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So Real It's Like Virtual Reality

FIRST OF ALL, WELCOME TO INTERACTIVE READING. IF YOU WANT THE FULL EXPERIENCE, YOU NEED TO OPEN THE LINK BELOW IN ANOTHER TAB OR WINDOW, WHICH WILL TAKE YOU TO THE SONG, WHICH WILL TAKE YOU TO MY LIFE. CLICK PLAY AND COME BACK TO READ THIS POST ONCE THE SONG IS PLAYING.

Moanin' by Boozoo Bajou featuring Wayne Martin

Virtual reality is not hard to create.
Can you think of one simple moment when you are alone and at your best...or your happiest? When everything is perfect? No one is there to see it. No one is there to share it. No one is there. Just you and a song. You and the sun and a window. And you have one of those moments when you think, "this is it. There needn't be more."
And if people could share that moment in some way, they would understand who you were. Because it's all so simple. Right then.
And you decide to write it down cause it'll only make you happier and that way the people you love might be able to slip into you for a moment.
Virtual reality.

And the sun is hitting you face and beads of sweat are forming on your nose. You're sitting on a folding wooden chair just inside the open window and have one foot up on the step out to the balcony in a small Paris apartment. There is basil and mint growing in a rectangular pot hung outside on the railing and a cup of brown-sugar-sweetened coffee in your right hand. Comfortable headphones emit this smoothest sound that could not better suit the moment as an occasional breeze blows through. And there in the peace of it all, in the warmth, between bites of buttered croissant and sips of coffee you catch your sun-touched reflection in the open window pane and can't help but love the life you live.

There needn't be more.

A birthday card....

So there's a bit of ego involved in this post. Surprise, surprise for those that know me. But I like the writing I do in letter form and this one is quite important to me actually. Let's hope I my little nephew-to-be will appreciate it in 10 years. When you read this, lil' newphew, and truly understand it, we're going out dancing.



The card:

Dearest sister,
HBD SUCKA!!! How are you on this fine day? I trust that you truly enjoyed your incredibly expensive cupcakes last night! Good thing we bought that cupcake carrier, now isn't it? Or...did you use it? HA! I know you didn't!! BUSTED!! But anyway....

Enough ball busting or, as they say in español, tocando huevos (at work you can practice and say to your colleagues, "Ei! No me toques los huevos!" in front of Spanish speaking patients who need cheering up:)

Good lord I can get sidetracked. The point of this email is to say

"HappybirthdayIloveyouhopeyouhaveaniceday!"

There, I've done it. Now I have to admit that while it might be your birthday, the newest family member is already far more important than you (I'm sure you've already felt that to be true to some degree. I suppose the mothering instinct is to become more selfless and put the chitlins first). Therefore, out of serious concern for the baby, I've sent along this gift. You might think, "Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit...that brother of mine is a cheap and lazy bastard." And, yes, you would be right. However, I would like you to take this gift very seriously. No, not the card, though it is hilarious. The song that is attached to this email is the gift. And while I may be cheap and lazy (I'm not so lazy anymore actually), I have gone through computer hell to get this song to you on this day.

I could not find it ANYWHERE to download and I finally decided to use my iTunes gift card that you all got me but it won't work on my Spanish iTunes account and I can't open an American one cause I don't have an American credit card so I had to figure all that out and it took forever and then I just bought the damn thing. By then I had realized that iTunes, and Apple in general, while awesome, have come to represent The Man. Now you know what The Man is like and he ain't be tryin' to let we poh folks enjoy life and shit. So The Man doesn't let you pass along a song that you've purchased on iTunes cause The Man wants all your friend to pay for that song too and that's how the man keeps us poh and miserable. God forbid music, the light of life, should be free and shareable. Sooooooo, your brother outsmarted The Man and downloading 3 different music hijacking programs before he found one that worked and he rerecorded the song from iTunes into a sendable (we hope) format and that is why he is sending it to you and to himself cause he isn't sure that it has worked.

