything that might come to mind over beers and wines. For example, it would appear that immigrants from Latin America are considered excessively polite here, using formal requests rather than the familiar demand, “Da me” (gimme).

On Sundays, when my local café was closed, I’d wake up and walk to one of the nearby Gaudi buildings, where cafes would still be open for the tourists, and I could sit and admire the architecture. These will be my lasting images of Barcelona, even when it’s flavors have faded from my memory. Though I never managed Spanish well enough to really assimilate into local culture (and they’re not the friendliest of peoples anyway), I do feel as though I understand a small fraction of the character of the place. For living in a country that has so recently gone through Catholic, fascist and socialist regimes, and whose unity to this day is strained between rival languages and political factions, they seem to set aside their petty human differences and fascinations to behave with a semblance of dignity, perhaps a latent response to the Party Mecca their city has become for the UK and the rest of Europe. And the US, of course. And their own youth on weekends. In the end, I don’t think 99.99% of the Spanish people were terribly sorry to see me leave.