Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 13
September 15 - 21, 2006
I’ve been kicked out of bars by bouncers, kicked out of stores by managers, kicked out of the house by my mother, and kicked out of class by teachers. But I’ll bet not many mediocre rebels like me have been kicked out of their beach chair in Bogatell by a software engineer. Who’s the man? Yeah, that’s right.
Even you may have been kicked off one of the many lounge chairs, or hamacas, that litter the Barcelona beaches. You sat down, set up shop, and played stupid when someone, mysteriously, came to ask you for money. But you could only play dumb for so long, and then he gave you the boot. But you’ll never know if you were booted by a software engineer, a former professor, or a biochemist, because you didn’t stop to ask.
Left of Pizza Hut, Juan Luis, made his presence known. He’s a short and extremely brown little man. He was wearing shorts, a t-shirt, a cheap cap and sported a fanny-pack slung across his chest from shoulder to hip like a bandolier. A fine layer of dust the ayuntamiento of Barcelona likes to advertise as “sand” covered his entire person. He tried to kick guiri number 4,619 off of an unpaid-for lounge chair. That guiri fui yo. I fought back with a barage of questions, buying myself as much time as I could, like that time I held my position in an unoccupied first-class airline seat for a grand total of 43 seconds. A ver if I can last a little longer this time . . .
So, Juan Luis, how much do these here hamacas cost? "4 euros for the whole day." But it’s late, do I get a discount now? "No." You mean there is no price fluctuation at all? "None." (Damn . . . these one-line responses aren’t gonna keep me on this seat for long. Running time = 00:22). Are they yours? "No. They belong to the business." Oh, there’s a business? "Si. It’s a family business." Is it your family. "No, I just work here." Where are you from? "Bolivia." And how long have you been here? "I’ve been doing this for one month but I’ve been here for five. There’s no work in Bolivia. I was studying before and when I finished there was no work. So I came here." (He’s talkin’ now! Time = 01:13) What did you study? "I studied software engineering. I’m a software engineer. After I finished studying, I gave classes for a while but they payed me next to nothing. So I came here." (01:58) So you’re going to go back? "Si, si. I’m going back to start a business. I’m saving money here like crazy. I make good money. They pay me 1,100 euros a month." DAMN!!! "And when people ask me if I want to go out to eat I say, stay here, I’ll cook for you, and you can pay me. Do you know Bolivian food? Do you like picante?" (03:34) Love it. "I don’t have amigos. I’m single. No se ligar. And it’s hard to be here at the beach with chicas lindas everywhere when you can’t talk to them." Just be yourself, Juan. "The lifeguards are guapas too. That one up there is Spanish and the other is Argentinian. I like the Spanish one more. She has better legs. (04:49) Can you get up now? I have to finish working." (05:03)
Who’s the man? Yeah, that’s right. 0.0419 centimos worth of free lounge chair chillin.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
International Stew-dents (The Legend of Don Erasmito)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 13
September 8 - 14, 2006
They come every, every spring, summer, and fall. They come in droves...in packs. They come from France, Iceland, Germany... Europe. They come from the Americas — North, South, and Central. They have a few things in common: they’re all students, they’re all here temporarily, and they’ve all been given a free folder with their program name proudly plastered on the front. Erasmus — WHAM! — here’s your free folder, welcome to Barcelona. Erasmus is just one program — the most famous perhaps, but there are more: Institute for the International Education of Students (IES), Leonardo, Pioneer, Cultural Experiences Abroad (CEA), in addition to general masters and doctorate programs — SMACK! — bienvenido, temporary guiri! Each year, these programs bring more and more and more foreign students into Spain. Since 2000, the number of Erasmus students in Spain has climbed steadily from just over 17.000 in 2000/01 to over 23.000 in 2004/05, and that’s just counting students from the European 18 which are nations that enjoyed full EU member status at the time of the survey. Erasmus’ fields stretch even farther, however, including crops of students in many other countries such as Russia, the Czech Republic, Poland, and more, pushing the totals for Spain up above 25.000 students per year. Inevitably, a large portion of these traveling academics fancy a tour of duty in Barcelona. It seems sun, beaches, cosmopolitan diversity, and, of course, fiesta are major pulls. Erasmus graphs estimated the total number of students in Catalunya in 2005 at 3,371.
In the quite recent past, the exponential growth of tourism from the USA has been matched by similar growth in the numbers of American students studying abroad in BCN. When IES, a program specializing exclusively in American students, began in the fall of 2002, its first group totaled 83. This fall they have approximately 300 students enrolled. As we speak, these gringos are getting off planes, making sad faces as their dollars turn into fewer euros, and looking for that big blue airport bus. In winter, 500 more will come. In spring, 200 more. IES alone brings 1,000 americanosthrough every year, and that number continues to grow. According to Xavier Purificacion (vaya nombre, hombre!), who is currently working on a still unfinished study in conjunction with Turisme de Barcelona and the BCU (Barcelona Centro Universitari) on the economic impact international students have on BCN, approximately 5,000 Americans are coming to this city during this school year.
Exact totals are impossible, as not all students that come to study are censurados. According to El Pais, 12,500 foreign students were studying in Catalunya in 2005. This year, if growth trends continue (which they seem to be doing), Catalunya will be called home by, por lo menos, 14,000 foreign students, the large majority of whom will be in Barcelona. That’s a lot of new people to meet.
Why they choose Barcelona differs from student to student. The most common responses are those you would expect. The lovely Lily, a Parisian wrapping up her time here in BCN after her Erasmus year, said it was like a pequena Paris. I took minor offense, but her point is valid: Barcelona has culture, music, cinema, and cosmopolitan diversity. If you’re looking for variety and options, it’s a good choice. Other responses add in the beach, the nice weather, the siesta, the fiesta, and the generally laid-back attitude. Combine all these and you have generally satisfied students abroad. Very few foreign students have harbored bad feelings for the city itself, and while some found it expensive, none found it boring.
The appeal of the city seems to overshadow, however, a rather important truth apparent to all those who have lived here for even as little as one week. We are technically in Spain, but we are also in Catalunya — KAPOW! — benvinguts, guiri amics! The language classes are conducted in depends largely on the university. At the Universitat de Barcelona (UB) the majority of classes last year were taught in Castellano, although a significant number of Catalan classes were also offered. At the Universitat Politecnica de Catalunya (UPC) half of the classes were in Catalan and half in Castellano. Other schools are predominantly Catalan. Lily and Mateo, who is from Italy, did not find classes taught in Catalan to be particularly difficult. Nor did they find making friends with Catalans to be overly troublesome. However, their countries of origin and their native very-Latin based languages give them an obvious advantage with regard to their Catalan comprehension.
Students from northern European countries or from the States found it more difficult to cope with their encounters with the language and with Catalans themselves. An Icelandic student who studied at the Universitat Autonoma de Barcelona (UAB) and who will remain anonymous warned future students that “this is Catalonia, not really Spain. Therefore the official language of the UAB is Catalan, not Spanish, so many courses are taught in Catalan, and some teachers and students don’t respond to anything but Catalan. Also, all forms and info regarding the courses are in Catalan.” That would be hard enough for someone who had lived here for a year, let alone a BCN rookie. In student reports published on the website, http://istudy.iagora.com, students responded to the prompt, “I wish I had known...” with, for example, “that Catalan is so widespread. That some classes at university are only given in Catalan! I would have taken some classes before!” This is hardly excusable. Not to blame the students entirely, but even mediocre research would inform them that in Catalunya, people speak... wait for it... CATALAN! Surprise, surprise. However, some blame must also be placed on the universities and the different study abroad program representatives who fail to point out to students interested in learning Castellano that their classes and course info will be in Catalan. “Oh... gee, I forgot to mention that...”
There seems to be a prevailing opinion that Erasmus and other similar programs are more like an extended vacation than a period of genuine study. Of course, the amount of truth in this depends on the student. How much you get out of something is directly proportionate to the amount of effort you put into it. According to Lily, many of her fellow students rarely went out, spending the majority of their time in the libraries of their universities, studying. They were perfectly content with their time here, doing what they wanted to do. They should be commended — but Lily’s academic story is a more common one, with a fairly negative view of the Spanish/Catalan educational system.
First semester, September to January, she went to most of her classes and passed easily. The classes, however, never really sparked her interest and during the second semester, from February to June, she “almost never went to class.” The classes, Lily? “Fatal.” As we should hope, her Spanish professors here were more knowledgeable when it came to teaching Spanish literature, grammar, culture, and history than their French counterparts at her university in Paris, but, according to Lily, professors here never made efforts to engage the students. It was pure, boring lecture, she said, in amphitheater classrooms. "Every day I would go to class ready to take notes, but I would be so bored that I would put my head down and go to sleep. After a while, I decided to just sleep at home instead of going to class.” Towards the end of second semester, before exam time, she asked a fellow students for a copy of the notes, studied them, and passed the exams. Did she study a lot? You have to study “un poco, un poquetin.”
My Icelandic informer felt similarly that it was “mainly just lectures, given by the teacher with a silent class. Very little class participation, and no practice seemed to be done in many classes. Often just 100% exam with no other work to do.” The educational system here is notoriously exam based. Mateo didn’t disagree, but then again, he wasn’t in class that much anyway. “I went to class about half the time, o menos.” Did you study? “Bastante poco.” How much is bastante poco, Mateo? “Two weeks per semester.” Did he pass? Damn right he did. “When you don’t speak Spanish very well they don’t expect too much from you,” noted Alec, an American who just finished his program. “Even though I came to study, I could have gotten by without learning a damn thing.”
Like Lily, Alec, and Mateo, most students who come through BCN spent more time out and about, absorbing all the newness that a foreign city and language has to offer them. They also participate in trips organized through their programs exploring more of Catalunya, though they mostly stick to repeated expeditions into the cosmopolitan center as opposed to the Catalan mountain. Basically, these students do what we all do: they live here. They speak Spanish and even some Catalan in shops, on metros, while playing basketball or flirting on the beach. And so they learn. Poc a poc. Because they are young and relatively carefree, perhaps they party a bit more than the rest of us perma-guiris. After all, their time here is limited and they seem to grab life by the cojones. It’s this attitude, this energetic presence combined with indisputable diversity and love of partying, all laced with a time limit, that has a distinct effect on this city. Exactly what that effect is, though, is difficult to pin down. Do they have a significant cultural effect? Xavier Purificacion shrugs that off. “In a city the size of Barcelona, not really.” Mateo agrees. “If you are with Erasmus, and you go out a lot, you affect your neurons more than anything. You don’t affect the culture much.”
Mr. Purificacion does agree, however, that there is definite economic impact. He insists that an entire submarket has formed in Barcelona that caters to student needs. One google search of “erasmus” shows him hard to prove wrong. From apartments and single rooms for foreign students, to guided tours of the city and its surroundings, to special fiestas, to jobs distributing flyers, to minor drug deals, to simple tourism, foreign students contribute considerably to the current economic boom in Barcelona. According to an IES study, the average American student studying in BCN in 2005 spent 1,700 euros. Multiply by 5,000 students and you get 8,500,000 euros. There are at least just as many Europeans spending their money as well. And South Americans. BCN sees euro signs!
That leaves us with the last effect, the fiesta effect. “Where there are students, there’s fiesta,” says Lily. “It gives a youthful feeling and cosmopolitan coolness to the city.” “The people always change here,” adds Mateo, “it forces you to meet new people.” Who could argue that Barcelona is an incredibly easy place to meet new people? And most of these new people gleefully partake in the nightlife while imbibing the shit out of some beer, wine, sangria, green absinthe stuff, vodka red bulls, y mas. Maybe they smoke porros. There isn’t much more to say about young foreign students partying. A list of specifics would fill this issue and more, and would likely delight and disgust you. While this behavior might seem one-sided, irresponsible, and juvenile, Mateo, Lily, Andrew, and countless others we haven’t interviewed agree that they learned more outside class, while speaking and socializing, than they did in it.
Being here gives students from other countries the opportunity to see different ways of doing things. In some cases it allows them to step outside the only “truth” they’ve ever known, in order to look back upon it from a new perspective. Alec has “gotten a much better idea of what people think of the States (bad) and how the States look from a country outside of North America (worse), where the media doesn’t make everything bad look not so bad.” Others, like Lily, found a new perspective on themselves. “I grew, living alone. It was my first time away from my parents. Renting a piso. Paying bills. You mature here. You learn a lot about yourself, about your limits, your possibilities, what you are capable of doing and not doing. Everything I’ve acquired here serves me much more for my life than for school. It was the best year of my youth so far.” A little vomit in the streets, a few drunk and slacking students, and too much noise outside our windows is a small price to pay for such growth.
Issue # 13
September 8 - 14, 2006
They come every, every spring, summer, and fall. They come in droves...in packs. They come from France, Iceland, Germany... Europe. They come from the Americas — North, South, and Central. They have a few things in common: they’re all students, they’re all here temporarily, and they’ve all been given a free folder with their program name proudly plastered on the front. Erasmus — WHAM! — here’s your free folder, welcome to Barcelona. Erasmus is just one program — the most famous perhaps, but there are more: Institute for the International Education of Students (IES), Leonardo, Pioneer, Cultural Experiences Abroad (CEA), in addition to general masters and doctorate programs — SMACK! — bienvenido, temporary guiri! Each year, these programs bring more and more and more foreign students into Spain. Since 2000, the number of Erasmus students in Spain has climbed steadily from just over 17.000 in 2000/01 to over 23.000 in 2004/05, and that’s just counting students from the European 18 which are nations that enjoyed full EU member status at the time of the survey. Erasmus’ fields stretch even farther, however, including crops of students in many other countries such as Russia, the Czech Republic, Poland, and more, pushing the totals for Spain up above 25.000 students per year. Inevitably, a large portion of these traveling academics fancy a tour of duty in Barcelona. It seems sun, beaches, cosmopolitan diversity, and, of course, fiesta are major pulls. Erasmus graphs estimated the total number of students in Catalunya in 2005 at 3,371.