But......(breathing, breathing..........) if it did work, then you have your gift and I will tell you why this gift is important. You have a baby in your belly. Well, some people call it a baby, others a little alien, others their first nephew. This baby will shortly be christened (in the secular sense I hope) a Schwartz, but this baby will have some Littenberg in him/her and if there is to be Littenberg in him/her, I, Uncle Joe, am going to make damn sure that he/she isn't the first baby in the immediate Gaylord-Walter Littenberg branch of the family who has no rhythm, doesn't care about music, and can't dance. Do you remember your wedding? Was it upbeat? Did anyone have any fun? Hellllloooooooooooooo....we ROCK! So this lil' mofo needs to be bouncing around in your stomach asap. Get it? So put it on now, burn it to 2 CDs and put one in your car and one in your house and take it to work on your iPod and get that little booty shaking like a polaroid picture!
Oh yeah and happy birthday, Ees.
I love you.

Yer bro.

By the way, for you blog readers, the song is called Ki Dit Mié by Magic System. Steal it from The Man if you can, but then go pay to watch Magic System perform.
Also, the video is sweeeeeeeet!

There's something...

"There's something about America. You know what it is about America? Space, and stuff."

It's Because of You (a love letter)

It's because of you I'm writing this. Before you, writing was intangible. It was a discussion, not a reality. Your directness and harsh honesty had me yelling outside the Tower of London. Russian tourist groups turned to watch. I remember yelling at you crossing the Tower Bridge. Saying things I didn't mean. It's because of you and what you said that I've written what I have since then. It's because of you that I see the future I want as a possibility now, a door no longer locked by nonsense and fear.
"Write then," you said.
It's because of you that I ended up sitting cross-legged in front of a Laotian Buddhist healer this afternoon. And that with you so far away. You're not within 5,000 miles and yet, it was because of you. And earlier today, before finding myself there, drinking blessed water in a cup with a gold chain hanging out and a golden amulet with bright blue stones, you had me just as angry. The same reasons really, your directness. The same harsh honesty from you, only this time in a tone of voice and a mere goodbye. Your effect on me disgusted me. So powerful, and from so little.
But then I found myself there in that healer's little tent and meditating. And she told me to bow to the Buddha and pray for what I most want in this world. And what did I ask for? Only the patience to get through these moments with you. And love. The love to keep the patience. And lastly the courage to follow through with the things I want to do in this life, to write, my love, and plant a garden. And just in asking for it, it was as if granted. Not by the Buddha per say, though who's to say for sure, but by the fact that that was what I asked for. Those four simple things. And in asking for them I became aware that is what I want. And the clarity of it is like having them already, because I know what I want, and I know that it's because of you and me that I'm here now. And it will be because of you that the next time I falter or hesitate or doubt, I will be met with directness, harsh honesty, and love.

Twists and Turns

My cell rattles on the kitchen counter, making the cord of the charger snake a little. I'm finishing up an email to my girlfriend, telling her that I'm feeling much better. The swelling (post brain surgery) on the right side of my face has gone down and I'm off the pain meds. I throw a period at the end of the sentence and cross into the kitchen to check the phone. It's a text message from her. I read it but I don't remember much. Maybe I smiled at something cute she wrote. Maybe she said she loved me. I don't remember that. But the last line gave me pause and within minutes I was back at the breakfast table repeating it to myself.

The weather in Zurich is lovely today.

I'm sorry, what? How did this happen? Just a few weeks ago I was living my life. Mine. Now, I'm not particularly well know as a man who "has his shit together". It's just not my style. But I was living my life, damnit. I had a messy apartment. I had a beautiful, passionate girlfriend that I lived with. I had various odd jobs. I went out drinking sometimes with friends. You might not call it orderly but it was what I was used to. It was my life.

So, the question begs to be asked. What the hell is this?

The weather in Zurich is lovely today.

My girlfriend is writing me about the weather in Zurich. Now, that must mean that my girlfriend is in Zurich, looking around at the weather. The fact that I'm receiving the text means that I am not with her. No, I am here in my mother's house in Los Angeles in hospital pajamas (cause they're damn comfortable) receiving her message.

As I ponder this curveball, I remember that I need my mother to look through her old credit card receipts to find proof of purchase of my computer. She listens to me as I ask it of her, says ok with a relaxed smile, and turns to return to the kitchen. As she makes her way back to whatever she was in the middle of, I hear her muttering to herself. "Look through credit card records." When I was young and my mother would rattle off the list of chores I was to do that day, I would repeat them outloud to myself so as not to forget. I couldn't focus well on such things. There was nintendo to be played, and somehow I thought repeating it would help me remember a simple list of simple tasks. It didn't work, but that's not the point. At some time, my mother and I had reversed roles. The thoughts crossed my mind in succession: my mother is old and muttering, my girlfriend is in Zurich, the weather is lovely there.

