It's Kili Time - AGAIN!
9 years ago
Well, well, well, it's been a while. In case you were worried about me, I'm alive, still have a roof over my head, and am eating three moderately healthy meals a day. And who could ask for anything more?
I figure that since it's been an inordinate amount of time since I last posted, you've been dying to know about how life has been going over here for me. (Or you might have forgotten that this blog exists, which I would completely understand as well.) As tends to happened over the course of two months, much has happened. Some highlights include:
-Settling into teaching. This has been both extremely exciting and indescribably frustrating. I haven't experienced many better feelings than the one you get after a class where everything goes well, the students enjoy it and actually learn the material, and the hour's over before you know it. However, on the flip side, there aren't many worse things than a disaster class- no matter how much you prepare, the students aren't receptive, you forget the worksheets, and to fill the remaining 45 minutes, you have to resort to playing Simon Says over and over.
-Getting used to kids. I teach three different pairs of siblings: a 9 and 7 year old, a 6 and 4 year old, and a 6 and 5 year old. With the exception of the 9 year old, who speaks fantastic English for her age (complete sentences, great pronunciation, big vocabulary), all of the kids are at a pretty basic level, and since they're so young, I teach mainly through repetitive exercises, games, and coloring activities. Not having to prepare worksheets and conversation topics is a big time saver (I really wish I could teach my adults by having them color Teletubby pictures), but learning how to deal with kids has been a huge effort, especially since this is my first extended exposure with kids.
After 2 months of experience, I've come to the conclusion that kids are simultaneously adorable, AND total pain-in-the-asses. One minute they're hitting you on the back and begging you to play hide and go seek, and the next they're super excited about coloring a worksheet and telling you how much they love English. But by far the best part about kids- their short attention spans. If a lesson bombs, by the time the next class rolls around, they have no memory of how bad the previous class was. And for a beginning teacher prone to lesson meltdowns, that's a god-send.
-Winter break and traveling. I took advantage of my winter holidays to spend a week traveling around Andalucía with my parents, and then took off for Paris on New Yeas Day for 5 days to meet up with a friend from Columbia. Highlights included a private tour of the Alhambra; getting repeatedly lost driving around Córdoba and Sevilla in a rental car; an endless train trip to Paris involving 2 train changes and a night in Montpellier, France; stumbling into an anti-Israel protest in Paris and watching people burn cars from 20 feet away; having my first American breakfast in 4 months at an American-style diner in Paris; and not getting deported while flying back to Barcelona. My break was capped off by a visit from a dear Columbia friend, one Mr. Learned Foote, who had to suffer through my repeated questions on the state of the US, as well as some juvenile pranks of mine. But that's another story.
Needless to say, after 3 weeks off, readjusting to work has been a challenge, which has been made more complicated by the fact that I've lost 25% of my hours, leaving me perilously cose to the break-even line. Lots of free time and not much money to burn is not a good combination, so I'm having to scrounge for hours wherever I can find them. At least it gives me lots of time to hit the gym...
So I'm hoping that this post is the start of a more consistent pattern of posting on this blog. I do have lots of things to write about, and many pictures to post, and hopefully I'll be able to give you guys a better look at my life here in 2009 than I did last year. And if I begin to slack off, don't hesitate to call me out on it (thanks Mom and Anne!). Feliç Any Nou, y fins aviat!
My first week has finally ended. As you might be able to infer from the tone of that opening sentence, I'm extremely excited for the weekend. Teaching is beyond exhausting. But I'll write about my experiences and reflections later, so to not depress you as you all begin your weekends.
Another good reason to be excited about the end of the week is that Friday is payday. Because my boss is the world's most awesome man, he let me choose how often I wanted to be paid, and weekly seemed the least stressful and most regular option. And not only that, but due to the fact that I'm working here illegally, I have the benefit of getting paid in cash, without any money deducted for taxes. With perks like that, it's a wonder that any English teacher even thinks about becoming legal in Spain.
So if you see a white guy walking down the street with a big grim, looking in store windows for things to buy, and 180 newly acquired Euros to burn, say hi!
Last week, both my Catalan and TEFL classes came to a close with final exams, test corrections, and much celebrating. While this was a generally happy period, it did mark a major shift in my life. With my language classes over for good and no more courses looming on the horizon, I could not tell myself that I was "on vacation," or "taking a break" between semesters. No, my friends, I was now officially and unquestionably "unemployed."
I suppose that finding myself in this position was a given at some point in my life, since all schooling must come to an end. Unless you're one of the lucky ones who has a job lined up while in college and never gets fired or leaves, being stuck between jobs or schools with no paycheck or class schedule is a pretty standard experience. And since I had never experienced anything like it before, seeing that I spent my previous 20 years enrolled in school, I was excited about the possibilities it might bring. Just think, I could do anything! No obligations to tie me down, no matriculation to a university just months away, no schedules or constrain my desires. All I had on my plate was pure, unencumbered freedom.
Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), my romantic view of joblessness has been put on hold. Today, I was hired for not one, but TWO teaching positions at different private language institutes around Barcelona. (Let me take a quick break to reread the last sentence, and to break into a ridiculously large smile when I let it sink in.) I start work next week, initially at 15 hours a week, but with a chance to increase that to 20, or maybe higher. And the starting pay is nothing to complain about, either- at 15 hours a week, it's enough to cover my basic living expenses, and any extra hours I get on top of that is just icing on the cake (or, more money to travel with).
As for the classes themselves, I'll be teaching kids in one-on-one and small group classes, and adults in company classes. From what I hear, their levels are intermediate to advanced, which is a huge relief since I don't have much practice teaching beginners. And most of the classes are conversation-based, which is great because not only do they require less preparation, but they are infinitely more fun to teach.
I don't really know a lot about the companies I'm working for, but when I start work next week (actually this Friday for one of the classes), I'll let you guys know how they go. Also, the interview process was pretty entertaining - I interviewed at five places overall, out of the 20 places I sent emails to - and definitely worth relating to you all. Look for it in a post in the near future.
In September, before I packed up my life in the US and moved to Barcelona, one of my concerns was that by being abroad, I would be missing out on much of the election coverage and excitement. Sure, I would be able to read updates online, but that human element, the feeling that you're part of a unified, collective voting public would be missing. I was scared that I would be so tuned out that I would wake up on November 5th and have no idea how Oba-, I mean whoever happens to win came out on top.
Well my friends (said sincerely, and not in the McCain overused and insincere way), after wasting my entire Saturday agonizing over political blogs, polling sites, and make-your-own-electoral-map pages, I can say that my fears were misplaced. I'm as up to date on the latest polling and Electoral College scenarios as any "Bob the Machinist," "Sally the Statistician," or "Mott the Hoople" (thanks to John Stewart for the last one) living in Topeka, Boise, or Nashville, which of course would make me a real American, as opposed to all you latte-drinking, gay-marrying, effete liberals who are surely reading this. Now excuse me while I bake an apple pie, yell insults at some Muslims, and find ways to protect my wealth from being redistributed.
If anything, it's way too easy to get access to the latest political information, and being 6 hours ahead of East Coast time means that I read much of the news before most of you all back home do. Newspapers publish articles online before they go into print, and everything that is broadcast on TV is either available on Youtube, or on the stations' websites. And the main blogs that I follow (here, here, and here are a few) sum up most of the news I want to know, from across the rational chunk of the ideological spectrum. If it wasn't for the exotic food in the refridgerator and the street signs in Catalan outside my window, I could easily think I was at home.
Just before I left the States, I read an article in Esquire by Chuck Klosterman on the experience of being an American abroad (in his case, Germany). Even though he's 4,000 miles away from New York, Klosterman still can't escape the pull of the hyperkinetic and self-obsessed American media. And not only that, but his awareness of the events described in the press were the same as they would have been had be still been in the US. Klosterman writes,
Even if I were in the U. S., I still would have experienced both of these events [the NBA playoffs and the Democratic primaries] with the same remoteness I have in Europe. I was not going to travel to Boston or Los Angeles to watch a basketball game; I wasn't going to hold a cardboard sign and hop around like an idiot at the Pennsylvania primary....Klosterman goes on to say that it's only by living abroad that he's seen how static life really is in America, despite the media's declarations to the contrary. Distance leads to perspective, and then to a realization that most of what we take to be news is really just recycled garbage, designed to tempt, but not quite whet, our appetite for more "news." And unless we manage to isolate ourselves from the media-produced ether that surrounds us, we're all captives to the narratives that are spun for us.
As far as I can tell, my experiences with both phenomena were virtually identical to the experiences I would have had in New York. I was not more or less informed. The experiences were not more or less real.
I guess that most of this post is a way to make up for wasting an entire Saturday doing... well, nothing. I would say that I can't wait for the election so that I won't be captive to political blogs, but something tells me that nothing will change after Tuesday. We'll all find new things to agonize about, new debates that polarize us, and new issues that demand our investigation, donation, and dedication. Or if we don't find it, we will have it handed to us by someone in the CNN Center, 30 Rock, or the Fox News Mothership. And life will continue on as usual.
But in the meantime, if you want to know about the latest Obama rumor or dirty Republican trick, just ask me. Even 5,000 miles away, I'm right in the middle of things.
