I was in Vondelpark to see Twelve Angry Men at the Filmmuseum for one of my classes. The Filmmuseum is this beautiful old building with a huge collection of old movies that they play in rotation - right now they are also playing Adam's Rib, and I don't know what else. You have to wander through the park for awhile to get there, including a circle of highly accomplished rollerbladers doing tricks and blasting reggae, and then (if it is a beautiful day like it was today, and maybe even if it is not) you see this old marble structure covered in people sitting and laughing and eating and drinking and smoking and talking. I gave myself an extra hour to get there because I was taking a new tram route (this is why I am chronically early, in case anyone was wondering), and so I had a solid forty minutes of sitting and writing in the park and watching all the Amsterdammers playing in the sun before I headed to the movie. At some point this group of young Dutch people walked past me with a soccer ball and this girl was looking at me intently and smiling, and then I looked over my shoulder and noticed this guy crouching there reading what I was writing! And I looked pretty shocked, I bet, and he flashed a big smile at me and gave a thumbs up and said "Good!" and then he ran away. Bullshit, Dutch people aren't friendly. He was lying to me, though, what I was writing wasn't good at all. It was no more and no less than a ramble about what I was seeing, which was mostly bikes and dogs.
The morning I spent in the ultra-modern, ultra-hip Bibliotheek (the new public library) on Oosterdokskade, writing a reflection about "crossing the first threshold" on my "hero's journey" as a study abroad student, eating chic cafe food in the chic rooftop cafe with Hallie and Christy, tricking the cashier into thinking I spoke Dutch (this is the first success I have had in such a venture) and failing to access the wireless. In theory, I am sort of opposed to hypermodern minimalist libraries (mostly just because I associate age and wood and dust with books). In reality, I would like to live in (this) one. Check it out at http://www.oba.nl.
10 February 2008
09 February 2008
Bird Attack
Whitney came to visit and we walked everywhere - home from school, down to Leidseplein (a popular nightlife area in the south center of the city), back from Leidseplein, to Waterlooplein (a flea market where I bought some really cool, really comfortable boots that I can wear everywhere!), to the Bloemenmarket (flower market), to the UvA library, to the Red Light District, through the Jordaan (where we hung out by the Homo Monument and got Indonesian 2 Go, and where I had the best milkshake of my life in a coffeeshop). I have eaten more sprinkles/butter/chocolate on bread in the last two days than anyone should ever eat in their life, probably. It was so good to see Whitney though, even so briefly.
So, let me tell you the story of this bird. It was our dream to eat Indonesian food, and another dream to eat on a bench by a canal. We found an Indonesian 2 Go restaurant and so packed off to the nearest bench on Prinsengracht with our food. First, we noticed a bird like this (a heron? birdwatchers among the audience, please share your wisdom) sitting on a car across the canal from us, and had a conversation about how we thought it was so cool that it was so brave in the midst of all the human activity. Then it looked at us, and flew over. Then it spent a long time looking at our food. Then four more swooped down. Some of them fought with each other, and I stood up and huddled with my food in a corner, while Whitney sat frozen in fear to the bench. Then an old guy showed up and started tossing what looked like dead baby ducks at them, for them to eat. That took the focus off of us for long enough that we could get away unscathed. And probably, what happened was just that this guy always feeds the birds there and we happened to choose his turf to eat our Indonesian food. In any case it was a big ruckus, and a little scary. I have seen The Birds. I am wary.
We were also part of a few other ruckuses during Whitney's stay: the first night, we witnessed a high speed chase! (man on foot, police in car). Yesterday morning, we were swarmed by rowdy schoolchildren on the tram! And yesterday afternoon, the birds! We also contrived to be part of a perceived ruckus at a bar/disco called "Pirates" (see Flickr for the garish sign), but in reality that ruckus was just the sound of a poor DJ interspersing girly Latin techno with the sweet sounds of Will Smith circa 1995 and JOHN DENVER circa 1971. Not the way to get the club hoppin'. So just three ruckuses, ultimately, for us.