I looked back at the email I'd yet to send and it all flooded in, finally and totally sweeping the idea of my life well away. What the shit!!?

My brain swelling has gone down.
The weather in Zurich is lovely today.
"Go through credit card records for Joey."

If time is a pitch, it's a sinker. That is until you think it's a sinker and then it changes to a fast ball and blows by your left cheek at 96 mph. The next time you see it, it's a change up.

If it's a river, it'll flash flood. If it's a hose it'll kink.

Here's to thinking we know what's going to happen. We might as well drink to it. The truth will shock us less if we're drunk.

Thanks to Houston's

To continue with the post brain surgery theme...
After several days in the hospital and a couple at home, things are looking up. Granted, I still can't feel the entire right side of my face, but nobody can see that when they look at me now can they? As long as I don't try to to raise an inquisitive eyebrow or make any communicative facial gesture with the operating, left side of my face, no one will notice that the right side is a hanging, boneless, skinless, unseasoned chicken breast.

A dinner out with family is proposed, discussed, and considered to be at least mildly prudent. You know, so the patient can feel a bit more normal. For the first time in days, non-pajama pants are slid up legs. Buttons are followed by buttons. A shirt is delicately pulled over and down, sliding past an unfazed chicken-breast-of-a-cheek. We're going out! Someone bring the Percocet.

In order to feel somewhat normal, I would have to cover the line of staples down my head, of course. This leaves, however, few options. The undeniable truth is that white gauze and white tape tend to stand out against, well, most things, the human head being no exception. But, they are necessary and clean and so my sister artfully applies a new bandage to the side of my head, which I then attempt to cover with a classy little English checkered brown cap. Wearing clothes is normal. I'm on a roll. And so we roll out the door and to the Century City Shopping Center and the Houston's restaurant just off Santa Monica Boulevard.

We walk in and are shown to our table. The noise is amazing. TVs on in the bar. People talking. Women and men looking at each other. Ice clinking. Cooks shakin' and bakin' in the open kitchen. I'm back in the real world! The beautiful real...

"Excuse me, sir, but hats are not allowed in the dining area. I'm going to have to ask you to take that off."

I'm sorry, what? Caught completely off guard, my face reacts as it normally would. Well almost normally. My left eye opens wide in shock. Left eyebrow rises. Mouth hangs open. Right side of face sits on its haunches, cold and flabby. So much for normal.

"It's the restaurant policy that men cannot wear hats inside. I 'm just your waitress but I wanted to tell you because any minute a manager will come over and tell you the same thing."

Three of my four family members at the table say it at the same time.

"He just had brain surgery."

Then someone lets a "it's kind of holding a bandage onto his head" slip.

"Oh, OK," says the waitress. "I'll just go tell the manager about the special circumstances." But she hasn't taken four steps away from the table before restaurant-policy-pusher number two has rushed over to make us feel relaxed, at home, normal. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't wear a hat in the restaurant."

Again, from three directions, "brain surgery," "needs it for the bandage," "we just talked to the waitress about it."

"Oh, OK. I'll talk to the manager for you," she says.

She walks away. And then...wait for it...another one comes up. "Sir, we have a policy here at Houston's that gentlemen cannot wear hats in the dining area."

No joke. Three times in literally less than two minutes. My face tried to smile and its failure was complete. So much for normal.

Man meets morphine...leaves boy.

Brain surgery.
Shit's a bitch.
But it's nothing compared to the headache afterwards.
Sweet lord have mercy on my dome.
Look at the photo.
The train tracks (i.e. staples) in the photo are especially interesting given the fact that the doctors told me that they would be making a "keyhole incision". Keyhole my ass! It has thus far been likened to a machete gash along the nothing-keyhole-like-broadside-of-my-face.
Here's the post-op story.

