Deu, Guapo!

SANY0566
Originally uploaded by sarahkatina

So, I've dropped the blog ball in the chaos of the past while, but I'm picking it back up. Thus begins a stream of catch-up entries.

A little more about Barcelona before I lose my memories of those mild, sunny days to the bitter Northern European winds.

Anyone who knows me knows how easily I get emotionally tied to places and spaces - either immediately, or begrudgingly. Being in Barcelona was an instant arrow to the heart, probably exacerbated by the fact that Andrew is a kindred spirit in this sense - we are always waxing poetic about our home cities, and other cities. He fell in love with Barcelona, and it follows that wandering with such a smitten guide I would fall under its spell as well.

Since I started this journey, I've talked to a lot of people who don't like Barcelona or have heard bad things about it - people who think it's dirty and vice-driven, people who hate Catalan, people who are overwhelmed by the nightlife.

All of these complaints have their places. Remember, those of you who were with me then, how I got coated in a thin layer of grime when we were in Montreal? That happened in Barcelona too, and without sunscreen to blame. It took at least four days after I left and three scrub-intensive showers to return to my normal shade of not-grey. I think maybe that's why so many people wear black there (besides the fact that it's incredibly stylish). I also felt totally at a loss not speaking any Spanish or Catalan, and like an idiot for relying on Andrew to act as interlocutor between me and the man in the falafel shop, me and the man at the bus station, me and anyone else. I don't do well with that kind of dependency.

And as for the nightlife, well, it's something else. This photo was taken on Las Ramblas at around 2:30 am - Catalunyans go out late (midnight) and come home late (or early in the morning, depending on how you'd rather think about it). There are tiny stylish bars everywhere you wander, especially in the Barri Gothica. Walking down Las Ramblas at night you have to dodge crowds of merrymakers, prostitutes who will grab your genitalia if you're a man alone or with other men (Andrew and Ben didn't get hassled when I was walking with them, but do usually), and, about every fifty feet, a man selling 1 euro street beer and whatever else he has - they mutter as you walk past, "cervesa-hash-coke?" It's not a city for the easily shocked.

That said, I loved all of it - there is so much of the human comedy to observe every way you spin. Visiting, and, I imagine, living there, is something like constantly being in the midst of a "choose-your-own-ending" novel. This is one of the most undeniably alive places I've ever been to, New York and Chicago and Austin during SXSW being the only cities that even come close in terms of their respective heart-rates.

How could you not love a city where there is something beautiful to look at everywhere you turn? Tiny parks, dazzling mosaic Modernist fish, the man with the accordion in the corner of the Metro, the mountain to your back and the sea to your front, the crumbling castle that you drink under in the Barri Gothica, the fashion-plate black-leather black-sunglasses dark-haired punky women and dreadlocked men who will surely be aloof and pushing past you on the street, lying on the grass with a guitar and a book and a bottle of beer in the Parc de la Ciutadella, stumbling home singing songs in the Metro. In Barcelona, there is art (in the broadest, most inclusive, most abstract sense of the word) everywhere and anywhere you seek to find it - I've never gotten such a rush from the aesthetic of a place before. I wonder if people who live there feel like they need to step up their look a notch in order to match their gorgeous surroundings? I felt like that, while I was there. Although apparently people on the subway were talking about me and "how British people dress," so I wasn't up to the challenge. In transit, I often play the game of who-would-I-like-to-know, who-can-I-imagine-in-my-life - in Barcelona, 85% of the people I saw fit this bill.

I got called "guapa" by a sweet old Jehovah's witness who cornered me in a park and tried to convert me through and despite the language barrier. I could understand her but couldn't answer back. I found myself trying to speak French.

She asked me where I was from - "Je suis de New York." "Do you know Brooklyn?" "Oui, oui." "Our big church is there - have you seen it?" "Oui." Maybe it's because they're romance languages, maybe it's because the part of me that is "Other," foreigner, struggler, idiot, lost, is by default French. A friend walking a dog approached her and asked what she was doing. "I'm trying to tell her about Jehovah." "She doesn't understand much, though." "No, no, she doesn't understand much, but Jehovah loves us all. Here, I'll walk with you.It's a beautiful afternoon." "Gracia, guapa." "Guapa" or "guapo" translates to something akin to "hot stuff," but here it's friendly, not an innuendo.

In Barcelona, you can order something called "spaghetti" that is actually noodles, doner meat, and hot sauce at the "American Snack Bar" (run by Pakistanis). In Barcelona, you can climb an escalator in broad daylight. In Barcelona, you can take a cable car above the harbor and up the mountain USING YOUR METROCARD. I could go on and on and on, but I won't, because we've got other fish to fry - suffice it to say, I'll be back, I hope for much longer, I hope with some Spanish under my belt, I hope with some more money in my pocket.