So, let me tell you the story of this bird. It was our dream to eat Indonesian food, and another dream to eat on a bench by a canal. We found an Indonesian 2 Go restaurant and so packed off to the nearest bench on Prinsengracht with our food. First, we noticed a bird like this (a heron? birdwatchers among the audience, please share your wisdom) sitting on a car across the canal from us, and had a conversation about how we thought it was so cool that it was so brave in the midst of all the human activity. Then it looked at us, and flew over. Then it spent a long time looking at our food. Then four more swooped down. Some of them fought with each other, and I stood up and huddled with my food in a corner, while Whitney sat frozen in fear to the bench. Then an old guy showed up and started tossing what looked like dead baby ducks at them, for them to eat. That took the focus off of us for long enough that we could get away unscathed. And probably, what happened was just that this guy always feeds the birds there and we happened to choose his turf to eat our Indonesian food. In any case it was a big ruckus, and a little scary. I have seen The Birds. I am wary.
We were also part of a few other ruckuses during Whitney's stay: the first night, we witnessed a high speed chase! (man on foot, police in car). Yesterday morning, we were swarmed by rowdy schoolchildren on the tram! And yesterday afternoon, the birds! We also contrived to be part of a perceived ruckus at a bar/disco called "Pirates" (see Flickr for the garish sign), but in reality that ruckus was just the sound of a poor DJ interspersing girly Latin techno with the sweet sounds of Will Smith circa 1995 and JOHN DENVER circa 1971. Not the way to get the club hoppin'. So just three ruckuses, ultimately, for us.
07 February 2008
How Many Licks Does It Take To Get To the Center of Your Universe?
Listening to American hip hop and getting lost among old European streets and canals, I felt my first ever serious pang for Saint Paul (as a city), which, fascinatingly enough, coincided exactly with my first ever joyful pang of wandering this city. I was pleasantly roaming city center for about two hours - I had no idea where I was or where I was going, but that wound up being OK. Suddenly the Night Watch came out of nowhere, and then I was on Rokin and Centraal Station was looming in the distance. I feel safe being lost here, if that makes sense. Something about the small, and the fact that I carry a map everywhere, and the fact that Dutch people are without exception helpful when they see me whipping it out. Dutch people are kinda great. They're very blunt but very hilarious, and kind. These are all stereotypes, that have thus far been supported by my week here.
I bought some apple/pear/rasberry nectar and some of that cumin cheese that we all love (I can't figure out what it's called). And I understood what the cashier said when she said twaalf euro! And I did my Dutch homework in an austere computer lab with seven locked doors and one (hidden) open door.
Today is the kind of day where music hits me hard.
Whitney tonight - stepping back into the friend comfort bubble, whatever that is - the ability to talk about important things with ease and sometimes be silent? The ability to wander without worrying? Whatever it is, I'm glad.
I bought some apple/pear/rasberry nectar and some of that cumin cheese that we all love (I can't figure out what it's called). And I understood what the cashier said when she said twaalf euro! And I did my Dutch homework in an austere computer lab with seven locked doors and one (hidden) open door.
Today is the kind of day where music hits me hard.
Whitney tonight - stepping back into the friend comfort bubble, whatever that is - the ability to talk about important things with ease and sometimes be silent? The ability to wander without worrying? Whatever it is, I'm glad.
05 February 2008
Prins Hendrikkade, Centraal, Damrak, Kalverstraat, Spui
So, today I had two more classes - one on Masculinity and Migration which I am SUPER EXCITED for, and one on Regulating Religious and Cultural Diversity in the Netherlands which I am slightly less super excited for, just because it's not my field - but I am still pretty amped. It is nice to have classes with non-IES kids (although there are also boatloads of IES kids in my classes, and that is nice too). But today I met an Australian boy and a French girl and some other interesting people who are not from the Netherlands or America. My masculinity professor is kinda hilarious - he spent a while talking to us about how he was "very taken with lady hats." Intellectually, too, I'm really pumped to take a class in masculinity studies. We are supposed to do and incorporate 1300-1600 pages of independent academic reading in addition to the two books on the syllabus, and so I am hoping that I'll get to do a lot of reading that I can connect back to my independent study and my general academic background. Matthias will also be a good contact, I think, for my independent project - he was very interested in the little bit I explained during our introductions today, and he's spent a lot of time working as a parliamentary assistant in sexual policy here. Maybe I can interview him. I'm just not sure if it's done here or not, to use professors as connections. I will try to feel that out.