In the quite recent past, the exponential growth of tourism from the USA has been matched by similar growth in the numbers of American students studying abroad in BCN. When IES, a program specializing exclusively in American students, began in the fall of 2002, its first group totaled 83. This fall they have approximately 300 students enrolled. As we speak, these gringos are getting off planes, making sad faces as their dollars turn into fewer euros, and looking for that big blue airport bus. In winter, 500 more will come. In spring, 200 more. IES alone brings 1,000 americanosthrough every year, and that number continues to grow. According to Xavier Purificacion (vaya nombre, hombre!), who is currently working on a still unfinished study in conjunction with Turisme de Barcelona and the BCU (Barcelona Centro Universitari) on the economic impact international students have on BCN, approximately 5,000 Americans are coming to this city during this school year.
Exact totals are impossible, as not all students that come to study are censurados. According to El Pais, 12,500 foreign students were studying in Catalunya in 2005. This year, if growth trends continue (which they seem to be doing), Catalunya will be called home by, por lo menos, 14,000 foreign students, the large majority of whom will be in Barcelona. That’s a lot of new people to meet.
Why they choose Barcelona differs from student to student. The most common responses are those you would expect. The lovely Lily, a Parisian wrapping up her time here in BCN after her Erasmus year, said it was like a pequena Paris. I took minor offense, but her point is valid: Barcelona has culture, music, cinema, and cosmopolitan diversity. If you’re looking for variety and options, it’s a good choice. Other responses add in the beach, the nice weather, the siesta, the fiesta, and the generally laid-back attitude. Combine all these and you have generally satisfied students abroad. Very few foreign students have harbored bad feelings for the city itself, and while some found it expensive, none found it boring.
The appeal of the city seems to overshadow, however, a rather important truth apparent to all those who have lived here for even as little as one week. We are technically in Spain, but we are also in Catalunya — KAPOW! — benvinguts, guiri amics! The language classes are conducted in depends largely on the university. At the Universitat de Barcelona (UB) the majority of classes last year were taught in Castellano, although a significant number of Catalan classes were also offered. At the Universitat Politecnica de Catalunya (UPC) half of the classes were in Catalan and half in Castellano. Other schools are predominantly Catalan. Lily and Mateo, who is from Italy, did not find classes taught in Catalan to be particularly difficult. Nor did they find making friends with Catalans to be overly troublesome. However, their countries of origin and their native very-Latin based languages give them an obvious advantage with regard to their Catalan comprehension.
Students from northern European countries or from the States found it more difficult to cope with their encounters with the language and with Catalans themselves. An Icelandic student who studied at the Universitat Autonoma de Barcelona (UAB) and who will remain anonymous warned future students that “this is Catalonia, not really Spain. Therefore the official language of the UAB is Catalan, not Spanish, so many courses are taught in Catalan, and some teachers and students don’t respond to anything but Catalan. Also, all forms and info regarding the courses are in Catalan.” That would be hard enough for someone who had lived here for a year, let alone a BCN rookie. In student reports published on the website, http://istudy.iagora.com, students responded to the prompt, “I wish I had known...” with, for example, “that Catalan is so widespread. That some classes at university are only given in Catalan! I would have taken some classes before!” This is hardly excusable. Not to blame the students entirely, but even mediocre research would inform them that in Catalunya, people speak... wait for it... CATALAN! Surprise, surprise. However, some blame must also be placed on the universities and the different study abroad program representatives who fail to point out to students interested in learning Castellano that their classes and course info will be in Catalan. “Oh... gee, I forgot to mention that...”
There seems to be a prevailing opinion that Erasmus and other similar programs are more like an extended vacation than a period of genuine study. Of course, the amount of truth in this depends on the student. How much you get out of something is directly proportionate to the amount of effort you put into it. According to Lily, many of her fellow students rarely went out, spending the majority of their time in the libraries of their universities, studying. They were perfectly content with their time here, doing what they wanted to do. They should be commended — but Lily’s academic story is a more common one, with a fairly negative view of the Spanish/Catalan educational system.
First semester, September to January, she went to most of her classes and passed easily. The classes, however, never really sparked her interest and during the second semester, from February to June, she “almost never went to class.” The classes, Lily? “Fatal.” As we should hope, her Spanish professors here were more knowledgeable when it came to teaching Spanish literature, grammar, culture, and history than their French counterparts at her university in Paris, but, according to Lily, professors here never made efforts to engage the students. It was pure, boring lecture, she said, in amphitheater classrooms. "Every day I would go to class ready to take notes, but I would be so bored that I would put my head down and go to sleep. After a while, I decided to just sleep at home instead of going to class.” Towards the end of second semester, before exam time, she asked a fellow students for a copy of the notes, studied them, and passed the exams. Did she study a lot? You have to study “un poco, un poquetin.”
My Icelandic informer felt similarly that it was “mainly just lectures, given by the teacher with a silent class. Very little class participation, and no practice seemed to be done in many classes. Often just 100% exam with no other work to do.” The educational system here is notoriously exam based. Mateo didn’t disagree, but then again, he wasn’t in class that much anyway. “I went to class about half the time, o menos.” Did you study? “Bastante poco.” How much is bastante poco, Mateo? “Two weeks per semester.” Did he pass? Damn right he did. “When you don’t speak Spanish very well they don’t expect too much from you,” noted Alec, an American who just finished his program. “Even though I came to study, I could have gotten by without learning a damn thing.”
Like Lily, Alec, and Mateo, most students who come through BCN spent more time out and about, absorbing all the newness that a foreign city and language has to offer them. They also participate in trips organized through their programs exploring more of Catalunya, though they mostly stick to repeated expeditions into the cosmopolitan center as opposed to the Catalan mountain. Basically, these students do what we all do: they live here. They speak Spanish and even some Catalan in shops, on metros, while playing basketball or flirting on the beach. And so they learn. Poc a poc. Because they are young and relatively carefree, perhaps they party a bit more than the rest of us perma-guiris. After all, their time here is limited and they seem to grab life by the cojones. It’s this attitude, this energetic presence combined with indisputable diversity and love of partying, all laced with a time limit, that has a distinct effect on this city. Exactly what that effect is, though, is difficult to pin down. Do they have a significant cultural effect? Xavier Purificacion shrugs that off. “In a city the size of Barcelona, not really.” Mateo agrees. “If you are with Erasmus, and you go out a lot, you affect your neurons more than anything. You don’t affect the culture much.”
Mr. Purificacion does agree, however, that there is definite economic impact. He insists that an entire submarket has formed in Barcelona that caters to student needs. One google search of “erasmus” shows him hard to prove wrong. From apartments and single rooms for foreign students, to guided tours of the city and its surroundings, to special fiestas, to jobs distributing flyers, to minor drug deals, to simple tourism, foreign students contribute considerably to the current economic boom in Barcelona. According to an IES study, the average American student studying in BCN in 2005 spent 1,700 euros. Multiply by 5,000 students and you get 8,500,000 euros. There are at least just as many Europeans spending their money as well. And South Americans. BCN sees euro signs!
That leaves us with the last effect, the fiesta effect. “Where there are students, there’s fiesta,” says Lily. “It gives a youthful feeling and cosmopolitan coolness to the city.” “The people always change here,” adds Mateo, “it forces you to meet new people.” Who could argue that Barcelona is an incredibly easy place to meet new people? And most of these new people gleefully partake in the nightlife while imbibing the shit out of some beer, wine, sangria, green absinthe stuff, vodka red bulls, y mas. Maybe they smoke porros. There isn’t much more to say about young foreign students partying. A list of specifics would fill this issue and more, and would likely delight and disgust you. While this behavior might seem one-sided, irresponsible, and juvenile, Mateo, Lily, Andrew, and countless others we haven’t interviewed agree that they learned more outside class, while speaking and socializing, than they did in it.
Being here gives students from other countries the opportunity to see different ways of doing things. In some cases it allows them to step outside the only “truth” they’ve ever known, in order to look back upon it from a new perspective. Alec has “gotten a much better idea of what people think of the States (bad) and how the States look from a country outside of North America (worse), where the media doesn’t make everything bad look not so bad.” Others, like Lily, found a new perspective on themselves. “I grew, living alone. It was my first time away from my parents. Renting a piso. Paying bills. You mature here. You learn a lot about yourself, about your limits, your possibilities, what you are capable of doing and not doing. Everything I’ve acquired here serves me much more for my life than for school. It was the best year of my youth so far.” A little vomit in the streets, a few drunk and slacking students, and too much noise outside our windows is a small price to pay for such growth.
Ikea (Figuras # 6)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 12
September 1 - 7, 2006
Which Figuras is this? Number six, I think. It seems like ages since I met that charming young Pakistani man selling beer, followed him around, slightly annoyed him, and so birthed the first column. Forever ago and yesterday. But what is a figura? To this guiri, a figura is a unique soul. An original character. A distinct presence. But those three definitions cover quite a broad range. And here we reach our predicament. Paris Hilton is a distinct presence, like a splitting headache behind your eyes, but I’ve yet to see her walking down Las Ramblas with a one-euro Estrella in her bone-thin fingers. Aside from bitchy and selfish supa-socialites, however, where do we draw the line? I ask you, dear reader. Read the rest of this. Is this week’s Figura legitimate? Let me know if you, like some of our editors, think what follows is a hack job. And if you do, I look forward to angry emails and well-articulated insults. Don’t leave me hanging. But before you respond, try to stop drinking Coca-Cola cold turkey and then tell me it isn’t a distinct and one-and-only presence in your life.
With that out of the way, I ask you to look around your apartment, if you’re in it, or the coffee shop your sippin’ in. Wherever. This is the figura on your bed. The figura in your private bathroom, lavatory, loo. Your kitchen. It might very well be the figura under your cafe con leche right now! Can you guess it? Its real home is a small country far, far away full of many blond people downing snus and bilar. Soon, its massive blue and yellow buildings will be counted among the man-made objects visible from space. Se llama IKEA, mis amigos. Interviewing this monster is a touch difficult, but it was nothing compared to trying to find the way out once in the damn building.
There are 12 in Spain, two in Catalunya. In 2005, there were 221 stores worldwide. 453,791,000 people shopped at IKEA that same year. It’s impossible to know exactly how many shopped at which store, but if you divide the number of shoppers by the number of stores, you can estimate that 2,053,353 people shopped at each store. Since there are two IKEAs in the Barcelona area alone, that means that 4,106,706 people shopped there while in BCN. With Barcelona’s estimated population at 1,582,738 and including the smaller but significant populations of L’Hospitalet and Badalona, it seems that every motherf#@$er up in this b&%ch shopped there. Now try and tell me it doesn’t figura into your life.
It’s the figura you love to hate. Or is it the figura you hate to love? Sure, it obviously sucks that everybody, everywhere has the same stuff. But hey, with 12,405 products available this year, you might be able to find something that only 331 other people have! Yes, going there is an exercise in patience and self-control. You may reach ecstatic highs and homicidal lows. One customer held up a kitchen knife encased in plastic packaging with a gleam in his eye. “They shouldn’t sell knives here. They really shouldn’t. Don’t let me hold this knife.” Put it down, buddy. But whatever your experience is, at the end, when you finally find one of the eight people working in a warehouse the size of Outer Mongolia, and have all your things paid for, including your 6 varieties of egg beaters, there’ll always be that sweet, sweet bilar waiting for you in the food section.
Issue # 12
September 1 - 7, 2006
Which Figuras is this? Number six, I think. It seems like ages since I met that charming young Pakistani man selling beer, followed him around, slightly annoyed him, and so birthed the first column. Forever ago and yesterday. But what is a figura? To this guiri, a figura is a unique soul. An original character. A distinct presence. But those three definitions cover quite a broad range. And here we reach our predicament. Paris Hilton is a distinct presence, like a splitting headache behind your eyes, but I’ve yet to see her walking down Las Ramblas with a one-euro Estrella in her bone-thin fingers. Aside from bitchy and selfish supa-socialites, however, where do we draw the line? I ask you, dear reader. Read the rest of this. Is this week’s Figura legitimate? Let me know if you, like some of our editors, think what follows is a hack job. And if you do, I look forward to angry emails and well-articulated insults. Don’t leave me hanging. But before you respond, try to stop drinking Coca-Cola cold turkey and then tell me it isn’t a distinct and one-and-only presence in your life.
With that out of the way, I ask you to look around your apartment, if you’re in it, or the coffee shop your sippin’ in. Wherever. This is the figura on your bed. The figura in your private bathroom, lavatory, loo. Your kitchen. It might very well be the figura under your cafe con leche right now! Can you guess it? Its real home is a small country far, far away full of many blond people downing snus and bilar. Soon, its massive blue and yellow buildings will be counted among the man-made objects visible from space. Se llama IKEA, mis amigos. Interviewing this monster is a touch difficult, but it was nothing compared to trying to find the way out once in the damn building.
There are 12 in Spain, two in Catalunya. In 2005, there were 221 stores worldwide. 453,791,000 people shopped at IKEA that same year. It’s impossible to know exactly how many shopped at which store, but if you divide the number of shoppers by the number of stores, you can estimate that 2,053,353 people shopped at each store. Since there are two IKEAs in the Barcelona area alone, that means that 4,106,706 people shopped there while in BCN. With Barcelona’s estimated population at 1,582,738 and including the smaller but significant populations of L’Hospitalet and Badalona, it seems that every motherf#@$er up in this b&%ch shopped there. Now try and tell me it doesn’t figura into your life.