One of the things that I love about Barcelona is that there's always some sort of cultural event going on, and this month's featured one is the Barcelona Jazz Festival. I love jazz, though I'm a bit ashamed at how casual I am about pursuing my interest in it- ask me how a certain song goes, or who wrote a specific piece, and I'm usually at a loss. But since there are events going on all around town through the end of November, I figured that now would be as good of a time as any to five into the scene and check out some groups.
Last night, I went with my friend Carlos to see Herbie Hancock and his 5-piece band play a three hour set at the Palau de la Musica Catalana. I have to admit that while I've definitely heard of Herbie Hancock before, the only song of his I can actively remember listening to is a pop duet with John Mayer (which in my defense is quite kick-ass). But of the 6 songs played, I recognized the melodies of two or three of them, which pleasantly surprised me. I guess all those jazz concerts at UHS exposed me to a pretty wide variety of artists, though I could have learned a lot by actually reading the programs instead of making paper airplanes out of them...
Carlos and I, pre-concertWhile the music was top quality, the show was almost stolen by the venue. The Palau de la Mùsica Catalana is a modernista masterpiece, designed by Domènech i Montaner, a contemporary of Gaudí. While the outside is more restrained compared to other modernista buildings (for instance, Casa Batllò, on the right in the picture), the inside can only be described as whimsical, in the best possible sense. The rainbow-colored stained glass windows on every wall give the space an open, breezy feel, and the huge skylight that drops down in the middle of the ceiling seems to connect the hall with the world outside. There are mosaics on almost every surface, and giant sculptures burst out from the walls (occasionally leading to obstructed views, as I found out in March when I went to a guitar concert at the Palau). Some pictures I took in March are below, but to get a better sense of the space, check out this website:
Looking back at the hall, from above the stage
The aforementioned obstructed viewSo I could use a little advice. Ever since I started this blog, I've been thinking of ways to make its design cleaner, clearer, and generally more snazzy. Yet every time I try to change things around, I'm thwarted by my lack of technological ability, and my lack of aesthetic appreciation. The current design is basically the best and most fool-proof thing I could think of, but ideally I'd like something a little more stylized and pretty.
That's where you guys come in. Does anyone have any tips on how I could sharpen up the look of this site? Either by changing the background colors, adding a new template, changing the title picture, really anything- all advice is welcome. Just leave a note in the comments section, and I promise that I'll take it into consideration. :-)
You can stop worrying: I am still alive and well, and I haven't "gone Spanish" and forgotten my prior life in the US. My lack of updates has less to do with being lazy (though I can't deny that I've been guilty of that), and more to do with a schedule that's hardly left me time to eat, not to mention reflect and write. But with my Catalan professor having taken ill this week, I have some free time to catch you all up on my life these past two weeks.
The main reason for my suddenly jam-packed life is the Teaching English as a Foreign Language course that I've enrolled in. Five days a week for between 3 and 8 hours a day, my 16 classmates and I learn pretty much everything there is to learn about basic ESL pedagogy, a task that's made much more difficult by the fact that no one has taken a basic English grammar course since 6th grade, if they've taken any at all. I'm one of the lucky ones who has some grammar background (thanks Mr. Tacke!), and having learned two foreign languages has been an incredible help, especially in comparing grammar forms to understand English. Still, to say that it's like drinking from a fire hose would be an understatement. Passive vs active voice, modal verbs, the seven different ways you can construct the future tense, adverbs of frequency- we're having to absorb as much of this as we can, and hope that we can regurgitate enough of it back out on the final exam to pass the course.
Besides the classroom section, we also have to teach 6 lessons to a group of English language students, who we affectionately, but appropriately, refer to as our "guinea pigs." Class sizes range from 4 to 17, and people's abilities range pretty widely, too, which makes for some tough teaching. This, combined with the our unfamiliarity with basic ESL teaching methods, has made our time in the classroom quite the rollercoaster ride, the difference being that we're paying significantly more for these classes, there's no safety belt, and the entire ride is inverted. Hope you brought your barf bag.
Anyways, all of these challenges bring me back to the title of the post. For me, the hardest thing about teaching has been making sure that my students are understanding what I'm trying to teach. Since we're all new teachers, it's hard to judge the difficulty of a lesson that we're planning to give. Since we don't have much knowledge of their abilities, even if we know how hard a lesson will be, it could be completely inappropriate for the students that show up. And since students want to impress their teachers, they won't admit to not understanding a grammar point or vocab word, and instead just nod their head and act like they get it.