I wandered around in the rain for a long time, looking for a black sweatshirt and reasonably priced rainboots, and finding neither - I was in the touristy commercial center, though, so I'm sure reasonable prices can be found elsewhere. I also got my Dutch book at a store called Athenaeum - it's a student bookshop, but it made me homesick for Talking Leaves. There were lots of levels with staircases between them and little nooks full of books and students everywhere browsing and reading. A man approached me on the Spui as I left. "Excuse me," he said, "and started to walk with me with an ease that took me aback, "I have a proposition for you. My name is Matthew and I will recite a poem for you. I am a wanderer. If you like this poem, perhaps you can give me a small donation because this is Amsterdam and - are you a poet?" (I nod yes)- "I thought so - we poets, it is good to expand our consciousness, if you give me this donation I will go to a coffeeshop to enjoy myself and write more poems to recite to you. And if you don't like the poem, it's free and you don't have to give me anything. Do you agree to this attempt?" I considered and nodded. Then he recited a pretty decent poem - mostly, though, I was impressed with his cadence. He had a very light Dutch or South African lilt and a very good grasp of dynamics. I don't remember any of it except something about tripping in Switzerland. So there we were, walking in the rain, and he finished and stood expectantly. "Very nice," I said. "Was it worth a small donation? Perhaps ten cents?" Certainly, I said, and rummaged around - but the only coin I had was a 2 euro, which is quite a lot to be giving away. But, in the spirit of supporting a fellow poet - "Here," I said, and pressed it into his palm. He looked at it and shook his head in wonder. "This, miss," he said, "this is amazing," and he pulled off his hood. "Look at my face - if you are again walking these streets and see the man with this face, know that he will recite for you always for free." And then he went on his merry way, and I went back to my apartment to eat potatoes and dry my shoes and pants.
I wandered around in the rain for a long time, looking for a black sweatshirt and reasonably priced rainboots, and finding neither - I was in the touristy commercial center, though, so I'm sure reasonable prices can be found elsewhere. I also got my Dutch book at a store called Athenaeum - it's a student bookshop, but it made me homesick for Talking Leaves. There were lots of levels with staircases between them and little nooks full of books and students everywhere browsing and reading. A man approached me on the Spui as I left. "Excuse me," he said, "and started to walk with me with an ease that took me aback, "I have a proposition for you. My name is Matthew and I will recite a poem for you. I am a wanderer. If you like this poem, perhaps you can give me a small donation because this is Amsterdam and - are you a poet?" (I nod yes)- "I thought so - we poets, it is good to expand our consciousness, if you give me this donation I will go to a coffeeshop to enjoy myself and write more poems to recite to you. And if you don't like the poem, it's free and you don't have to give me anything. Do you agree to this attempt?" I considered and nodded. Then he recited a pretty decent poem - mostly, though, I was impressed with his cadence. He had a very light Dutch or South African lilt and a very good grasp of dynamics. I don't remember any of it except something about tripping in Switzerland. So there we were, walking in the rain, and he finished and stood expectantly. "Very nice," I said. "Was it worth a small donation? Perhaps ten cents?" Certainly, I said, and rummaged around - but the only coin I had was a 2 euro, which is quite a lot to be giving away. But, in the spirit of supporting a fellow poet - "Here," I said, and pressed it into his palm. He looked at it and shook his head in wonder. "This, miss," he said, "this is amazing," and he pulled off his hood. "Look at my face - if you are again walking these streets and see the man with this face, know that he will recite for you always for free." And then he went on his merry way, and I went back to my apartment to eat potatoes and dry my shoes and pants.
04 February 2008
This is Amsterdam
A lot has happened over the past few days. I've been pretty overwhelmed, to be honest - my flight in was the roughest I've ever had, I was late for orientation, it is bitterly cold and windy and rainy here, and I had to endure the 48 hours of forced togetherness with 45 other people that is orientation.
But things are settling more now. I haven't been taking nearly as many pictures as I should be, but that will change soon - I'm getting into the groove now. This photo was taken out the top of a canal boat that the whole group went on on Friday afternoon - it was really gorgeous, as you might imagine. I didn't have a picture of Amsterdam in my head before coming here, but it's a cross between how I imagine Vienna and how I imagine Venice. That is, lots of ornate old buildings set close together around cobblestone streets and canals.
I'm living, by contrast, in an ultramodern, Ikea styled and furnished high rise in a quiet part of town east of the center city. It's close to everything, though. I have a ten minute bus ride to Centraal Station, which is right at the top of the city in the very center, and it only takes about 45 minutes to walk from end to end. It is nice to be in such a compact place. The apartment is just one room plus a bathroom, but it's incredibly spacious. I'm living with a girl from Miami.