It’s the figura you love to hate. Or is it the figura you hate to love? Sure, it obviously sucks that everybody, everywhere has the same stuff. But hey, with 12,405 products available this year, you might be able to find something that only 331 other people have! Yes, going there is an exercise in patience and self-control. You may reach ecstatic highs and homicidal lows. One customer held up a kitchen knife encased in plastic packaging with a gleam in his eye. “They shouldn’t sell knives here. They really shouldn’t. Don’t let me hold this knife.” Put it down, buddy. But whatever your experience is, at the end, when you finally find one of the eight people working in a warehouse the size of Outer Mongolia, and have all your things paid for, including your 6 varieties of egg beaters, there’ll always be that sweet, sweet bilar waiting for you in the food section.
Trixi Drivers (Figuras # 5)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 11
July 28 - August 3, 2006
You’ve seen them in la Plaza de la Catedral,or maybe down by Colon. They’ve almost run you over — though at a slow clip — while you were walking down Sant Pere Mes Alt. They are the taxistas reales. They don’t spend the day sitting on their asses, absorbing air-conditioned air. You callthat a job? These guys pedal for a living, that is when they aren’t lounging in the shade, shootin’ the shit, and sippin’on a Moritz, as I happened to find them last Tuesday afternoon. ‘They’ are trixi drivers.
The name trixi is a combination of tricycle and taxi, and these finely tuned, finely tanned drivers will usher you around in their two-seater, motorassisted trixi for a price. “Can you take me to the airport?” Impossible. That’s a real disappointment. It turns out that these trixistas can’t bike down highways. Why? Top speed not fast. They can’t take you to Park Guell either. “Getting there is like this,” he says as he extends his forearm to show a steep slope.
“So what’s your name?” “Diesel.” It’s not everyday you get to interview a guy named Diesel. He grabs his walkie-talkie off his belt and plays with the dials a bit. “Within the company, everyone calls me that.” His real name’s Dani. That’s cool, Diesel. I dig it. There are 10 trixis in Barcelona, and ten guys. I met Diesel, Manolito, and Jose.
They all wear the Trixi uniform, which is a cutre black-and-white, grafitti-esque and therefore Desigualesque t-shirt and grey shorts. Diesel, in character, has cut off his sleeves to reveal that nice tan. Sandals on the feet. Walkie-talkies at the hip. They wait for tourists to approach, and on this particular day, sip some cans of Moritz. Jose, with the dreadlocks, eats a bocadillo de tortilla de spinach.
Some girls stroll up, then a mother and daughter and a lone guy wanting to ask a question. The trixistas jump into action. “To Sagrada Familia? That’s 15.” Whatever money they make during the day is theirs to keep. On a good day they make around 60 or 70 euros. But it hasn’t seemed to make them too formal on the job. Jose takes another bite out of his bocadillo and continues explaining why a trip to La Sagrada Familia will cost a little more.
One by one, they start to say goodbye. The first takes off with the pair of girls as Manolito pulls up, ending a tour. It’s important question time now. “So,what’s the best part of the job?” “The freedom. It’s an eight hour day, but you can spend parts of it with friends, hanging out, talking, being outside. And you can make a lot of money if you want to work hard.” Sounds like the definition of a good Barcelona work day for this guiri.
And do you fight over who takes the pretty girls? Without a moment’s hesitation they respond,“yes, always.” Jose cracks another Moritz and puts it behind the seat of his trixi.“With the chicas, Manolito is peligro numero uno.”
Issue # 11
July 28 - August 3, 2006
You’ve seen them in la Plaza de la Catedral,or maybe down by Colon. They’ve almost run you over — though at a slow clip — while you were walking down Sant Pere Mes Alt. They are the taxistas reales. They don’t spend the day sitting on their asses, absorbing air-conditioned air. You callthat a job? These guys pedal for a living, that is when they aren’t lounging in the shade, shootin’ the shit, and sippin’on a Moritz, as I happened to find them last Tuesday afternoon. ‘They’ are trixi drivers.
The name trixi is a combination of tricycle and taxi, and these finely tuned, finely tanned drivers will usher you around in their two-seater, motorassisted trixi for a price. “Can you take me to the airport?” Impossible. That’s a real disappointment. It turns out that these trixistas can’t bike down highways. Why? Top speed not fast. They can’t take you to Park Guell either. “Getting there is like this,” he says as he extends his forearm to show a steep slope.
“So what’s your name?” “Diesel.” It’s not everyday you get to interview a guy named Diesel. He grabs his walkie-talkie off his belt and plays with the dials a bit. “Within the company, everyone calls me that.” His real name’s Dani. That’s cool, Diesel. I dig it. There are 10 trixis in Barcelona, and ten guys. I met Diesel, Manolito, and Jose.
They all wear the Trixi uniform, which is a cutre black-and-white, grafitti-esque and therefore Desigualesque t-shirt and grey shorts. Diesel, in character, has cut off his sleeves to reveal that nice tan. Sandals on the feet. Walkie-talkies at the hip. They wait for tourists to approach, and on this particular day, sip some cans of Moritz. Jose, with the dreadlocks, eats a bocadillo de tortilla de spinach.
Some girls stroll up, then a mother and daughter and a lone guy wanting to ask a question. The trixistas jump into action. “To Sagrada Familia? That’s 15.” Whatever money they make during the day is theirs to keep. On a good day they make around 60 or 70 euros. But it hasn’t seemed to make them too formal on the job. Jose takes another bite out of his bocadillo and continues explaining why a trip to La Sagrada Familia will cost a little more.
One by one, they start to say goodbye. The first takes off with the pair of girls as Manolito pulls up, ending a tour. It’s important question time now. “So,what’s the best part of the job?” “The freedom. It’s an eight hour day, but you can spend parts of it with friends, hanging out, talking, being outside. And you can make a lot of money if you want to work hard.” Sounds like the definition of a good Barcelona work day for this guiri.
And do you fight over who takes the pretty girls? Without a moment’s hesitation they respond,“yes, always.” Jose cracks another Moritz and puts it behind the seat of his trixi.“With the chicas, Manolito is peligro numero uno.”
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle (Review)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 1o
July 21 - 27, 2006
THE WIND-UP BIRD CHRONICLE /// HARUKI MURAKAMI /// THE HARVIL PRESS, LONDON
Many weird and wonderful things have come out of Japan, and Haruki Murakami’s novel The Wind-up Bird Chronicle can be added to the list, being perfectly though inadequately defined by the two aforementioned adjectives. The book is weird. The book is wonderful.
It begins in a tranquil Tokyo suburb in Toru Okada’s kitchen, where he claims to have found the perfect music for cooking pasta. It’s an opera (read it to find out which and your tortellini will never be the same). As a recently unemployed law clerk, Mr. Okada leads a quiet life in his quiet house, ironing shirts when he’s nervous and cooking pasta at 10:30 in the morning. Then he gets a strange phone call. Then his cat disappears. Then his wife disappears. And Mr. Okada is left in his shell of a life without a clue.
All of a sudden, with his life flipped upside down like a tortilla espanola, the phone starts ringing off the hook. Strange women with strange names know things about him they shouldn’t know. Old memories spring back into focus and new mysteries take odd twists as Mr. Okada tries to sort through a convoluted web of clues in order to find his wife, Kumiko.
The journey is surreal to say the least. All in the name of understanding, Toru Okada is taken through suspicious meetings, wet dreams, trespassing excursions, and even back in time, to wars and battles fought long ago between Japan, Outer Mongolia, and Russia. Yes, the book is weird. But to find out the meaning of self, and to understand how the past creates the future, connections must first be made between executed zoo animals, manskinning Russian intelligence officers, prostitutes of the mind, an unseen bird and its unique sound, and a random blue facial mark. Yes, the book is weird.
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle is an incredible, original and creative book that puts deep, deep life questions into a smooth, exquisitely written context within modern Japan and the minds of its residents. Will Toru Okada find his wife? What about his cat? Are we really free in our lives, or is fate pulling us towards some unknown end?
Issue # 1o
July 21 - 27, 2006
THE WIND-UP BIRD CHRONICLE /// HARUKI MURAKAMI /// THE HARVIL PRESS, LONDON
Many weird and wonderful things have come out of Japan, and Haruki Murakami’s novel The Wind-up Bird Chronicle can be added to the list, being perfectly though inadequately defined by the two aforementioned adjectives. The book is weird. The book is wonderful.
It begins in a tranquil Tokyo suburb in Toru Okada’s kitchen, where he claims to have found the perfect music for cooking pasta. It’s an opera (read it to find out which and your tortellini will never be the same). As a recently unemployed law clerk, Mr. Okada leads a quiet life in his quiet house, ironing shirts when he’s nervous and cooking pasta at 10:30 in the morning. Then he gets a strange phone call. Then his cat disappears. Then his wife disappears. And Mr. Okada is left in his shell of a life without a clue.
All of a sudden, with his life flipped upside down like a tortilla espanola, the phone starts ringing off the hook. Strange women with strange names know things about him they shouldn’t know. Old memories spring back into focus and new mysteries take odd twists as Mr. Okada tries to sort through a convoluted web of clues in order to find his wife, Kumiko.
The journey is surreal to say the least. All in the name of understanding, Toru Okada is taken through suspicious meetings, wet dreams, trespassing excursions, and even back in time, to wars and battles fought long ago between Japan, Outer Mongolia, and Russia. Yes, the book is weird. But to find out the meaning of self, and to understand how the past creates the future, connections must first be made between executed zoo animals, manskinning Russian intelligence officers, prostitutes of the mind, an unseen bird and its unique sound, and a random blue facial mark. Yes, the book is weird.
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle is an incredible, original and creative book that puts deep, deep life questions into a smooth, exquisitely written context within modern Japan and the minds of its residents. Will Toru Okada find his wife? What about his cat? Are we really free in our lives, or is fate pulling us towards some unknown end?
Joe's Beach: Looking for Radioactive Mutants at "Chernobyl" Beach
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Oh happy day! It’s the beach issue! Sun, sand, clear Mediterranean water, orange inflatable floaties. Good things. Good times. A little too good. Where’s the grime? Everything has its dark side. Mustn’t every beach issue as well? In search of something more interesting than happiness, more taxing than relaxed sunbathing, one name kept seeping through the cracks like radiation. Chernobyl. Nyet! Not in the Ukraine. Chernobyl, Barcelona.
Fittingly, this supposedly disgusting beach lies right in front of the FECSA energy plant. You may think you have no idea where the FECSA plant is, but you’ve seen it a hundred times. When you’ve looked up the coast in direction Badalona, you’ve seen three massive chimneys. They belong to FECSA.
When you get off of RENFE at Sant Adria de Besos, a machine-generated whirring sound descends upon you, shortly becoming a constant buzz inside your cerebro. The beach itself looks rather normal. The Forum’s solar panels are on the right, the sand is normal, clean enough, and there are plenty of people. If you ignore the FECSA drone in your head and the long white tube extending from the plant into the water, this is una playa bastante bonita.
I ask the lifeguards what the tube is. It draws water into the plant for the cooling system, they explain, and then FECSA spits the warmed water back into the sea. Pero no tiran nada, eh. That’s to say there’s nothing more than water shooting out of that industrial, whirring monster. Nothing? Do you believe it? I probe a little further. “Then why is this beach nicknamed Chernobyl.” “Ah,” they respond, “Chernobyl is the next beach over. Walk alongside the plant and under the tube.”
Passing under the tubes is a filthy experience. There couldn’t possibly be any more opportunities to catch tetanus in one single place. Empty and broken whiskey bottles, rusted cans and sardine tin, and potato chip bags accompany the smell of piss and the sound of rushing water leaving the FECSA plant via a channel labelled “Danger of death due to strong currents.” That’s just in case anyone wanted to swim in water on its way out of a power plant cooling system.
I found the Chernobyl beach lifeguard. He has no special story to tell of a man with three pichas. There’s no radiation, cause it’s a thermal plant. Still, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were dumping something into the sea. But this water is mucho mas clean than the water in Barceloneta, Bogatell, or any of the BCN beaches. It’s a crystal bluegreen straight down to the clearly visible bottom. Aside from the surrounding architecture and its constant machine soundtrack, the beach is pristine. It certainly doesn’t merit the name Chernobyl, I decided.
But seeds of doubt were later sewn. I told a friend of mine the story of my excursion, and the disappointing lack of radioactive mutants. “The water is so clean!” I told him, “There’s nothing wrong with the place.” “But maybe,” he said, “it’s so clear because everything’s dead.” Hmmm.
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Oh happy day! It’s the beach issue! Sun, sand, clear Mediterranean water, orange inflatable floaties. Good things. Good times. A little too good. Where’s the grime? Everything has its dark side. Mustn’t every beach issue as well? In search of something more interesting than happiness, more taxing than relaxed sunbathing, one name kept seeping through the cracks like radiation. Chernobyl. Nyet! Not in the Ukraine. Chernobyl, Barcelona.
Fittingly, this supposedly disgusting beach lies right in front of the FECSA energy plant. You may think you have no idea where the FECSA plant is, but you’ve seen it a hundred times. When you’ve looked up the coast in direction Badalona, you’ve seen three massive chimneys. They belong to FECSA.
When you get off of RENFE at Sant Adria de Besos, a machine-generated whirring sound descends upon you, shortly becoming a constant buzz inside your cerebro. The beach itself looks rather normal. The Forum’s solar panels are on the right, the sand is normal, clean enough, and there are plenty of people. If you ignore the FECSA drone in your head and the long white tube extending from the plant into the water, this is una playa bastante bonita.