What I've realized in my two weeks of classes is how vital it is to put myself in my students' shoes, and try to see what I'm doing from their perspective. Being a native speaker, it's hard to understand just how diffucult learning English must be and how different it is from other languages, and it's easy to assume that students are getting everything, or when they aren't, they're just not trying hard enough. But the reality is probably different, and to be able to get your points across, you have to understand what it's like to be on their side. In this way, effective teaching, almost more than anything, seems to be about empathy. Of course, teachers have to prepare materials, practice their delivery, and carry themselves in a certain way. But there's that other element that plays a big part too.
After a week-long search, I finally signed up for a gym- the Can Ricart complex esportiu. I would try to describe it in this post, but words can't really do it justice- it is beyond cool. All I can say is that it the Dodge Fitness Center, and, dare I say, the SF JCC, have nothing on it.
Amazingly enough, and despite its 25m pool, huge basketball court, and excellently-equipped fitness area, this isn't some tony private health club. Nope, this beautiful facility is run by the city of Barcelona, for the benefit of everyone who lives there. Like most great things, there is a cost involved, but it's pretty minimal- 35 euros a month to go at any time of day (it's only 25 if you just go in the mornings), plus 15 euros more for towel service and access to the spa. And it attracts a wide variety of people- lots of young guys and women, but also a fair share of older people who want to stay/get in shape. Yay for European governments caring about their citizens.
The story behind Can Ricart is pretty cool- the building was originally built in the mid-19th century as a textile mill by the Ricart Company, one of Cataluyna's biggest manufacturers and a vital part of the region's and country's economy (think of it like the Spanish version of GE). By the late 20th century, times had changed, the factory was closed down and abandoned, and eventually it fell into the city's hands. After a multi-year restoration project, it reopened in 2006 as a fitness complex, though they preserved many of the architectural details from when it was a factory- check out the wrought-iron columns and staircase in the exercise room (second picture).
One downside to the gym is that it's a 15 minute walk from my apartment, though perhaps that will make going to work out more of an event, and thus make me more excited to go. We'll see about that. But, if any of you want to experience the glory that is Can Ricart, I do have 2 guest passes.... which I will gladly hand over in return for a visit to Barcelona. :-D
Catalans have a number of somewhat bizarre (at least to an outside observer) cultural obsessions- fireworks, staid group folk dances, and this adorable little guy (which you can order here, just in time for Christmas!). Food is another fecal, I mean focal point of Catalan culture, and this time of year, Catalans come together in a shared preoccupation for bolets, or wild mushrooms. Families across the area spend their weekends up in the Pyrenees, digging around the woods in a passionate search for all sorts of varieties of mushrooms. In bookstores, there are shelves full of books on shrooming, with tips on the best time of year to go (right after it rains), the best areas for different varieties, and the vital information on how to tell deadly from non-deadly types.
In Catalan class last year, Xavier mentioned that going bolet-hunting in the fall is quite a big deal, but I never realized just how big a deal it was until tonight. On prime-time television (which of course was at 10 PM) on the Catalan equivalent of NBC, there was a full hour reality TV show on families going bolet-hunting in the mountains- kids running off into the woods while calling out "where are you, Mr. Bolet," fathers who followed them with a videocamera shouting words of encouragement, and mothers, back in the car, looking like they would rather be anywhere else. According to my roommates, this is a fairly popular show, and pretty representative of how some Catalans get wrapped up in the season.
Anyone want to do some mushroom hunting soon?
Three weeks into my time in Barcelona, I can finally justify my existence here. My Catalan class started up on Monday, and for at least the next four weeks, I'll be spending my Monday through Thursday evenings at the University of Barcelona working on my "Oral Agility" (which I believe refers to speaking skills). My professor is a lovely woman named Laura, who fits many stereotypes about Spanish women- she has a deep baritone voice, spends a lot of time in the sun, and is very opinionated and enjoys making broad statements. She is a fantastic teacher, however, willing to correct us when we make mistakes, but always in a reassuring way.
Given the class' name, it's not surprising that we spend almost all of our time talking, debating, and doing group work exercises, which has been not only a great way to work on my pronunciation, but also to get to know my classmates. There are around ten of us, though not everyone comes to class all the time- chalk that one up to the fact that none of us are getting graded. The majority of my classmates are from Europe- two each from Italy and Spain, and a Romanian- but there are also people from Peru and Brazil. What they all have in common, though, is that they not only speak Spanish fluently, but most of them already speak one or two other languages. By far the most impressive of the group is Radu, the Romanian philology student, who I think could carry on a conversion with any European, regardless of where they're from- Romania, France, Italy, Spain, England, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Barcelona, as far as I know right now. What's been interesting to notice is that the people who already speak multiple second languages are those who are getting the hang of Catalan the quickest. Is it because they have a natural knack for languages, or because they have experience learning new ones?