Today I had my first class of the semester, which is Dutch. I learned how to say "Goedenmiddag! Mijn voornam is Sarah." I also learned how to say "I am from the United States." and "I live in Amsterdam," but I have forgotten how to say those things already. I really like language classes. This is going to be intense, but I am really excited to not be a total idiot when people try to speak to me in Dutch. I have been having a hard time overcoming my American guilt, here, because I have to speak English everywhere I go (because I don't know enough Dutch to avoid it). The next few days are more class and getting things sorted with immigration, and then Whitney is going to be here on Thursday and Friday nights, so I'm excited to see her!
Orientation has been crazy, and I'm exhausted. But I am starting to make some friends, and settle in more, and soon I will have more stories and more pictures. French fries here ARE amazing (with mayonnaise). There are these caramel-wafer cookies called stroepwaffels that I am addicted to. The city, when you first glance at a map, looks nothing short of unnavigable - but it's an illusion.
Love to everyone.
But things are settling more now. I haven't been taking nearly as many pictures as I should be, but that will change soon - I'm getting into the groove now. This photo was taken out the top of a canal boat that the whole group went on on Friday afternoon - it was really gorgeous, as you might imagine. I didn't have a picture of Amsterdam in my head before coming here, but it's a cross between how I imagine Vienna and how I imagine Venice. That is, lots of ornate old buildings set close together around cobblestone streets and canals.
I'm living, by contrast, in an ultramodern, Ikea styled and furnished high rise in a quiet part of town east of the center city. It's close to everything, though. I have a ten minute bus ride to Centraal Station, which is right at the top of the city in the very center, and it only takes about 45 minutes to walk from end to end. It is nice to be in such a compact place. The apartment is just one room plus a bathroom, but it's incredibly spacious. I'm living with a girl from Miami.
Today I had my first class of the semester, which is Dutch. I learned how to say "Goedenmiddag! Mijn voornam is Sarah." I also learned how to say "I am from the United States." and "I live in Amsterdam," but I have forgotten how to say those things already. I really like language classes. This is going to be intense, but I am really excited to not be a total idiot when people try to speak to me in Dutch. I have been having a hard time overcoming my American guilt, here, because I have to speak English everywhere I go (because I don't know enough Dutch to avoid it). The next few days are more class and getting things sorted with immigration, and then Whitney is going to be here on Thursday and Friday nights, so I'm excited to see her!
Orientation has been crazy, and I'm exhausted. But I am starting to make some friends, and settle in more, and soon I will have more stories and more pictures. French fries here ARE amazing (with mayonnaise). There are these caramel-wafer cookies called stroepwaffels that I am addicted to. The city, when you first glance at a map, looks nothing short of unnavigable - but it's an illusion.
Love to everyone.
Brizzle
Bristol was a very different kind of visit from my previous two. First, because Hayley and I had two years of our lives to catch up on. Second, because Hayley has been living in Bristol for a long time now. Third, because there aren't a lot of wondrous things in Bristol - I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. It reminded me of Buffalo in ways - it's a smaller city, lots of class divisions.
It was wonderful to see Hayley. I stepped off the bus exhausted, dirty, and surprisingly famished (my appetite disappeared entirely in Dublin and Barcelona - since Bristol, where I was force-fed delicious things at every moment, it has been raging), and she gave me a big hug and took me home, put me in the shower, lent me slippers, took me out to dinner, made me hot chocolate, made me go to bed early. We did a lot of walking and talking, as one might expect. More than that, even, a lot of sitting in our pajamas and talking. I sat in on one of her lectures (Thomas Wyatt, what what!), and bought a beautiful pair of dark teal boots. We ate toasted tea cakes and I drank more hot chocolate than I've ever had in a four day period, ever. And ultimately, because of all this, and because Hayley is so wonderful, I will forever associate Britain with comfort.
The tragedy of this trip was mainly that I lost all of my beautiful pictures of the cathedral and downtown Bristol with a mis-press of a button. I have never been inside a cathedral before, and Bristol's was built by Henry VIII. It's not the Sagrada Familia, but it made my jaw drop in its own very old, very traditional way. When we went to see the Sagrada, late in the night on my last night in Barcelona, Andrew said "Now this, THIS is for Jesus." Bristol Cathedral made me feel that way too. It's amazing, the things that people produce for God.