I ask the lifeguards what the tube is. It draws water into the plant for the cooling system, they explain, and then FECSA spits the warmed water back into the sea. Pero no tiran nada, eh. That’s to say there’s nothing more than water shooting out of that industrial, whirring monster. Nothing? Do you believe it? I probe a little further. “Then why is this beach nicknamed Chernobyl.” “Ah,” they respond, “Chernobyl is the next beach over. Walk alongside the plant and under the tube.”
Passing under the tubes is a filthy experience. There couldn’t possibly be any more opportunities to catch tetanus in one single place. Empty and broken whiskey bottles, rusted cans and sardine tin, and potato chip bags accompany the smell of piss and the sound of rushing water leaving the FECSA plant via a channel labelled “Danger of death due to strong currents.” That’s just in case anyone wanted to swim in water on its way out of a power plant cooling system.
I found the Chernobyl beach lifeguard. He has no special story to tell of a man with three pichas. There’s no radiation, cause it’s a thermal plant. Still, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were dumping something into the sea. But this water is mucho mas clean than the water in Barceloneta, Bogatell, or any of the BCN beaches. It’s a crystal bluegreen straight down to the clearly visible bottom. Aside from the surrounding architecture and its constant machine soundtrack, the beach is pristine. It certainly doesn’t merit the name Chernobyl, I decided.
But seeds of doubt were later sewn. I told a friend of mine the story of my excursion, and the disappointing lack of radioactive mutants. “The water is so clean!” I told him, “There’s nothing wrong with the place.” “But maybe,” he said, “it’s so clear because everything’s dead.” Hmmm.
La Reina de la Platja (Figuras # 4)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Squinting into the sun, I catch a glimpse of a familiar swimsuit walking by. It’s a one-piece, leopard print little number. And then . . . wait . . .Yes! The same woven beach bag swinging alongside the suit. That means she’s been at this beach every day this weekend. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Of course, that means I’ve been at this beach every day this weekend but, hey, I’m an out-of-work English teacher slash writer. There are a million of me in Barcelona. But there are very few of her.
I have no actual proof that she was also here Thursday, Wednesday, etc. moving backwards in time, but if you judge by her skin you can tell there have been a couple hundred more weekends like this one in her life. It’s a dark, dark brown and seems thicker than most. It isn’t dry, but it obviously hasn’t been lathered with sunscreen but perhaps the polar opposite, super absorbent sunbeam attractor creme. Her hide is exactly that, a hide, like a pelt. The skin is wrinkly as can be but at the same time tight and hard, like leather. She’d make a great shoe.
This whole curing process makes her age difficult to tell, and you can be damned sure that I’m not about to ask her. If she pulled that flirtatious thing and said, “guess,” I’d be as good as hung. You try and guess the age of the jamon on top of your local bar counter, or how many leap years your auntie’s christmas pudding has seen. Besides, this is not a flirting matter. This woman is here strictly on business. “No interviews. I’m here to broncearme,” I imagine her saying.
I climb slowly out of my imagination and stand up to walk the 20 odd steps that separate us. But my legs are stunned into stillness by what my eyes doth see. The Beach Queen has removed the top half of her bathing suit to reveal (yes, I am from the United States and am still, normally, as excited as a school boy to see) a fresh pair of long, leathery breasts. Oh lord!
“Uh . . . perdon, do you come to this playa often?” “Si claro! It’s what I most like to do. I don’t work. My husband esta en el bar.” “What bar?” “Lo Extremeno.” “You’re from Extremadura?” “Claro! You don’t hear my accent?” “What’s your name?” “Senora Silvia Ruiz.” “Senora Ruiz, I think you are expecting demasiado from a guiri. Understanding is prioridad numero uno, I usually don’t get as far as distinguishing accents.” “Pue . . tu ere muy majete pase guiri.”
So it went like that, small talk between me and the Beach Queen Senora Silvia Ruiz. Small talk until she sat up a little more and I sensed a sexy pose taking shape. Oh lord. Free advice to all those save the Beach King who’s out there somewhere: It’s ok to love the Beach Queen for being herself, just don’t love the Beach Queen. . And for the rest of us, so we might understand her the next time, pue is pues, ere is eres, pase is para ser, and majete is nice. It appears not to many guiris are cuddling up with the reina.
Issue # 10
July 21 - 27, 2006
Squinting into the sun, I catch a glimpse of a familiar swimsuit walking by. It’s a one-piece, leopard print little number. And then . . . wait . . .Yes! The same woven beach bag swinging alongside the suit. That means she’s been at this beach every day this weekend. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Of course, that means I’ve been at this beach every day this weekend but, hey, I’m an out-of-work English teacher slash writer. There are a million of me in Barcelona. But there are very few of her.
I have no actual proof that she was also here Thursday, Wednesday, etc. moving backwards in time, but if you judge by her skin you can tell there have been a couple hundred more weekends like this one in her life. It’s a dark, dark brown and seems thicker than most. It isn’t dry, but it obviously hasn’t been lathered with sunscreen but perhaps the polar opposite, super absorbent sunbeam attractor creme. Her hide is exactly that, a hide, like a pelt. The skin is wrinkly as can be but at the same time tight and hard, like leather. She’d make a great shoe.
This whole curing process makes her age difficult to tell, and you can be damned sure that I’m not about to ask her. If she pulled that flirtatious thing and said, “guess,” I’d be as good as hung. You try and guess the age of the jamon on top of your local bar counter, or how many leap years your auntie’s christmas pudding has seen. Besides, this is not a flirting matter. This woman is here strictly on business. “No interviews. I’m here to broncearme,” I imagine her saying.
I climb slowly out of my imagination and stand up to walk the 20 odd steps that separate us. But my legs are stunned into stillness by what my eyes doth see. The Beach Queen has removed the top half of her bathing suit to reveal (yes, I am from the United States and am still, normally, as excited as a school boy to see) a fresh pair of long, leathery breasts. Oh lord!
“Uh . . . perdon, do you come to this playa often?” “Si claro! It’s what I most like to do. I don’t work. My husband esta en el bar.” “What bar?” “Lo Extremeno.” “You’re from Extremadura?” “Claro! You don’t hear my accent?” “What’s your name?” “Senora Silvia Ruiz.” “Senora Ruiz, I think you are expecting demasiado from a guiri. Understanding is prioridad numero uno, I usually don’t get as far as distinguishing accents.” “Pue . . tu ere muy majete pase guiri.”
So it went like that, small talk between me and the Beach Queen Senora Silvia Ruiz. Small talk until she sat up a little more and I sensed a sexy pose taking shape. Oh lord. Free advice to all those save the Beach King who’s out there somewhere: It’s ok to love the Beach Queen for being herself, just don’t love the Beach Queen. . And for the rest of us, so we might understand her the next time, pue is pues, ere is eres, pase is para ser, and majete is nice. It appears not to many guiris are cuddling up with the reina.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Secretas! (Figuras # 3)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 9
July 14 - 20
We walk into Bershka together, me and my lady. Every time I come into this place, I want to flee, huir, run out screaming, or at least punch a blond girl wearing a polka-dot tank top. They’re like wolves in here. So little space, so much clothing. “Baby,” I say, “I’m going outside to roll un porro.” Yes . . . it’s true.
Portal d’ Angel is full-isimo. This isn’t a place I’ve come to find a unique Barcelona personaje, so I’m not really looking. I turn left down a less conspicuous street as I break a cigarrette apart and spill its contents into my palm. I put the rolling papers behind my ear and glance to the left at a skater/surfer shop advertising rebajas. They better rebaja that shit some more because I still can’t afford it; not after spending 20 bones on this little chunk of chocolate.
So there I am, reaching into my pocket for the aluminum foil wrapped goodies, when a fellow guiri approaches. He’s wearing a souvenir shop t-shirt that says San Diego across the front. He's wearing some long “jorts” (half jeans, half shorts = jorts) and the perfect guiri sandals, cheesy, brown, and clunky. Then, this guiri does a funny thing. He, too, reaches into his pocket, pulls something out, opens it, and says, “policia.”
Mierda.
The bastards! Secretas. I’ve been warned about these dudes. But they really are good. He looks so damn guiri. The predictable question follows. What do you have in your pockets? Please empty the contents into the trunk of the car (the car that, 3 seconds ago, seemed so harmless now has flashing po-po lights). It seems like you were going to roll a porro. No shit, Sherlock. My denial lasts about 30 seconds, lasts until super-secret-guiri-cop number two starts putting on black leather gloves. “We can do this here, or we can go down to the comisaria.”
I’m not getting out of this. And even the idea of a holding cell in foreign countries scares the caca right out of me. Aqui esta lo que buscas, I say, as I pull the little block out of my pocket and hand it over. To my surprise the rest was rather painless. Mean secreta went and sat in the front seat with my California driver’s license. And nice secreta and I chatted.
Having hashish or marijuana for personal use is ok, in your house, he explains. But once you leave your house, no. As he fills out my future Spanish police record, I start to laugh. Que? I point to the part where he’s written, Sustancia de color maron, posiblemente haxis. I can tell you right now that it’s hash, and shitty hash at that. He laughs. He’s alright, this wolf in sheep’s clothing. So I point to what had once been mi chocolate and ask him, “Can I keep it?” “No.” “Half?” “No.” Damn.
I meet my girl back in Bershka, and hand her my new police report. She’s pretty nice about it, and laughs it off after a minute. Maybe because it happened to her too a few years back. “He came up to me dressed like a vagabundo (a bum) and I was flipando. You can’t be policia! Eres un puto vagabundo.” Guess again guiri-lover.
Issue # 9
July 14 - 20
We walk into Bershka together, me and my lady. Every time I come into this place, I want to flee, huir, run out screaming, or at least punch a blond girl wearing a polka-dot tank top. They’re like wolves in here. So little space, so much clothing. “Baby,” I say, “I’m going outside to roll un porro.” Yes . . . it’s true.
Portal d’ Angel is full-isimo. This isn’t a place I’ve come to find a unique Barcelona personaje, so I’m not really looking. I turn left down a less conspicuous street as I break a cigarrette apart and spill its contents into my palm. I put the rolling papers behind my ear and glance to the left at a skater/surfer shop advertising rebajas. They better rebaja that shit some more because I still can’t afford it; not after spending 20 bones on this little chunk of chocolate.
So there I am, reaching into my pocket for the aluminum foil wrapped goodies, when a fellow guiri approaches. He’s wearing a souvenir shop t-shirt that says San Diego across the front. He's wearing some long “jorts” (half jeans, half shorts = jorts) and the perfect guiri sandals, cheesy, brown, and clunky. Then, this guiri does a funny thing. He, too, reaches into his pocket, pulls something out, opens it, and says, “policia.”
Mierda.
The bastards! Secretas. I’ve been warned about these dudes. But they really are good. He looks so damn guiri. The predictable question follows. What do you have in your pockets? Please empty the contents into the trunk of the car (the car that, 3 seconds ago, seemed so harmless now has flashing po-po lights). It seems like you were going to roll a porro. No shit, Sherlock. My denial lasts about 30 seconds, lasts until super-secret-guiri-cop number two starts putting on black leather gloves. “We can do this here, or we can go down to the comisaria.”
I’m not getting out of this. And even the idea of a holding cell in foreign countries scares the caca right out of me. Aqui esta lo que buscas, I say, as I pull the little block out of my pocket and hand it over. To my surprise the rest was rather painless. Mean secreta went and sat in the front seat with my California driver’s license. And nice secreta and I chatted.
Having hashish or marijuana for personal use is ok, in your house, he explains. But once you leave your house, no. As he fills out my future Spanish police record, I start to laugh. Que? I point to the part where he’s written, Sustancia de color maron, posiblemente haxis. I can tell you right now that it’s hash, and shitty hash at that. He laughs. He’s alright, this wolf in sheep’s clothing. So I point to what had once been mi chocolate and ask him, “Can I keep it?” “No.” “Half?” “No.” Damn.
I meet my girl back in Bershka, and hand her my new police report. She’s pretty nice about it, and laughs it off after a minute. Maybe because it happened to her too a few years back. “He came up to me dressed like a vagabundo (a bum) and I was flipando. You can’t be policia! Eres un puto vagabundo.” Guess again guiri-lover.
The Blue Line
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 9
July 14 - 20
All I knew about Horta and Cornella, the two ends of the blue metro line, was that they exist. Not that I know much about the rest of line number five. It’s like the Myanmar of metro lines. You know it’s out there, somewhere, but what is it really?
Well, I got on at Sagrada Familia and rode that sucker all the way to the end, to Horta. The first impression was that it’s like a different country compared to the center. There is more grass, more trees, and more green in the first eight steps than in the entire center. I suppose the name Horta (huerta in espanyol and orchard in English) has something to do with it. They even have garbage bins dedicated to organic materials. Barcelona + compost = WHAT?
Anyway, I feel like I am in a different pais. This is more like a relaxed, small town than BCN. Of course, ugly, large, typical Spanish, mass-produced apartment buildings are here and there. And the shops are similar, the bars, the fruterias. But there are also sections of single planta houses. Houses! There are little fenced-in gardens. Gardens! There are white wrought-iron tables and chairs waiting for their owners to sit and pass the afternoon amongst the potted flowers.
I come across one home owner outside painting his door jam. His door’s wide open. The street’s virtually empty. Can you tell me a little about the neighborhood? I ask him. He tells me to go down the street to number three. “Knock and ask for Antonio. He knows eveything about Horta. He loves talking about the neighborhood.” So I do. Antonio, his wife, and his grandson invite me inside. Inside! As soon as I cross the threshold, I realize that in the city center, these things don’t happen to random guiris who knock on random doors.