After doing my time in the hospital and recovering well the doctors send me home. I roll out in my wheel chair with my rimmie-rims blinging in that so-cal sun feeling like about 6 dollars and 35 cents. I stop to get my vicodin in the hospital pharmacy on the way out, but that's it. The next day I wake up with a massive headache of new proportions, so I take the prescribed double shot of vicodin and try to go back to bed. It does NOT work. The pills don't touch the pain, which is now moving around and throbbing and shooting and passing over in waves and I eventually give in and say "Yes! Please take me back to that horrible place were they stuck all those horrible things into my soft body."
My father hops out of the car outside the ER yelling "brain sugery" and "gurney, gurney!" which has the desired effect. Within no time I'm in the Harbor-UCLA emergency room.
The pain was awful, the only comparable pain I can reference being a few days earlier when a well-intentioned but nonetheless inexpert female nursing student with an audience of two pulled a catheter out of my yonson. Lucky me who didn't know that once they pull the catheter out there's still a lil' balloon in there for an extra 3 seconds of excruciating discomfort. But back to the big brain.
It's pulsing and killing me on that ER bed and they put 5mg of morphine, a pain killer that hadn't been necessary when I was actually in the hospital, straight into my bloodstream. I wait a minute, and the pain subsides a little but lingers there, throbbing. Thus far, I am not too impressed with drugs. Vicodin has officially failed me and was never that strong or particularly fun in the first place, and now, morphine is like chump change. I ask for a little more and they shoot me up with another 5mg.
Now let's take a moment to discuss morphine's fame. As a young American boy, WWII movies are without a doubt the greatest source on morphine. When some young private is lying in the midst of the field bleeding to death, his buddies with invariably share a look, saying without talking, "give him the morphine, kill him, it's the right thing to do." The wounded soldier will cry out until his friends collect enough of those little army-green dosages that they then slam repeatedly into his thigh. His eyes get glassy and his breathing slows as all pain vanishes and the young PFC gets a calm, last moment of life on moist European soil.
Quite a moment for a young male movie-goer. Holy shit dude! Morphine.
But there in the hospital, two 5mg doses later, I wasn't staring up at clouds, birds weren't chirping, and I could still feel the headache. Only if I had been dying would I have been more disappointed in morphine.
An hour later though, the doctors wrapped up their investigation, deciding they had better send me home with some steroids to lower the swelling in and around my head, as well as a few more vicodin. My father or mother, in their divine wisdom of the moment, ask for another 5mg of morphine for the road, which the docs proffer willingly and which I accept openly, along with two vicodin pills and 4 little steroid pills. The faint whispers of the headache are still there, but I'm starting to feel better and I think, "hey, maybe it just took the morphine time to kick in..."
Well, either that is the gods honest truth, and I am the unlucky soldier whose blood stream requires 2 hours to absorb my euthanasian dose, or I had fallen into what real drug lovers call the "cocktail".
The next four hours were unlike anything I've ever experienced. Lying in my bed at home, cold sweating but not uncomfortable, out of it but not sleeping, I finally realized why they gave morphine to dying men. I was dead. I was so flat-out stoned that I was uncomfortable. There were certainly not vivid signs of life. I didn't feel like I was breathing and it didn't matter to me one bit. I was oddly moist from the sweating but not hot. I wasn't awake but I certainly wasn't alseep, or around for that matter. 35,000 feet.
If I had had three bullets in my side, it wouldn't have mattered. If my intestines had been blown out and were slopping onto the ground by my side I wouldn't even have realized. Needlesstosay, staples in my head weren't a big theme.
So...morphine...I take it back. You're alright, as long as you come in various dosages and with a steroid vicodin chaser.
You can be my reaper anytime.

Curveballs

Back in the states brought a visit to Dodger stadium. It's such a beautiful game. Really. And so many changes. Limitless changes that you can't predict standing there at the plate. You've tried to read the signs. You thought about the probabilities. You've even done your research, found out what this or that guy throws when he's down, or when you think you've got him tired. And then it whizzes past you in a whole new way. Or it curves, drops, or even rises.
Back in the states brought a visit to an optometrist, specialist, imaging center, neurosurgeron. Epidermoid brain tumor. Then came hospital socks, waiting, beds that move, anger, aggression and fear. So many new things.
And a new start to an old blog. The BCN Week days of this blog are over. BCN Week continues going strong, and I hope to be going strong with it. But tomorrow it's back to the plate at Harbor-UCLA County Hospital and an unimaginable surgery.
See you on the flipside?
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Beach Chair Chillin' (Figuras # 7)

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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!