Despite the loss of those photos, I did manage to take a lot of surrealistic night vision shots in the clubs we went to - the first for the birthday of a friend of Hayley's, and the second to get some time to ourselves out of the house (and to dance). I am fascinated with the effect that my camera has in dark spaces - maybe this is just the hipster in me, liking the fact that I can make reality seem abstract. Ha. In any case, they were good nights. I discovered, to my great interest, that I can dance better than the majority of British people. Or at least, better than the majority of Bristol club-goers. In America I am just an OK dancer, but in Bristol I am queen of the dance floor.
The second night we went out to a club with a much older, much more mellow crowd, and had something approximating a dance-off and then a lesson with the most talented dancer in the club, who spotted Hayley and I moving with a little more rhythm than the majority and took us under his wing. I was excited and proud that he wanted to trade moves with us - it reminded me of Rize and other clips I've seen from the communal street dance life. (See Rize, if you haven't - it's incredible.) I love this stuff - dancing, certainly, absolutely, more and more the more that I do it and the better I get at it. Loud music, certainly. Blurry night vision shots, certainly. There is something about these temporary communities built around a love of music and an exploration of what bodies are capable of, alone and in concert with other bodies, that is so satisfying to me.
Another thing that I noticed was that there are a lot of people who look like me in Britain. I wonder why that would be? (That is a mock question - I know why. But still, it was really trippy to be amongst the people who could most closely be approximated as "my people" for a few days.)
It was wonderful to see Hayley. I stepped off the bus exhausted, dirty, and surprisingly famished (my appetite disappeared entirely in Dublin and Barcelona - since Bristol, where I was force-fed delicious things at every moment, it has been raging), and she gave me a big hug and took me home, put me in the shower, lent me slippers, took me out to dinner, made me hot chocolate, made me go to bed early. We did a lot of walking and talking, as one might expect. More than that, even, a lot of sitting in our pajamas and talking. I sat in on one of her lectures (Thomas Wyatt, what what!), and bought a beautiful pair of dark teal boots. We ate toasted tea cakes and I drank more hot chocolate than I've ever had in a four day period, ever. And ultimately, because of all this, and because Hayley is so wonderful, I will forever associate Britain with comfort.
The tragedy of this trip was mainly that I lost all of my beautiful pictures of the cathedral and downtown Bristol with a mis-press of a button. I have never been inside a cathedral before, and Bristol's was built by Henry VIII. It's not the Sagrada Familia, but it made my jaw drop in its own very old, very traditional way. When we went to see the Sagrada, late in the night on my last night in Barcelona, Andrew said "Now this, THIS is for Jesus." Bristol Cathedral made me feel that way too. It's amazing, the things that people produce for God.
Despite the loss of those photos, I did manage to take a lot of surrealistic night vision shots in the clubs we went to - the first for the birthday of a friend of Hayley's, and the second to get some time to ourselves out of the house (and to dance). I am fascinated with the effect that my camera has in dark spaces - maybe this is just the hipster in me, liking the fact that I can make reality seem abstract. Ha. In any case, they were good nights. I discovered, to my great interest, that I can dance better than the majority of British people. Or at least, better than the majority of Bristol club-goers. In America I am just an OK dancer, but in Bristol I am queen of the dance floor.
The second night we went out to a club with a much older, much more mellow crowd, and had something approximating a dance-off and then a lesson with the most talented dancer in the club, who spotted Hayley and I moving with a little more rhythm than the majority and took us under his wing. I was excited and proud that he wanted to trade moves with us - it reminded me of Rize and other clips I've seen from the communal street dance life. (See Rize, if you haven't - it's incredible.) I love this stuff - dancing, certainly, absolutely, more and more the more that I do it and the better I get at it. Loud music, certainly. Blurry night vision shots, certainly. There is something about these temporary communities built around a love of music and an exploration of what bodies are capable of, alone and in concert with other bodies, that is so satisfying to me.
Another thing that I noticed was that there are a lot of people who look like me in Britain. I wonder why that would be? (That is a mock question - I know why. But still, it was really trippy to be amongst the people who could most closely be approximated as "my people" for a few days.)
Deu, Guapo!
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.
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.
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