This old Spaniard, originally from Andalucia, loves this area with his heart and soul, and tells me everything about it. Photo albums in hand the lecture begins and I’d be able to tell you a lot if I had understood half. Fortunately, I am really good at nodding appropriately. The fact that he was missing his front teeth didn’t help.
So if you wanna know about the bar scene in Horta, or the clubs, or where to find the best botifarra, then I’ve failed you. I spent the afternoon there in Antonio’s precious garden, gazing over his fish pond and at photos of the long dead heroes of Horta, and left with the distinct impression that this part of BCN has somehow maintained the small-town feeling of what actually used to be just a pueblo next to the growing city of Barcelona.
But the journey didn’t end there. I escaped from Antonio’s sermon, por fin, and got back on the bliggity blue line to take a nap while I rode from end to end. A woman tapped me on the shoulder and I shot awake. We’re here. Cornella.
There’s something immediately reminiscent of Horta. Tranquility. As soon as you leave BCN and head for the afueras, everything’s more chill. When you leave the metro station in Cornella, you can choose from six different typical bars in the first block. So that’s nice. A look to the right will reveal a massive Eroski commercial center. The golden arches of McDonald’s grace the sky, along with a 14-screen cinema. So that’s nice.
The Rambla d’Josep Anselm Clave begins at the corner of the plaza a block away from the metro stop. There’s a traditional granja bar called Bao-Bab in the plaza with a nice terrace from which you can watch little Cornellanians play on the swing set.
A stroll down the rambla reveals a whole lot of nothing, so I stop a middle-aged woman and ask if she lives there. She does, in fact, so I ask if she could direct me to a nice park or an original bar, or a beautiful building. A half-sour laugh slips past her lips. No hay mucho ambiente aqui, she tells me. There isn’t much of anything. There used to be some nice macias (traditional Catalan farmhouses) but they’ve been torn down to build these (shitty) apartments. The people here esta acostumbrada to going into Barcelona for their ambiente. At least it’s bien comunicado (metro, tram, bus and renfe).
More walking doesn’t prove her wrong. Even the castle in this place is relatively bland. The buildings are typical, which is to say ugly modern-industrial. Almost every bar is just like every other. If you turn right at the end of the rambla, there’s one original bar called Pachanga. Copas and latin hip shaking in a cool atmosphere. There are three discos, Malalts de Festa, Bora-Bora, and another. They’re all, according to one resident, normal, commercial Spanish clubs. So that’s nice. Oh, and there’s a Corte Ingles tambien. So that’s nice. Or is it?
Issue # 9
July 14 - 20
All I knew about Horta and Cornella, the two ends of the blue metro line, was that they exist. Not that I know much about the rest of line number five. It’s like the Myanmar of metro lines. You know it’s out there, somewhere, but what is it really?
Well, I got on at Sagrada Familia and rode that sucker all the way to the end, to Horta. The first impression was that it’s like a different country compared to the center. There is more grass, more trees, and more green in the first eight steps than in the entire center. I suppose the name Horta (huerta in espanyol and orchard in English) has something to do with it. They even have garbage bins dedicated to organic materials. Barcelona + compost = WHAT?
Anyway, I feel like I am in a different pais. This is more like a relaxed, small town than BCN. Of course, ugly, large, typical Spanish, mass-produced apartment buildings are here and there. And the shops are similar, the bars, the fruterias. But there are also sections of single planta houses. Houses! There are little fenced-in gardens. Gardens! There are white wrought-iron tables and chairs waiting for their owners to sit and pass the afternoon amongst the potted flowers.
I come across one home owner outside painting his door jam. His door’s wide open. The street’s virtually empty. Can you tell me a little about the neighborhood? I ask him. He tells me to go down the street to number three. “Knock and ask for Antonio. He knows eveything about Horta. He loves talking about the neighborhood.” So I do. Antonio, his wife, and his grandson invite me inside. Inside! As soon as I cross the threshold, I realize that in the city center, these things don’t happen to random guiris who knock on random doors.
This old Spaniard, originally from Andalucia, loves this area with his heart and soul, and tells me everything about it. Photo albums in hand the lecture begins and I’d be able to tell you a lot if I had understood half. Fortunately, I am really good at nodding appropriately. The fact that he was missing his front teeth didn’t help.
So if you wanna know about the bar scene in Horta, or the clubs, or where to find the best botifarra, then I’ve failed you. I spent the afternoon there in Antonio’s precious garden, gazing over his fish pond and at photos of the long dead heroes of Horta, and left with the distinct impression that this part of BCN has somehow maintained the small-town feeling of what actually used to be just a pueblo next to the growing city of Barcelona.
But the journey didn’t end there. I escaped from Antonio’s sermon, por fin, and got back on the bliggity blue line to take a nap while I rode from end to end. A woman tapped me on the shoulder and I shot awake. We’re here. Cornella.
There’s something immediately reminiscent of Horta. Tranquility. As soon as you leave BCN and head for the afueras, everything’s more chill. When you leave the metro station in Cornella, you can choose from six different typical bars in the first block. So that’s nice. A look to the right will reveal a massive Eroski commercial center. The golden arches of McDonald’s grace the sky, along with a 14-screen cinema. So that’s nice.
The Rambla d’Josep Anselm Clave begins at the corner of the plaza a block away from the metro stop. There’s a traditional granja bar called Bao-Bab in the plaza with a nice terrace from which you can watch little Cornellanians play on the swing set.
A stroll down the rambla reveals a whole lot of nothing, so I stop a middle-aged woman and ask if she lives there. She does, in fact, so I ask if she could direct me to a nice park or an original bar, or a beautiful building. A half-sour laugh slips past her lips. No hay mucho ambiente aqui, she tells me. There isn’t much of anything. There used to be some nice macias (traditional Catalan farmhouses) but they’ve been torn down to build these (shitty) apartments. The people here esta acostumbrada to going into Barcelona for their ambiente. At least it’s bien comunicado (metro, tram, bus and renfe).
More walking doesn’t prove her wrong. Even the castle in this place is relatively bland. The buildings are typical, which is to say ugly modern-industrial. Almost every bar is just like every other. If you turn right at the end of the rambla, there’s one original bar called Pachanga. Copas and latin hip shaking in a cool atmosphere. There are three discos, Malalts de Festa, Bora-Bora, and another. They’re all, according to one resident, normal, commercial Spanish clubs. So that’s nice. Oh, and there’s a Corte Ingles tambien. So that’s nice. Or is it?
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Spanish Stereotypes
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 8
July 7 - 13, 2006
On a stifling day this coming August a couple will stroll along Las Ramblas. Beneath the shade of their new, colossal sombreros they’ll pass a few restaurants. They’ll sit in a terrace outside a taverna with white walls with rounded corners and dark wooden beams supporting a low ceiling. A short waiter, a bit soggy around the midsection and lacking some of his salt-and-pepper hair, will come to the table and grunt, “Que te pongo?” The couple will be too excited to be bothered by his tone. They’ve read up, they’ve planned, they’ve traveled, and now, they’re finally here. The man will hold up one finger and say, “paella por favor senor.” The waiter will cringe at the accent and note down the request before the man adds, “and un jamon.” The waiter will scribble the last bit and ask, “Y para beber?” “Oh yes . . er . . sangria por favor.”
The pitcher of sangria will come out and the man will pour it out, thinking, “if only we had some entertainment,” when, out of the "peoplely" haze that is Las Ramblas, a guitarist and two dancers will appear clapping and stomping and strumming. The paella will be put down next and the travelers will dig in. Before they’ve finished, the rude little waiter will bring out the final touch, a massive pig’s leg, and slam it onto the table before going to town with a carving knife. Everything will be going perfectly. Almost.
Unbeknownst to the couple, that same day a bull will have finally toppled a matador and also will have escaped the ring. That bull will end up on Las Ramblas and, as luck will have it, will run full throttle into the man as the ice clinks in his glass, spearing him straight through, and continuing down the main boulevard with more than sangria dripping from its horns.
The man’s wife will drop, stunned, to her knees and scream, “Whyyyyyy?” Then she’ll stop, remembering where she is, and scream “Porqueeeeeeeeeeeeee?” The waiter will look at her and say, “Porque this is Espain!”
And there you have it. The power list. Toros, sangria, jamon, sombreros, paella, flamenco, rude waiters, and stifling heat. Shit . . . why even visit? But, of course, these power stereotypes have various levels of influence or even truth within Spanish culture, not to mention Barcelonian “this is Catalunya” culture.
To begin with, Toros. Bullfighting is so thoroughly a part of the Spanish stereotype that even Spanish people have adopted it. The great and noble bull graces their flags and shirts and the bumpers of their cars. So, why not kill one? But the fact is, you are far more likely to see one of these impressive creatures slowly and cheaply mutilated far, far from Barcelona. Bullfighting is illegal in Catalunya, and, on the whole, quite unpopular. The symbol, however, doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Next . . . sangria. Cool, refreshing, fruity, and alcoholic, sangria is an easy one to understand. It’s just plain gooooood. And although its icy deliciousness makes more sense in the south, where only ice and alcohol make summers tolerable, sangria is as integral to Spain as ice-cold lemonade is to the USA.
Jamon is the sangre of Espana. I realize it is not liquid, but have no doubt! Pig meat flows through the veins of almost each and every Spaniard. Is there any part of this animal you guys don’t eat? Jamon es jefe.
And then there were sombreros. But the question is, where the !@#% did these things come from. The answer is Mexico. At some point, the world got confused and started to think that large round hats somehow define Spain. No, they do not. Spain does have her own versions of the cowboy hat, for lack of a better word, but it is not the Mexican sombrero, does not have little white bolitas hanging all over it, and is not bright sea-foam green. Take it off! You look retarded.
As for flamenco, people who come to Barcelona expecting authentic and fantastic flamenco will have to look muy hard to find it. Flamenco is from the south, from Andalucia, and while it’s a definite Spanish power stereotype, it isn’t a very present reality here in Catalunya.
Paella is originally from Valencia and like sangria is just plain good. Not many visitors expect the little prawn heads that stare them in the face. Nor do they expect to be expected to rip the head off and basically suck the meat out of that little exoskeleton. To them we say: Paella has pretty much established itself as the Spanish flagship dish enjoyed by both natives and foreigners, so pull that head off and start suckin’.
Oh, and the waiters who put those paellas down really are rude. But you can’t really blame them. Without tips, who would really want to be a waiter?
Issue # 8
July 7 - 13, 2006
On a stifling day this coming August a couple will stroll along Las Ramblas. Beneath the shade of their new, colossal sombreros they’ll pass a few restaurants. They’ll sit in a terrace outside a taverna with white walls with rounded corners and dark wooden beams supporting a low ceiling. A short waiter, a bit soggy around the midsection and lacking some of his salt-and-pepper hair, will come to the table and grunt, “Que te pongo?” The couple will be too excited to be bothered by his tone. They’ve read up, they’ve planned, they’ve traveled, and now, they’re finally here. The man will hold up one finger and say, “paella por favor senor.” The waiter will cringe at the accent and note down the request before the man adds, “and un jamon.” The waiter will scribble the last bit and ask, “Y para beber?” “Oh yes . . er . . sangria por favor.”
The pitcher of sangria will come out and the man will pour it out, thinking, “if only we had some entertainment,” when, out of the "peoplely" haze that is Las Ramblas, a guitarist and two dancers will appear clapping and stomping and strumming. The paella will be put down next and the travelers will dig in. Before they’ve finished, the rude little waiter will bring out the final touch, a massive pig’s leg, and slam it onto the table before going to town with a carving knife. Everything will be going perfectly. Almost.
Unbeknownst to the couple, that same day a bull will have finally toppled a matador and also will have escaped the ring. That bull will end up on Las Ramblas and, as luck will have it, will run full throttle into the man as the ice clinks in his glass, spearing him straight through, and continuing down the main boulevard with more than sangria dripping from its horns.
The man’s wife will drop, stunned, to her knees and scream, “Whyyyyyy?” Then she’ll stop, remembering where she is, and scream “Porqueeeeeeeeeeeeee?” The waiter will look at her and say, “Porque this is Espain!”
And there you have it. The power list. Toros, sangria, jamon, sombreros, paella, flamenco, rude waiters, and stifling heat. Shit . . . why even visit? But, of course, these power stereotypes have various levels of influence or even truth within Spanish culture, not to mention Barcelonian “this is Catalunya” culture.
To begin with, Toros. Bullfighting is so thoroughly a part of the Spanish stereotype that even Spanish people have adopted it. The great and noble bull graces their flags and shirts and the bumpers of their cars. So, why not kill one? But the fact is, you are far more likely to see one of these impressive creatures slowly and cheaply mutilated far, far from Barcelona. Bullfighting is illegal in Catalunya, and, on the whole, quite unpopular. The symbol, however, doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
Next . . . sangria. Cool, refreshing, fruity, and alcoholic, sangria is an easy one to understand. It’s just plain gooooood. And although its icy deliciousness makes more sense in the south, where only ice and alcohol make summers tolerable, sangria is as integral to Spain as ice-cold lemonade is to the USA.
Jamon is the sangre of Espana. I realize it is not liquid, but have no doubt! Pig meat flows through the veins of almost each and every Spaniard. Is there any part of this animal you guys don’t eat? Jamon es jefe.
And then there were sombreros. But the question is, where the !@#% did these things come from. The answer is Mexico. At some point, the world got confused and started to think that large round hats somehow define Spain. No, they do not. Spain does have her own versions of the cowboy hat, for lack of a better word, but it is not the Mexican sombrero, does not have little white bolitas hanging all over it, and is not bright sea-foam green. Take it off! You look retarded.
As for flamenco, people who come to Barcelona expecting authentic and fantastic flamenco will have to look muy hard to find it. Flamenco is from the south, from Andalucia, and while it’s a definite Spanish power stereotype, it isn’t a very present reality here in Catalunya.
