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.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
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.
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