People's motivations for taking the class have been fascinating to hear, and I think reveals a lot about language politics in Calatunya. I wrote before about how everyone at the University is insistent on speaking Catalan; it turns out that the official language of the University is Catalan, meaning that all official communication, documents, and most classes are in the language. All of my classmates are students at the University, and they all have stories about not being able to understand their classmates, or worse, their professors and exams. For them, this class isn't just to pick up another language, or to be able to go shopping at the market and not look like a tourist, but a necessary skill to have so they don't fail out. The fact that the University conducts all of its business in Catalan, and makes my classmates take this class, says a lot about the importance of Catalan to Barcelonans- as a point of difference to the rest of Spain, and as a way to hold on to and build off of their past.
This first week has been a big fish-out-of-water experience. Not only am I the only American (and thus the resident expert on all cultural exports), but I'm the only one who's taking Catalan for fun, and not to survive in University classes. My speaking skills are weaker and vocab is smaller than my classmates, but then again, I've only taken two semesters, and I've only been speaking it consistently since I got into town three weeks ago. There have been other highlights and funny stories from class, but since this post is getting long, I'll save those for another time. Stay tuned.
With the possible exceptions of giving instructions to a plastic surgeon or trying to talk your way out of getting arrested, few foreign language exchanges are more fraught with peril than going in for a haircut. Challenges include knowing the appropriate vocab (bangs, layering, highlights, tapering, curved neckline, etc), trusting a new barber, and worst of all, hoping that this new barber doesn't ignore your instructions and instead give you whatever the popular hairstyle is in that particular country.
In Chile, where everyone and their mothers (literally) had a mullet or some variation on the theme, one had to be especially cautious about getting a haircut, because barbers tended to treat gringos' hair as blank canvases to practice hairstyles they would later give native Chileans. For my only haircut there, despite my explicit instructions ("Por favor, no quiero chocopanda" - Please, no mullet), I walked out looking like something out of a Jeff Foxworthy skit, though I did get many compliments from my Chilean friends on my chic 'do.
Unfortunately, Spanish hairstyles seem to be stuck in the 80s as well, but on Friday, I decided to throw caution to the wind and get a trim. Before heading to the salon, I boned up on my hair-related vocab, told myself that in the worst case, I could just shave my head, and downed a glass of wine. Nerves calmed, I let the barber tell me how he wanted to cut my hair, and I closed my eyes to wait to see how it turned out.
I'm happy to say that I don't have a mullet. Perhaps the best description for the hairstyle I got is "Euro-trendy"- short on the sides, a little longer on top and in front, with my bangs swept over to one side. I don't know if I'd be caught dead with this in the US, but in Barcelona, it feels acceptable, maybe even a bit... stylish? Jeez, I didn't think I would have ever used that word to describe myself.
(Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures, but I'll post some when I do.)
One of the fascinating aspects of Barcelona otherwise clean and proper street life is the ubiquitous graffiti on the buildings lining the sidewalks. As opposed to US graffiti, which seems random and destructive, here it has more of a "street art" appearance, with vibrant designs and messages. The graffiti in Barcelona is especially striking whenever the shops are closed: the lowered metal gates are covered in colorful markings, pictures, and designs, which frequently related to whatever is being sold behind them. During siestas and weekends, this street art forms a striking backdrop to the everyday activities that take place on the sidewalk, which makes for some pretty cool pictures.
Last Sunday, I walked around the Raval, taking pictures of some of the more interesting designs. You can find many of them here, but I've also attached a couple of shots below.
Last Monday night, I went to Rosh Hashanah services with the local Reform congregation. A lot like stumbling onto the Democrats Abroad group in Barcelona, I was very lucky to find this, and just in the nick of time. At the debate party on Saturday, I met a fellow young Jew, Josh, who has been living in Barcelona for a year teaching English at a private school. Very graciously, he and his boyfriend invited me out afterward to a festival/concert put on my the city government in honor of Ramadan (Barcelona has a very large number of Muslim immigrants from Pakistan and South Asia), where we drank Moroccan mint tea, checked out the delicacies at the food booths, and listened to some very eclectic and diverse music acts from around the world. As we split up later that night, we exchanged contact information, which led to us meeting up two nights later at the Gran Hotel Catalonia ballroom for services.
The services themselves, being mostly reform in format, were familiar, but the congregation was a lot different than anything I had experienced before. Not surprisingly, the Jewish community is small here. I would say that there were an equal number of expats at the service than locals, and even among the locals, many are originally from Argentina. Given the past 500 years of Jewish history, or lack thereof, in Spain, I wasn't terribly taken aback. (Though before the Inquisition and expulsion of the Jews from the Spanish Empire in 1492, Barcelona was known for its religious toleration. One of the oldest synagogues in Europe is there, and the park near my house, Montjuic, or Mount of the Jews, takes its name from a Jewish cemetery.) However, even though many people were not native speakers, the services were conducted in Spanish- and even the transliterations were in Spainsh, which took a bit of getting used to. Baruj ata Adonai, elojeinu melej a-olam, etc...