Paella is originally from Valencia and like sangria is just plain good. Not many visitors expect the little prawn heads that stare them in the face. Nor do they expect to be expected to rip the head off and basically suck the meat out of that little exoskeleton. To them we say: Paella has pretty much established itself as the Spanish flagship dish enjoyed by both natives and foreigners, so pull that head off and start suckin’.
Oh, and the waiters who put those paellas down really are rude. But you can’t really blame them. Without tips, who would really want to be a waiter?
El Faxton
NOT Published in BCNWEEK
The question is why?
Issue # To Be Divulged
This emulation/retort was written as an inspired response to the column titled, La Fatxa, in BCNWEEK. Please read her column in order to better understand the debate. And yes, there are grammatical errors in her column on purpose. She ain't from round 'eer . . .
Am pots ferr uno entrepan seeeeus plow? Is that correct? No it’s not friggin’ correct! “You me makey sandwich pleeeaz?” You like it when we try to speak the precious Catalan. But where are you? In the groups of guiris roaming these Catalan street all through the Catalan night, where are the Catalans? Sure! You say. We are not guiris! Ha ha! And then you wonder, why do these guiris speak that nasty castellano? They are here, in Catalunya. There are, for sure, various reasons for this. We know some. But I want to ask you Barcelona Catalans, who graciously accept our guiri dinero, who make so much money off of our horrible guiri tourisme . . . why do you not want to have a drink with us?
Lucky me! I have met some of you! Some of you Jordis like to play basketball. It is a guiri sport. I have seen you there. And we talk about plans for the night, plans for the weekend. It’s my birthday party next week. And, yes, we are guiris. We are Americans, Germans, Frenchies, Africans, Catalan-Morrocans, Mexicans. Well, maybe not the Catalan-Morrocan. But for some reason, he has a different punt d’vista. He comes with us. But you Catalans! You never come! I do not see you after dark in your own city. And for this, I do not know much of your culture. But I have questions my crazy Catalans. Questions, my pixapins! Meus kamakus!
Why do you love poop and pooping? I rename you “Cacalunya” je je je. Why do you make circles to do that silly dance? Hop hop hoppy . . . hoppy hop hop! Why didn’t I learn to say “collons!” from you, my Catalan friend, when I stepped in that pile of Catalan gos poo in the street. In my guiri country we pick up our dog’s excrement. But no! I learned to say “collons” from an American movie dubbed in Catalan on TV3. Why do you do this my pixapins? Can you not see the actor’s faces do not match the words they say?
No! Do not speak! Xapa! I do not want you to be angry. Do you not see? I want to see you more. I want you to teach us, Barcelona Catalans. Tell us how to tell Catalan girls that they are beautiful, or even that we have a mighty botifarra in our pants. Show us how to shake it like the circles of grandmas. I will poo in a nativity scene. Tell me where to sign up!
The question is why?
Issue # To Be Divulged
This emulation/retort was written as an inspired response to the column titled, La Fatxa, in BCNWEEK. Please read her column in order to better understand the debate. And yes, there are grammatical errors in her column on purpose. She ain't from round 'eer . . .
Am pots ferr uno entrepan seeeeus plow? Is that correct? No it’s not friggin’ correct! “You me makey sandwich pleeeaz?” You like it when we try to speak the precious Catalan. But where are you? In the groups of guiris roaming these Catalan street all through the Catalan night, where are the Catalans? Sure! You say. We are not guiris! Ha ha! And then you wonder, why do these guiris speak that nasty castellano? They are here, in Catalunya. There are, for sure, various reasons for this. We know some. But I want to ask you Barcelona Catalans, who graciously accept our guiri dinero, who make so much money off of our horrible guiri tourisme . . . why do you not want to have a drink with us?
Lucky me! I have met some of you! Some of you Jordis like to play basketball. It is a guiri sport. I have seen you there. And we talk about plans for the night, plans for the weekend. It’s my birthday party next week. And, yes, we are guiris. We are Americans, Germans, Frenchies, Africans, Catalan-Morrocans, Mexicans. Well, maybe not the Catalan-Morrocan. But for some reason, he has a different punt d’vista. He comes with us. But you Catalans! You never come! I do not see you after dark in your own city. And for this, I do not know much of your culture. But I have questions my crazy Catalans. Questions, my pixapins! Meus kamakus!
Why do you love poop and pooping? I rename you “Cacalunya” je je je. Why do you make circles to do that silly dance? Hop hop hoppy . . . hoppy hop hop! Why didn’t I learn to say “collons!” from you, my Catalan friend, when I stepped in that pile of Catalan gos poo in the street. In my guiri country we pick up our dog’s excrement. But no! I learned to say “collons” from an American movie dubbed in Catalan on TV3. Why do you do this my pixapins? Can you not see the actor’s faces do not match the words they say?
No! Do not speak! Xapa! I do not want you to be angry. Do you not see? I want to see you more. I want you to teach us, Barcelona Catalans. Tell us how to tell Catalan girls that they are beautiful, or even that we have a mighty botifarra in our pants. Show us how to shake it like the circles of grandmas. I will poo in a nativity scene. Tell me where to sign up!
Old Man on a Park Bench (Figuras # 2)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 8
July 7 - 13, 2006
I hid there for some time, crouching behind an arbusto so as not to disturb them. If you startle them, they might stand up e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y slowly and begin to waddle away. Fortunately though, elderly Spanish men are easy to spot. But don’t be fooled! Beneath the abuelo uniform lies the real Spain . . . back when men were hombres, and they all wore the same shirt. The ensemble is unmistakable and I knew just where to find it; sittin’ on a park bench.
Start with brown loafers over dark socks. Dark slacks, maybe pin-striped, and held up (and I mean UP) by a dark leather belt so worn that half the shine is long gone. There’s a handkerchief in the back hip pocket. A tucked-in, button-down, used-to-be-white or maybe faded yellow shirt comes next, and then a classic watch, some glasses, a conservative haircut, and a cane. A viejo may lack one or two of these trinkets, but the uniform doesn’t vary much.
I approach the bench pretending to be a guiri writing in his guiri notebook. As I take notes, this noble species glances at me occasionally but I don’t worry. I write in English and I’m 99.99 percent sure that these dudes don’t speak a lick of it. What they do speak doesn’t sound much like Spanish either, at least not to these guiri ears, and I struggle to get the gist of the conversation as they verbally joust back and forth.
I should have guessed . . . futbol. They’re having the same conversation they’ve had for 50 years, maybe more. “Es que . . it takes 11 jugadores to win the World Cup, not two or three.” “Hombre, claro.” I fail to follow most of the conversation, but hear, “Have you seen how Ronaldhino dances?” I certainly haven’t. That question ended the football conversation.
Then, one of them puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out ( . . . what could it be? . . ) a shiny, new Nokia mobile. This is abuelo uniform 2006. His friend grabs it from him and tries to feed it to a passing dog who shows interest in consuming it. I laugh out loud and they look at me, laughing as well, and there’s my in! “Excuse me, senores, do ustedes come here often?”
Everyday. But why? Santiago Rafael waves his glasses in the air as he talks, like punctuation. Siempre vengo aqui para despejar de mi mujer. It takes a minute to understand he comes to get a break from the wife. I ask his friends to tell me a story about him and Fernando Blanco da Silva (no joke, that’s a real name) tells me they used to call him Don Capullo because he always had red cheeks thanks to the whisky. Buenisimo.
To get revenge, Santiago tells me old Fernando used to be a torero, or, matador, and that once, he saw a rat and got so scared he jumped off the small hill he was standing on at the time and tore up all his clothes in the process. “What kind of torero is afraid of rats?” he laughs. Fernando isn’t laughing.
And what about your friend over here? It turns out that Juan Rodriguez, old-man-on-a-park-bench number three, smacked a kid once at that bus stop right over there! The chaval tenia mala leche (bad mood) and punched the glass. Juan slapped him around a bit. “These jovenes,” says Juan, “estos jovenes no saben.” All three nod their heads in silent agreement, and keep sitting on that bench.
Issue # 8
July 7 - 13, 2006
I hid there for some time, crouching behind an arbusto so as not to disturb them. If you startle them, they might stand up e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y slowly and begin to waddle away. Fortunately though, elderly Spanish men are easy to spot. But don’t be fooled! Beneath the abuelo uniform lies the real Spain . . . back when men were hombres, and they all wore the same shirt. The ensemble is unmistakable and I knew just where to find it; sittin’ on a park bench.
Start with brown loafers over dark socks. Dark slacks, maybe pin-striped, and held up (and I mean UP) by a dark leather belt so worn that half the shine is long gone. There’s a handkerchief in the back hip pocket. A tucked-in, button-down, used-to-be-white or maybe faded yellow shirt comes next, and then a classic watch, some glasses, a conservative haircut, and a cane. A viejo may lack one or two of these trinkets, but the uniform doesn’t vary much.
I approach the bench pretending to be a guiri writing in his guiri notebook. As I take notes, this noble species glances at me occasionally but I don’t worry. I write in English and I’m 99.99 percent sure that these dudes don’t speak a lick of it. What they do speak doesn’t sound much like Spanish either, at least not to these guiri ears, and I struggle to get the gist of the conversation as they verbally joust back and forth.
I should have guessed . . . futbol. They’re having the same conversation they’ve had for 50 years, maybe more. “Es que . . it takes 11 jugadores to win the World Cup, not two or three.” “Hombre, claro.” I fail to follow most of the conversation, but hear, “Have you seen how Ronaldhino dances?” I certainly haven’t. That question ended the football conversation.
Then, one of them puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out ( . . . what could it be? . . ) a shiny, new Nokia mobile. This is abuelo uniform 2006. His friend grabs it from him and tries to feed it to a passing dog who shows interest in consuming it. I laugh out loud and they look at me, laughing as well, and there’s my in! “Excuse me, senores, do ustedes come here often?”
Everyday. But why? Santiago Rafael waves his glasses in the air as he talks, like punctuation. Siempre vengo aqui para despejar de mi mujer. It takes a minute to understand he comes to get a break from the wife. I ask his friends to tell me a story about him and Fernando Blanco da Silva (no joke, that’s a real name) tells me they used to call him Don Capullo because he always had red cheeks thanks to the whisky. Buenisimo.
To get revenge, Santiago tells me old Fernando used to be a torero, or, matador, and that once, he saw a rat and got so scared he jumped off the small hill he was standing on at the time and tore up all his clothes in the process. “What kind of torero is afraid of rats?” he laughs. Fernando isn’t laughing.
And what about your friend over here? It turns out that Juan Rodriguez, old-man-on-a-park-bench number three, smacked a kid once at that bus stop right over there! The chaval tenia mala leche (bad mood) and punched the glass. Juan slapped him around a bit. “These jovenes,” says Juan, “estos jovenes no saben.” All three nod their heads in silent agreement, and keep sitting on that bench.
Monday, July 03, 2006
The Beerman (Figuras # 1)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue 7
June 30 - July 6
His hands raise the beers, his first two fingers slung through the plastic loops that choke seagulls and drown pelicans. I recognize this tio. I've bought from him before. Never talked to him before, though. He doesn't speak much Spanish. Quiero hacer una entrevista. Que? En-tre-vista . . . in-ter-view? He shakes his head and shruggs his shoulders. That’s international communication. He’s from Pakistan. Then he nods toward his friend across the street. I cross and start over again. I get a similar response, poco Spanish poco English. Interview? Que? I want to talk to you. This times he understands, but refuses. The distrust bleeds through his eyes. Also Pakistani eyes. The fourth cerveza vendor I approach is younger, wearing a plain orange t-shirt and smoking. His Pakistani eyes are bloodshot but wide open. He's hesistant too, but something in those wide-open eyes says yes.
Sahi has been in Barcelona for two years. Finding out the details of his life is a linguistic challenge while I follow him from place to place. For the first part of his two years here his brother gave him money to survive. I wonder how he spent that time (forgot to ask) because his Spanish is quite poor. Back in Pakistan he didn't need a job. His mother and father took care of him, gave him, "lunch, dinner" and home. They also gave him the money to leave when he expressed his desire. It's your life, they told him. But whatever grace period he had is now up and it shows in his eyes, which are not the eyes of a man who sleeps much. He pulls out another of his cheap brand cigarrettes and cracks one of the beers he stands there holding silently. He's not much of a salesmen. And if I'd been more alert I wouldn't have asked if he is religious. He was, after all, standing there smoking and drinking a brew-dawg.
He works during the day in a place to remain unnamed because he works there illegally. It's a menial job, which is to say any special skills he may possess are not required. Let's just say he chops things. Then at night he sells Estrella cans and those dirt-cheap lagers that I avoid when I purchase my street beer. He usually gets home at about 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, where he might talk for a while with one of the 8 roommates that share his 3-bedroom apartment in El Raval. Then he's up again for the day job at about 9. For fun? No fun. Work fun. He pays 250 euros for his room, food and phone included. That's cheap rent. So where does the money go? Home to Pakistan.
Or that's what he said. To tell the truth, I don't believe him. His parents had enough money to support him and to send him here. He doesn't want to go home. "I like this culture." He wants to meet a girl, but not a Pakistani one, a European one. It seems he wants to live here, to be a perma guiri. We'll see. Maybe the money goes home, but maybe it's stockpiling, an immigrants goldmine, an immigrants future in B-to-the-CN.
Issue 7
June 30 - July 6
His hands raise the beers, his first two fingers slung through the plastic loops that choke seagulls and drown pelicans. I recognize this tio. I've bought from him before. Never talked to him before, though. He doesn't speak much Spanish. Quiero hacer una entrevista. Que? En-tre-vista . . . in-ter-view? He shakes his head and shruggs his shoulders. That’s international communication. He’s from Pakistan. Then he nods toward his friend across the street. I cross and start over again. I get a similar response, poco Spanish poco English. Interview? Que? I want to talk to you. This times he understands, but refuses. The distrust bleeds through his eyes. Also Pakistani eyes. The fourth cerveza vendor I approach is younger, wearing a plain orange t-shirt and smoking. His Pakistani eyes are bloodshot but wide open. He's hesistant too, but something in those wide-open eyes says yes.
Sahi has been in Barcelona for two years. Finding out the details of his life is a linguistic challenge while I follow him from place to place. For the first part of his two years here his brother gave him money to survive. I wonder how he spent that time (forgot to ask) because his Spanish is quite poor. Back in Pakistan he didn't need a job. His mother and father took care of him, gave him, "lunch, dinner" and home. They also gave him the money to leave when he expressed his desire. It's your life, they told him. But whatever grace period he had is now up and it shows in his eyes, which are not the eyes of a man who sleeps much. He pulls out another of his cheap brand cigarrettes and cracks one of the beers he stands there holding silently. He's not much of a salesmen. And if I'd been more alert I wouldn't have asked if he is religious. He was, after all, standing there smoking and drinking a brew-dawg.
He works during the day in a place to remain unnamed because he works there illegally. It's a menial job, which is to say any special skills he may possess are not required. Let's just say he chops things. Then at night he sells Estrella cans and those dirt-cheap lagers that I avoid when I purchase my street beer. He usually gets home at about 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, where he might talk for a while with one of the 8 roommates that share his 3-bedroom apartment in El Raval. Then he's up again for the day job at about 9. For fun? No fun. Work fun. He pays 250 euros for his room, food and phone included. That's cheap rent. So where does the money go? Home to Pakistan.
Or that's what he said. To tell the truth, I don't believe him. His parents had enough money to support him and to send him here. He doesn't want to go home. "I like this culture." He wants to meet a girl, but not a Pakistani one, a European one. It seems he wants to live here, to be a perma guiri. We'll see. Maybe the money goes home, but maybe it's stockpiling, an immigrants goldmine, an immigrants future in B-to-the-CN.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Anarchism's Last Stand
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 6
June 23 - 29, 2006
Hookers. Drugs. Dark alleyways glimmering with leftover rain. Slowly shifting shadows. Tight old streets with too much happening. A man walks by with a fresh black eye swelling up on his face. Maybe he’s been there. Another man passes, skinny and gaunt like characters in a Kirchner painting. Dark clothing, dirty skin, and sunken eyes stumbling past. Welcome to the dark side. Only a few steps from the junkies and it’s time to take a right. I've been told I can find who I’m looking for here. From the looks of things, they didn’t lie. Calle de Robadors must be named so for a reason. Empty pockets. Head up, eyes down. At number 25, the black sheep of the political world. Total darkness. The complete unknown. People that never got any mention in the textbooks. Not in guiriland at least. But I’m not in Kansas anymore. I’m on the dark side of El Raval . . . hunting anarchists.
I’ve walked by buildings with the anarchist “A” spray-painted all over. They were the same buildings with the devastated entrances, broken windows, mutilated mannequins posed in balconies, skeletons hanging from walls. A friend said, “Okupas,” I drew a blank. The idea of Anarchism for me simply doesn’t wash. And after two years in the city, my idea isn’t much clearer. I’ve seen them, their dogs, their big boots, their mohawks. Who are these people? Hence the bar.
The metal grate is half down, covering everything save a sticker promising any fascists in the vicinity a pair of hostias. So much for nonviolence. I bend down to see a motley crew of hombres on a motley crew of sofas but when I knock on the dirty glass, they think I’m mistaken. Another knock gets me into a well-lit (what happened to the dark side?), crowded and dirty (that’s more like it) medium-sized room. There’s one table I expected to see; full of those big black boots, mohawks and shaved heads, black mesh shirts over black bras. Anarchist sexuality. Weird. But it turns out they occupy nothing. They pay rent. I feel cheated. The other tables are “normal.”
What’s the deal? This is the lightest “dark” place I’ve ever been. The street outside is more intimidating. Then I start to read the walls. They are enlightening. Posters, flyers, framed pictures, amateur art, and printouts are everywhere. Free wall space is covered with writing. The law is a spider-web that traps the flies and lets the birds pass through. The picture above the basic kitchen-counter-of-a-bar is of the Catalan police, Mossos d’Esquadra but the “M” has been changed to a “G” making them “Dogs d’Esquadra.” Up high near the ceiling: Prison is daily murder. Another poster speaks pure Anarchism, Better drugged than organized, and when you think about all the bad that’s been done thanks to consolidated power, it makes some sense. In the bathroom (which is not for the faint of heart) there is a keeper scrawled in permanent marker: If at any moment you find yourself on the side of the majority, it’s time to reflect.
At it’s worst this place is dim, not dark. It’s like a frat house with a political conscience and no elitism. It’s stimulating, borderline inspirational. But it ain’t clean. If you're a clean freak, this is one of the darker places you could go. But if you’re a liberal, transplanted guiri you’ll like it. But get your dark fix back in the street.
Issue # 6
June 23 - 29, 2006
Hookers. Drugs. Dark alleyways glimmering with leftover rain. Slowly shifting shadows. Tight old streets with too much happening. A man walks by with a fresh black eye swelling up on his face. Maybe he’s been there. Another man passes, skinny and gaunt like characters in a Kirchner painting. Dark clothing, dirty skin, and sunken eyes stumbling past. Welcome to the dark side. Only a few steps from the junkies and it’s time to take a right. I've been told I can find who I’m looking for here. From the looks of things, they didn’t lie. Calle de Robadors must be named so for a reason. Empty pockets. Head up, eyes down. At number 25, the black sheep of the political world. Total darkness. The complete unknown. People that never got any mention in the textbooks. Not in guiriland at least. But I’m not in Kansas anymore. I’m on the dark side of El Raval . . . hunting anarchists.
I’ve walked by buildings with the anarchist “A” spray-painted all over. They were the same buildings with the devastated entrances, broken windows, mutilated mannequins posed in balconies, skeletons hanging from walls. A friend said, “Okupas,” I drew a blank. The idea of Anarchism for me simply doesn’t wash. And after two years in the city, my idea isn’t much clearer. I’ve seen them, their dogs, their big boots, their mohawks. Who are these people? Hence the bar.
The metal grate is half down, covering everything save a sticker promising any fascists in the vicinity a pair of hostias. So much for nonviolence. I bend down to see a motley crew of hombres on a motley crew of sofas but when I knock on the dirty glass, they think I’m mistaken. Another knock gets me into a well-lit (what happened to the dark side?), crowded and dirty (that’s more like it) medium-sized room. There’s one table I expected to see; full of those big black boots, mohawks and shaved heads, black mesh shirts over black bras. Anarchist sexuality. Weird. But it turns out they occupy nothing. They pay rent. I feel cheated. The other tables are “normal.”
What’s the deal? This is the lightest “dark” place I’ve ever been. The street outside is more intimidating. Then I start to read the walls. They are enlightening. Posters, flyers, framed pictures, amateur art, and printouts are everywhere. Free wall space is covered with writing. The law is a spider-web that traps the flies and lets the birds pass through. The picture above the basic kitchen-counter-of-a-bar is of the Catalan police, Mossos d’Esquadra but the “M” has been changed to a “G” making them “Dogs d’Esquadra.” Up high near the ceiling: Prison is daily murder. Another poster speaks pure Anarchism, Better drugged than organized, and when you think about all the bad that’s been done thanks to consolidated power, it makes some sense. In the bathroom (which is not for the faint of heart) there is a keeper scrawled in permanent marker: If at any moment you find yourself on the side of the majority, it’s time to reflect.
At it’s worst this place is dim, not dark. It’s like a frat house with a political conscience and no elitism. It’s stimulating, borderline inspirational. But it ain’t clean. If you're a clean freak, this is one of the darker places you could go. But if you’re a liberal, transplanted guiri you’ll like it. But get your dark fix back in the street.
El Poble Parla (Our "Hardly-Scientific" Poll)
As commercial advertising around Barcelona gets overshadowed by two small dos-letter words, SI and NO, political booths from nearly every party are put up on Las Ramblas. Gisele and her little white bunny rabbit may still reign over Via Laetana, but she can hardly compete with hundreds of triangular structures wrapped around countless light posts that read “space reserved for political propaganda.” The time has finally arrived to vote on the famous, 27-years-in-the-making Estatut de Catalunya. So BCN WEEK asked the people. Hola people. Are you ready to accept the version of the Estatut the government, under Zapatero (“zeta pe”) and his PSOE party, sent back looking like panBimbo with no crust? Or, are you Catalans indignant, unsatisfied, and willing to fight another 27 years for those clauses Madrid cut out? What’s it going to be? SI or NO?
In our poll of 20 Spanish citizens of voting age, 12 felt that the Estatut would be a positive step forward for Catalunya and told BCN WEEK they are going to vote YES. Only one of them said he would vote NO, and two more voters remain undecided. Of course, that leaves five voters unaccounted for. These five told us, in one way or another, that they wouldn’t be voting. A few of their reasons included: “I don’t know what it’s about. When is it?”; “All politicians are mangis, mafiosos, chorizos... like in Marbella”; “I don’t think I’ll vote. The truth is it falls on Sunday and on Sundays no suelo hacer nada”; and, “I suppose not because I haven’t read it.”
That last reason brings us to another interesting question. Have you actually read the Estatut? Of those polled, a fat 12 haven’t read any of it. That’s more than half. Only one of the other eight citizens interviewed claimed to have read more than 30% of the document. A common response to the question from the other seven was, “por encima.”That basically means, “I glanced at it,” which we take to mean, “Not really.”
That aside, it seems the significant majority of those planning to vote are going to vote YES. Will YES be the clear winner? Not so fast PSOE!! While you and your Estatut have won the majority of votes in our little poll, there is one thing working against you. No, it’s not the fact that almost everyone thinks your propaganda is “false”, “pesada”, “ugly”, “attack[ing]”, or, “like an ad for laundry detergent.” But what really might foil your plans is the fact that of the 20 constituents interviewed, half didn’t know the voting date. They might be planning on voting YES, but if they show up late, it isn’t gonna help you much. Try less attacking and more educating.
And lastly, it occured to us that guirismight care to share their opinions on the Estatut. However, finding guiris who know about this historic legislation is like finding a thin person in Ohio. Get lookin’! After receiving a “what are they doing?”, a “huh?” or two, and a “Fuck! I don’t know”, we finally found a couple of transplanted foreigners who felt the Estatut would affect them. How? The guiris who’ve assimilated into the system here will face a proliferation of the Catalan language. More and more universities and other institutions will be operating in Catalan. So on June 18th, if the real citizens vote yes, we guiris will have to ask ourselves, “Parlem catala?”
In our poll of 20 Spanish citizens of voting age, 12 felt that the Estatut would be a positive step forward for Catalunya and told BCN WEEK they are going to vote YES. Only one of them said he would vote NO, and two more voters remain undecided. Of course, that leaves five voters unaccounted for. These five told us, in one way or another, that they wouldn’t be voting. A few of their reasons included: “I don’t know what it’s about. When is it?”; “All politicians are mangis, mafiosos, chorizos... like in Marbella”; “I don’t think I’ll vote. The truth is it falls on Sunday and on Sundays no suelo hacer nada”; and, “I suppose not because I haven’t read it.”
That last reason brings us to another interesting question. Have you actually read the Estatut? Of those polled, a fat 12 haven’t read any of it. That’s more than half. Only one of the other eight citizens interviewed claimed to have read more than 30% of the document. A common response to the question from the other seven was, “por encima.”That basically means, “I glanced at it,” which we take to mean, “Not really.”
That aside, it seems the significant majority of those planning to vote are going to vote YES. Will YES be the clear winner? Not so fast PSOE!! While you and your Estatut have won the majority of votes in our little poll, there is one thing working against you. No, it’s not the fact that almost everyone thinks your propaganda is “false”, “pesada”, “ugly”, “attack[ing]”, or, “like an ad for laundry detergent.” But what really might foil your plans is the fact that of the 20 constituents interviewed, half didn’t know the voting date. They might be planning on voting YES, but if they show up late, it isn’t gonna help you much. Try less attacking and more educating.
And lastly, it occured to us that guirismight care to share their opinions on the Estatut. However, finding guiris who know about this historic legislation is like finding a thin person in Ohio. Get lookin’! After receiving a “what are they doing?”, a “huh?” or two, and a “Fuck! I don’t know”, we finally found a couple of transplanted foreigners who felt the Estatut would affect them. How? The guiris who’ve assimilated into the system here will face a proliferation of the Catalan language. More and more universities and other institutions will be operating in Catalan. So on June 18th, if the real citizens vote yes, we guiris will have to ask ourselves, “Parlem catala?”
DJ Spinna (Review - June 1st, 2006)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue #4
June 9 - 15, 2006
After work I dragged my ass out of the train in Plaza Catalunya and down Portal d’Angel, crossed
Layetana, past the Spar mini-market on Sant Pere Mes Alt and walked on home to the worst possible thing awaiting a tired Barcelonian after a long day of work... a friend visiting on vacation. “Yo son I’m Theo Shasta let’s go out!” And out we go. After a red bull-like substance and a brief run-in with the gestapo-like Sala Apolo security force (“Somebody get this a guy a neck”), we climbed the stairs to the sweet sonido of DJ Spinna. There are a couple of tracks by Spinna in my iTunes but I’m far from an expert. So I ask my aformentioned friend and virtual hip-hop encyclopedia: “Yo, son, now that you got me out the house, what’s the deal with this Spinna?” As it turns out, in the mid to late 90’s, Spinna was one of the kings of the White Label Brooklyn 12-inch scene — producing classic cuts and remixes for artists like De La Soul, Les Nubians, Eminemand his own group, The Jig Mastas. While his production remains some of the most soulful in hip-hop, he’s now known for his house and dance music mixes and his Stevie Wonder parties in NYC, which are apparently the shiz-natto-BAM! — and quite difficult to get into.