Perhaps the small number of Jews here is related to the slightly intimidating security measures that I encountered in trying to get into the services. To get on the guest list, I had to email the congregation with my name, passport number, the name of my congregation in San Francisco, and why I wanted to go to services with them. The next morning, with my Jewish identity confirmed, I got a call from the secretary with the time and address of the services. Arriving at the hotel, I was asked what I was going there, and after responding that I was here for Erev Rosh Hashanah, was further interrograted Mossad-style about who I talked to on the phone, what the name of the congregation was, and when I had first gotten in touch with the temple. Finally, after 5 minutes, some misunderstandings, and Josh's vouching for me, I was able to get in.
Were the security measures necessary? I can understand, given Judaism's somewhat complicated history in Spain, if Jews here feel a little uneasy about being too outspoken or conspicuous. Many Jews here were originally from other parts of Europe who came to Spain fleeing the Holocaust, and who understandably might be scared to practice their religion openly. But I can't help but wonder if the security measures do more harm than good. Barcelona is an incredibly diverse and tolerant city, with people from all over the world, and of all different lifestyles, living and working together. And maybe if us Jews practiced their religion openly, people would see us for what we are, and not much different than everyone else.
I could be totally quixotic. But maybe a little openness could do wonders for being more accepted. And if it helps a certain non-fluent 23 year old trying to get into his first Spanish-language service, that's a plus, too.
It seems that I have a bit of catching up to do, not just due to the amount of time that's passed since I've blogged last, but also because of how hectic this week's been. Some highlights:
-The Festa de la Mercé, the annual week-long pyrotechnical orgy that I blogged about earlier, came to an end last Wednesday with an enormous fireworks show on Montjuic, the hilltop park a few blocks from my apartment. My ears might still be ringing from the 30+ minute series of explosions, and I didn't even leave my apartment.
The fireworks show on Montjuic, from my living room window.-Officially registered for classes. This wasn't quite as easy as it should have been, since I had to run around town to get various forms stamped and deposit money into bank accounts, but after a two day adventure, my spot is confirmed. Registration was also made a lot more difficult because the university is insistent on using Catalan everywhere, including speaking it to people who don't understand it well. Like myself. It's actually a little bit ridiculous- even to questions asked in Spanish, they respond in Catalan. At least I didn't have it quite as bad as the exchange students in front of me, who I overheard saying to each other as they left, "Did you understand any of that? I really don't think that was Spanish." I suppose total immersion is the best way to learn a language, but when giving instructions on something as important as registering and paying for classes, you would think that they'd want to make sure you understood what they were saying.
As for my course, I'll be taking a high level beginners class, which has the slightly amusing title "Agilitació Oral." Since my Catalan pronunciation leaves a lot to be desired, the more oral agility I can get, the better off I'll be.
-Watched the Democratic Debate with 100 other Obama supporters at a Democrats Abroad meeting. This was SUCH a godsend- I had been looking around for a week trying to find Americans in Barcelona who wanted to watch the debate, when I stumbled on a Google group of the local chapter of Democrats Abroad. The debate watching party was everything you would expect it to be, in a room filled with die-hard Democrats: people shouting down McCain, cheering every Obama point, and spontaneously bursting into pro-Democratic chants. And of course, in case you were wondering, the unanimous choice for the debate winner was Obama.
So now that you know about the dining habits about my apartmentmates, I should probably tell you all about how I came to be living with them in the first place. They are the same people that I was discussing in my second post as I was looking for a place to live, and despite my uncertainties about the next-day meeting, I was lucky enough to be the one they chose to fill the fourth bedroom. They are three girls from the Barcelona area, in their mid 20s, all students or new professionals, and they are extraordinary kind and willing to be amused by my attempts at Spanish, or even lamer attempts at Catalan. I wish that I could tell you all their names, but in spite of how much I like them, I haven't gotten their names down yet. Does that make me a bad person?
My initial feelings about the neighborhood were spot on- this is an awesome place to be. It's not that the neighborhood itself is particularly cool, but it's perfectly located- I'm a 10 minute walk to Las Ramblas through the Raval (the bohemian area where I had been staying before), I'm a block away from a stop on the main subway line that can get me anywhere I want within 10 minutes, and I'm a 5 minute walk from Montjuic, the park where most of the main events from the 1992 Olympics were held, and which is great for running, biking, and swimming (at the Olympic Pool, € 30 per month). I can also get pretty much anything I need within three blocks of my building- fruit stands, hardware stores, a manicure, a massage at the "Massage Club" across the street, you name it. And if I ever get a Barcelona resident's card, I can make use of the free bikes on the rack directly outside my front door.