I’m accustomed to the Apolo during a rap show (half full and clustered near the stage). However, last Thurday night dancing people were spread everywhere and evenly from bar to stage. It was all ass shaking, hip gyrating, arm gesturing, hand waving craziness. Spinna kept at it for more than two hours, dreads swinging, cutting and changing rhythms. He murdered it with a hip-hop classics section — laced, like the entire show, with soul, soul, soul. According to my visiting guest/ human encyclopedia, free soul is what he’s been about for a decade. “Soul, funk, dancing and not giving a fuck. He did whatever the fuck he felt like doing at the time. Everything he did he was good at.”
Issue #4
June 9 - 15, 2006
After work I dragged my ass out of the train in Plaza Catalunya and down Portal d’Angel, crossed
Layetana, past the Spar mini-market on Sant Pere Mes Alt and walked on home to the worst possible thing awaiting a tired Barcelonian after a long day of work... a friend visiting on vacation. “Yo son I’m Theo Shasta let’s go out!” And out we go. After a red bull-like substance and a brief run-in with the gestapo-like Sala Apolo security force (“Somebody get this a guy a neck”), we climbed the stairs to the sweet sonido of DJ Spinna. There are a couple of tracks by Spinna in my iTunes but I’m far from an expert. So I ask my aformentioned friend and virtual hip-hop encyclopedia: “Yo, son, now that you got me out the house, what’s the deal with this Spinna?” As it turns out, in the mid to late 90’s, Spinna was one of the kings of the White Label Brooklyn 12-inch scene — producing classic cuts and remixes for artists like De La Soul, Les Nubians, Eminemand his own group, The Jig Mastas. While his production remains some of the most soulful in hip-hop, he’s now known for his house and dance music mixes and his Stevie Wonder parties in NYC, which are apparently the shiz-natto-BAM! — and quite difficult to get into.
I’m accustomed to the Apolo during a rap show (half full and clustered near the stage). However, last Thurday night dancing people were spread everywhere and evenly from bar to stage. It was all ass shaking, hip gyrating, arm gesturing, hand waving craziness. Spinna kept at it for more than two hours, dreads swinging, cutting and changing rhythms. He murdered it with a hip-hop classics section — laced, like the entire show, with soul, soul, soul. According to my visiting guest/ human encyclopedia, free soul is what he’s been about for a decade. “Soul, funk, dancing and not giving a fuck. He did whatever the fuck he felt like doing at the time. Everything he did he was good at.”
KRS-ONE (Review May 22nd, 2006)
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue #2
May 26 - June 1, 2006
“This is a mic check. Check,check one . ..check one ...one,one,one,one.” What happened to two? Three? If you were waiting for the “two”last Sunday in the Apolo, you walked home disappointed. There was only One. There is only one KRS-One. For those who don’t know nada about hip-hop, KRS-One is one of her godfathers. Known as “the teacher” and most often criticized as too much of a preacher, his influence on hip-hop is unquestionable. KRS, as a part of Boogie Down Productions, built a forceful career on aggressive, socially pertinent lyrics for the people and similarly hard-hitting beats from his friend and DJ Scott La Rock, shot to death in 1987 while trying to stop a fight. KRS’s political lyrics have always kept him out of the mainstream and when he emphasized “Fuck MTV!” at the end of a verse last Sunday night, underground hip-hop heads in the house didn’t hesitate to cheer. A “fuck George W.Bush” was also warmly received.
Even without a presence in mainstream music culture, this One rapper has achieved fame and respect working with impressive energy to make himself, his music, and his message known.That’s what stood out Sunday night: energy. The Apolo wasn’t sold out; wasn’t filled to the brim. Hip-hop shows that are filled are rare here in Barcelona. But the crowd lacked for nothing when KRS hit the stage with several of his best known songs as starters including “MC’s Act Like They Don’t Know,” “South Bronx,” and what seems to be a worldwide favorite,“Sound of the Police.” Using the delicate art of MCing which, within hip-hop culture has about forty different meanings, perhaps the most important of which is Move the Crowd, KRS kept hands waving in the air (like they just didn’t care) and bodies jumping to the beat. The Apolo was infused with the unmistakable hip-hop energy unique to good hip-hop shows. And when he called local break-dancers to the stage (with the help of a Spanish translator, an idea that has never occurred to the other famous rappers that have played either the Apolo or Razzmatazz) his dedication to the street, and to the people was apparent. Later he called for beat boxers and two rose to the challenge. It was dope, impressive and inspiring to see breakers and boxers on stage doing their thing alongside one of the padres of the culture we adore. The end of the concert lagged a little, as KRS seemed to tire and complained about the sound equipment, lack of bass, and mic levels, but overall it was buenisimo. So,thanks for the show KRS, and thanks for teaching. And in the words of the late Sublime guitarist, Bradley Nowell,“In school they never taught ‘bout hamburgers or steak, Elijah, Mohammed or the Welfare State ... but I know ...and I know because of KRS-One.”
Issue #2
May 26 - June 1, 2006
“This is a mic check. Check,check one . ..check one ...one,one,one,one.” What happened to two? Three? If you were waiting for the “two”last Sunday in the Apolo, you walked home disappointed. There was only One. There is only one KRS-One. For those who don’t know nada about hip-hop, KRS-One is one of her godfathers. Known as “the teacher” and most often criticized as too much of a preacher, his influence on hip-hop is unquestionable. KRS, as a part of Boogie Down Productions, built a forceful career on aggressive, socially pertinent lyrics for the people and similarly hard-hitting beats from his friend and DJ Scott La Rock, shot to death in 1987 while trying to stop a fight. KRS’s political lyrics have always kept him out of the mainstream and when he emphasized “Fuck MTV!” at the end of a verse last Sunday night, underground hip-hop heads in the house didn’t hesitate to cheer. A “fuck George W.Bush” was also warmly received.
Even without a presence in mainstream music culture, this One rapper has achieved fame and respect working with impressive energy to make himself, his music, and his message known.That’s what stood out Sunday night: energy. The Apolo wasn’t sold out; wasn’t filled to the brim. Hip-hop shows that are filled are rare here in Barcelona. But the crowd lacked for nothing when KRS hit the stage with several of his best known songs as starters including “MC’s Act Like They Don’t Know,” “South Bronx,” and what seems to be a worldwide favorite,“Sound of the Police.” Using the delicate art of MCing which, within hip-hop culture has about forty different meanings, perhaps the most important of which is Move the Crowd, KRS kept hands waving in the air (like they just didn’t care) and bodies jumping to the beat. The Apolo was infused with the unmistakable hip-hop energy unique to good hip-hop shows. And when he called local break-dancers to the stage (with the help of a Spanish translator, an idea that has never occurred to the other famous rappers that have played either the Apolo or Razzmatazz) his dedication to the street, and to the people was apparent. Later he called for beat boxers and two rose to the challenge. It was dope, impressive and inspiring to see breakers and boxers on stage doing their thing alongside one of the padres of the culture we adore. The end of the concert lagged a little, as KRS seemed to tire and complained about the sound equipment, lack of bass, and mic levels, but overall it was buenisimo. So,thanks for the show KRS, and thanks for teaching. And in the words of the late Sublime guitarist, Bradley Nowell,“In school they never taught ‘bout hamburgers or steak, Elijah, Mohammed or the Welfare State ... but I know ...and I know because of KRS-One.”
Me Han Robado
Published in BCNWEEK
Issue #1
May 19 - 25, 2006
Kool G Rap once rapped, “Look behind you when you walk. That’s how it is, in the streets of New York.” Any New Yorker will tell you that mucho has changed in the Big Apple since Kool G first spit those lyrics. Many of them will reference former mayor Rudy Giuliani, known for cleaning up the city. Not many, however, are sure how, exactly, he did it. Isinuation spread. Giuliani had the homeless people, theives and trouble-makers liquified. Here in Barcelona, one might prescribe the same medicine for a similar problem, crime. No no, not violent crime. Theft in Barcelona is rampant. Within an hour of entering the police station on Nou de la Rambla I had already interviewed 12 different people with much the same story.
First, two young Swedish girls in town to finish their school project, a documentary on skateboarding. Their camera disappeared quickly from under their legs near MACBA, where any self-respecting skateboard-documentary-maker simply must be. Witnesses? Many. Help? None. Police? Bored.
Next, the Dutch girl, feeling utterlyteleurgesteld (I’m sorry, what@!#?) after her camera and bag were smoothly lifted while she was taking pictures of Barca fans celebrating at the fountain of Canaletas. Witnesses? Somewhere in the thousands. Help? Unlikely. Police? Pessimistic.
Third, an older woman from London, walking with her husband when a car pulled in front and two boys came from behind to snatch the bag containing money and some green tickets for some tourist something. How she felt in one word? “Very bad.” Witnesses? As many as are on Las Ramblas at any given moment. Shouts for help? Ignored. Police? Sigue igual, tio. Otro guiri, otro dia.
Fourth, a lovely Irish woman robbed while buying an ice cream (For the love of God! That is going too far!! Ice cream is supposed to be a pure thing, for children and summers and smiles!!! How dare they!?) She cried telling me the story. She was lovely.
All the stories collected there in the police station share several facts. Witnesses were always plentiful. Help was always non-existent. The police listened and questioned with passionless reason, the kind that reflects hopelessness, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. Oh wait. . .it does!
So what can be done? We could, I thought, follow the Giuliani model. So, I asked a friend whom I consider a real New Yorker his thoughts on how Giuliani achieved his goal. He responded, “he cleaned up NY by shutting down all the porno shops and increasing fines for public behavior i.e. drinking in the street, smoking pot, etc. He also instituted laws allowing police to arrest anyone for anything and. . .if they couldn’t find something to lock up a bum (homeless person) for, he instituted a law that stated that one had to have identification or at least a dollar in one’s pocket, or face incarceration for vagrancy. Dude was a scumbag. All NYers know it.”
Oh.
I just don’t see that solution working for Barcelona anyway.Taking sexuality out of the culture. Prohibiting people from having a drink outside, rolling un porro. Nearly forcing them to desire, work for, or at least have the almighty dollar in their pockets.
It all sounds too. . .American.
Maybe we should just listen to Kool G Rap and start “look[ing] behind [us] when [we] walk. That’s how it is, in the streets of [Barcelona].”
Issue #1
May 19 - 25, 2006
Kool G Rap once rapped, “Look behind you when you walk. That’s how it is, in the streets of New York.” Any New Yorker will tell you that mucho has changed in the Big Apple since Kool G first spit those lyrics. Many of them will reference former mayor Rudy Giuliani, known for cleaning up the city. Not many, however, are sure how, exactly, he did it. Isinuation spread. Giuliani had the homeless people, theives and trouble-makers liquified. Here in Barcelona, one might prescribe the same medicine for a similar problem, crime. No no, not violent crime. Theft in Barcelona is rampant. Within an hour of entering the police station on Nou de la Rambla I had already interviewed 12 different people with much the same story.
First, two young Swedish girls in town to finish their school project, a documentary on skateboarding. Their camera disappeared quickly from under their legs near MACBA, where any self-respecting skateboard-documentary-maker simply must be. Witnesses? Many. Help? None. Police? Bored.
Next, the Dutch girl, feeling utterlyteleurgesteld (I’m sorry, what@!#?) after her camera and bag were smoothly lifted while she was taking pictures of Barca fans celebrating at the fountain of Canaletas. Witnesses? Somewhere in the thousands. Help? Unlikely. Police? Pessimistic.
Third, an older woman from London, walking with her husband when a car pulled in front and two boys came from behind to snatch the bag containing money and some green tickets for some tourist something. How she felt in one word? “Very bad.” Witnesses? As many as are on Las Ramblas at any given moment. Shouts for help? Ignored. Police? Sigue igual, tio. Otro guiri, otro dia.
Fourth, a lovely Irish woman robbed while buying an ice cream (For the love of God! That is going too far!! Ice cream is supposed to be a pure thing, for children and summers and smiles!!! How dare they!?) She cried telling me the story. She was lovely.
All the stories collected there in the police station share several facts. Witnesses were always plentiful. Help was always non-existent. The police listened and questioned with passionless reason, the kind that reflects hopelessness, as if this sort of thing happens all the time. Oh wait. . .it does!
So what can be done? We could, I thought, follow the Giuliani model. So, I asked a friend whom I consider a real New Yorker his thoughts on how Giuliani achieved his goal. He responded, “he cleaned up NY by shutting down all the porno shops and increasing fines for public behavior i.e. drinking in the street, smoking pot, etc. He also instituted laws allowing police to arrest anyone for anything and. . .if they couldn’t find something to lock up a bum (homeless person) for, he instituted a law that stated that one had to have identification or at least a dollar in one’s pocket, or face incarceration for vagrancy. Dude was a scumbag. All NYers know it.”
Oh.
I just don’t see that solution working for Barcelona anyway.Taking sexuality out of the culture. Prohibiting people from having a drink outside, rolling un porro. Nearly forcing them to desire, work for, or at least have the almighty dollar in their pockets.
It all sounds too. . .American.
Maybe we should just listen to Kool G Rap and start “look[ing] behind [us] when [we] walk. That’s how it is, in the streets of [Barcelona].”
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