I'm also quite pleased with the building I'm in. I haven't quite pinned down the age of it yet, but it looks like 1940s era San Francisco apartment building, eight stories tall with bay windows. There's a tall, narrow inside atrium (which our guest bedroom looks out into), and an elevator, which luckily we don't need because we're on the second (or as they say here, the first) floor. Our apartment isn't huge, but comfortable- 5 bedrooms, none too big; a cozy kitchen; a huge full bathroom; and what basically amounts to a toilet closet, in case the real bathroom is occupied. My room isn't anything special, probably about the same size as my junior year room in Hartley, except with a 12 foot ceiling and tile floor.
Pictures of my building and room are below. The pictures of my room were taken right when I moved in, so things have been moved around a bit. Also, I'll hopefully be painting the room tomorrow (a really nice blue-grey pastel color, if I can say so myself), so by the time you read this, the whitewashed walls will be no more. Also, if anyone wants a guided tour via webcam, just message me on AIM or Skype- if I'm home, I'll be more than happy to show you around! And for those Google stalkers, and as a reward for reading this entire entry, here's my building on Google Maps.
My building, from across the street.
The BiCiNg rack in front of my building. My windows on apartment is on the second floor, right about the Citroen showroom.
My room, before moving furniture and painting.So people eat dinner here late. Like really late. A typical night here starts at 10, when, after settling in after work, you make dinner. Weekend nights start even later, with dinner starting at 11, at the earliest. On every night in the week, restaurants are deserted until at least 9, with the exception of tourists, who can easily be identified in those hours as the ones walking around the city, peering in the empty eateries, and loudly wondering/complaining as to why no one is out.
My apartmentmates follow a similar schedule- home around 8, in the kitchen around 10, eating at 10:30 and then off to their rooms to work or sleep. I'm trying to blend in and get the hang of their nightly routine, but it seems that I'm not quite understanding it yet, especially with the time window for dinner. Today's discovery: that apparently 11 is post-dinner time. I say this beacuse here I am in the kitchen at 11:30, eating my pasta with capers, olives, and ham in olive oil (a little too heavy on the olive oil, not enough pasta, but delicious capers), and I'm all by myself in the only lit room in the apartment, alone, as everyone else sleeps.
I'll get the hang of this one day.
This week, Barcelona is celebrating the Festa de la Mercé, which commemorates the patron saint of the city. While supposedly a religious festival, it seems more dedicated to celebrating Catalan culture and heritage, and to that extent, there have been cultural expos, food tastings, concerts, and street fairs going on all around town.
By far the most exciting and terrifying of these events is the Correfoc, or Fire Run. I'm a little unclear on the significance behind it, but it consists of hundreds of people, dressed up in Devil costumes, running up the main street, shooting fireworks at each other and into the crowd on the sidewalk. At the same time, ranks of drummers marching behind them banging out martial beats, while huge dragon figures dance down the street shooting sparks out of their mouths. And the crowds, despite the flying sparks and loud explosions from the fireworks, stand their ground and looking like they were having a fantastic time.
Like most great travel adventures, we hadn't planned on going to this ahead of time, instead stumbling onto the parade after seeing some quaint and decidedly tamer Catalan folk dancing in the town sqaure before. Needless to say, it was a little shocking to find ourselves caught right in the middle of it, but I did manage to take some pictures.
One of the parade comapnies, spraying the crowd with sparks
Ducking from the sparks. At least one person is wearing a safety mask!
Looking down the street at the back of the parade. The ambulance on the right was the only one that I saw.Tonght, I went with Aditi, Mariel, Sarah, and her boyfriend to see the movie "Vicky Christina Barcelona" on its opening night in Spain. Either Woody Allen is quite popular here, or the movie's title got people's attention, because the theater was packed- though in an orderly way, since tickets here come with pre-assigned seat numbers. That is an idea that needs to get exported to the New World, and fast.
Anyways, one of the joys of seeing the the film here, especially after having seen it in San Francisco, was witnessing how the audience's reaction to it differed from back at home. Not surprisingly, people here seemed to connect with the setting, as the entire movie takes place in places where they pass through every day (in fact, one scene is filmed down the street from where I'm staying now) . But more entertaining was the audience's reaction to Vicky's master's thesis on Catalan Identity. The running joke in the movie is that it's a pointless topic, and no one has any idea what it's good for. But the Barcelonans in the theater, judging from their prolonged laugher, found the topic ridiculously absurd. Whether its self-effacement, or disbelief that anyone would want to study their culture, I'm not sure, though from my limited experience talking to them, Catalans don't tend to think of themselves as particularly special.
This is really refreshing coming from the US, where we hold ourselves in pretty high regard, as something exceptional. It's a fairly common belief that our form of government is the best, that we are the center is global events, and that our culture is the most dominant (for better or for worse), and we don't even look at other countries to see how they live. I mean, American Studies is fairly popular major at many schools around the country, and while I don't have any numbers to back this up, I'd suspect that it rivals or surpasses other cultural studies majors in number or students. On the other side of the ocean, though, I doubt that anyone here would go to the University of Barcelona to study Catalan Identity.
There's something to be said for keeping a distance between your home culture, and the culture that you study- in objectivity, in curiosity, in keeping an open mind. Though I can also see the benefits of more in-depthly studying your own culture, especially in finding ignored parts of it to dissect and explain. In any case, I couldn't help but be struck tonight by the healthy reaction in the Barcelona theater, and on how, judging from that one brief moment, they were able to take themselves lightly.
Two days into my Barcelona adventure, I'm beginning to get the hang of things, and I've come a long way from when I landed here on Tuesday. Of course, that's not really saying much. I started off in the Barceona Airport overhearing a conversation in what I thought was Catalan, which I discovered was actually German when I tried to join in (to an objective listener, the languages have nothing in common). And I was all set to impress my cab driver by talking in Catalan, but when I forgot how to say where I was going, I gave up and had an awkward conversation in Spanish.
I've been saved from being eaten alive by the Barcelona jungle by Sarah, Mariel, and Aditi, the three awesome American girls I am staying with. Sarah and Aditi are here on a grant, serving as English language assistants in two public schools, and Mariel is in the same position as me, looking for whatever work she can get (tomorrow, she is interviewing to be a rickshaw driver, and she has a bar promotion gig lined up as well). They have a cozy, brightly painted apartment in the Raval district, a bohemian, formerly seedy area which has seen a recent revival as the chic place to live. My room is an "interior" room, which means that it doesn't have a window, but for a free place to crash for a few days while I get my bearings, it really can't be beat.
I'll write more about some of the things we've been up to the past few days, but a brief sample includes:
-Going out to eat with a teacher at Aditi's school, who told us that she was a vegetarian, "except for ham and bacon." In related news, I've consumed a pork product with every meal.
-Starting our own "Editing and Translation Service," with ads posted on Craigslist and loquo, Spain's version of Craigslist. What qualifications do we have, you might ask? Other than speaking English, not many, I might say, except that I want your business and wouldn't be caught dead admitting that. We did get our first email today (!!!), though unfortunately the potential customer wanted a document translated from French, a language none of us speak. While we might exaggerate our qualifications, faking language capabilities might be hard to do.
-Buying bunnies at the pet market on Las Ramblas. We bought Mila and Penelope yesterday, and they've been running around the apartment ever since (as you can tell from the last post). They are beyond cute, though we might run into problems in a few months when they start mating (our bad for buying a guy and a girl). But for now, they're sitting rather contendedly in their cages, and looking soooooo adorable I just can't stand it omg.
-Apartment seaching! While I love living with the girls, one of my goals while I'm here is to spend time with native Catalan speakers, and the best way to do that is to live with them. I visited two apartments today, both in the middle of the city, and both rather inhabitable. The second of the two I adore- three Catalan-speaking girls in their 20s live there now, the bedroom is decent size, and it's in a fantastic area, not too far from where I'm staying now. There's also an extra bedroom that won't be occupied (perfect for visitors!!!). I'm meeting with them tomorrow, though I'm not really sure for what- it's either for a second round of interrogations, or for me to give them the deposit. For all my Spanish abilities, there are certain times when I magically lose my comprehention abilities, which are usually at the most crucial points in a conversation.
My life's in a bit of flux now, and I apologize for not giving a deeper view of what it's been like living here. When I get a chance to settle down, more updates will be forthcoming. Until then, wish me "bon sort"!
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In Chile, a "patiperro" is someone who can't get enough of traveling and exploring new places. Falling somewhere between vagabond and globetrotter, and an adventurer at heart, a patiperro is constantly on the move, seeking out new sights, cultures, and languages. He stays in one place long enough to feel comfortable and conversant, but leaves before he can truly settle down and become attached. But instead of traveling to run away from something, a patiperro travels to learn more about himself, his native country, and the world at large, fully intending to apply the lessons he's learned on the road when he returns home to settle down.
This is a blog about my expat life in Barcelona, Spain. I'm here during the fall of 2008, ostensibly to study Catalan language at the University of Barcelona, but really to live independently outside my comfort zone. Expect updates about local life, learning the language, Catalan idiosyncracies, and other adventures. Comments are welcome!
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