Bye, Lingual

Before we begin, a note to my adoring public. This blog is ostensibly for two reasons: one, as an aide memoire for myself in years to come; and two, as a method for those who are concerned to keep tabs on me. Meaning, basically, my mum. (Hi Mum!) Now, I try to be entertaining, so as to provide a decent read. But it turns out there is a third reason of which I was unaware: for all you work-shy souls to pass the time instead of doing whatever it is you should be doing. I was unaware of this, because it's hard to know who is actually reading. What I'm saying is, you can't totally fail to comment on this here blog - and you don't even have to register! - and then start pestering me about the lack of updates because you need a distraction at work. And there are additional perks to commenting, such as being mentioned in the blog itself, held aloft as a paragon of engaged readership. And to that end, well done Josh Grossman for commenting on my last entry. And additionally, although I've been totally played, many thanks to Simon Tunkel who at first complained, and then provided the following quote of Ashleigh Brilliant which sums up my perspective on the matter quite well.

"My play was a complete success. The audience was a failure."

Substituting 'blog' for 'play' in that sentiment, I couldn't agree more. So anyway, what's with the title of this entry? Well, it is at once a nod to the bilingual nature of Barcelona with its interplay between Catalan and Spanish, and also in recognition of how much harder this makes the learning process for a poor sap such as myself. So much so, in fact, that my level of English is starting to deteriorate. Today, for example, in an effort to conjugate 'do' into the past tense, I came up with 'dis'. I believe I started with 'does', was heading for 'did', but got caught up somewhere in the middle. I suspect that when I return to London, I shall be greeting shop keepers with "Hola!"

This wouldn't be so bad if my Spanish skills were anywhere near serviceable, but they ain't. I'm sure I have plenty of words and tenses in my linguistic locker, but using them whilst talking out loud takes a very long time, and more often than not results in failure. I know this, because I have been going to the intercambios.

Intercambio generally means a cultural exchange, but more often than not refers exclusively to language. In this case, some English-speaking folk wanting to improve their Spanish sit in a bar for two hours talking to some Spanish-speaking folk who want to improve their English. These particular intercambios are run by a fabulous group called English Oasis, who do all sorts of things to help people integrate into the city. My experience so far has been good in that I've made some friends through it, but it has not made me feel much better about my ability to communicate in Spanish. I'm getting better, though. Just very slowly.

You know what's really unhelpful? You go into a coffee shop intent on ordering in Spanish, but the menu is only in Catalan and English. How does that help me? I refuse to order in a Spanish/Catalan combo, especially because I'm still not absolutely sure about how to pronounce Catalan words, so I basically end up only ordering whatever I know how to say in Spanish, without the benefit of seeing it written down. It's really rather daft. I also insist on sticking with Catalan for the place names because they are all in Catalan to begin with, even though pronouncing them in Spanish would be easy. And then you have a French word, like croissant, which I end up pronouncing like an Englishman - i.e. quite like the French - despite the fact that the Spanish would say it slightly differently. But then given the close ties between Catalan and French, I've probably inadvertently ended up pronouncing it in Catalan as well. I'm so confused.

I basically make an ass of myself on a daily basis. On a completely unrelated matter, I feel quite at home.

La Mercè, Part Two: Drink wine then play with fire

My previous post concerned itself with the first half of the festival. Here we continue with the second half. However, the tale begins with an event I had already planned for that day, unrelated to the festival: Spanish wine tasting.

A strange choice for a man who doesn't like wine, but then what better way for him to be turned around on the subject?

We were given a talk about the various processes used, plus how and why they vary depending on the type of wine being produced. I certainly appreciated that. We were, of course, poured several glasses of wine, and set about analysing their colour and aroma, all the while learning what the various properties indicated about the wine's production. Totally got that as well, it all made sense. Inevitably we then sampled each of them, and for sure I was able to taste the differences; it did not simply all taste of 'wine' to me. Here's the eternal problem though: I liked none of it. I mean I was able to drink it - unlike Jewish wine - but I wouldn't really choose to. I think this settles the issue once and for all, so the rest of you can stop looking at me funny whenever I say I don't like the stuff. And you may also stop insisting that I just haven't tasted the right one. I'm particularly looking in Ben's direction here. I'm sorry, I'll never be a wine snob. I have, however, learned this pearl of wisdom: if you want to sound like a wine snob, when you sample a wine you need only say that you detect a subtle scent of figs. Apparently something about figs lingers long in the barrel, across several batches of wine, so the chances are you'll be able to taste it in quite a few wines, given a sufficiently refined palette.

I headed immediately afterwards to the Correfoc, to play with fire. Sadly, I couldn't get anyone else on board for this one so I was on my own. Also, I probably should have taken the warnings about what to wear a bit more seriously, so that I didn't have to cower in fear quite as much. This experience is one of the most brilliantly insane I've ever had. A few posts ago I led with the title 'My kingdom for The Apocalypse!'. I may therefore have entitled this entry 'Be careful what you wish for'. You need to imagine a long, straight road, with several blocks of buildings disappearing into the distance. A typical Manhattan street, really. (Only semi-typical for Barcelona.) There is a rhythm to the constant explosion-rumble-flash, explosion-rumble-flash that illuminates each block as a parade of fire-breathing devils, interspersed with marching bands and the crazy fools that dance amongst it all, shuffles towards you. The bands and devils and dancers aside, the ambient effect is so loud and full of immense flashes of light that the word 'blitz' immediately came to mind. I mean who am I to compare, but it certainly felt like a fair comparison at the time.

The whole event is far more terrifying than actually it should be. The explosions, the flashing lights and the beating of drums; something quite primal appears to be awoken by this cocktail for the senses. That said, when the devils start chasing after the crowd and spewing fire at them I guess one has every right to be, at least, slightly concerned. OK, so it's not actual fire, just sparks. But there are a lot of sparks. It is possible to get burned, I'm told, or have one's hair singed. I'm also informed that the event lives under the constant threat of being banned. This, in a country where they routinely run with bulls.

It's hard to pick a video that does justice to what actually goes on, but below you will find the one in my collection which comes closest. Please be kind regarding my abilities with the camera - there is no manual focus on this device's sole video recording mode. Also, eventually I have a devil breathing fire at me, and being calm in such a scenario is not an easy task. At the beginning you should just be able to make out a marching band in the background. The fiery part of the equation will eventually make itself known. Turn your speakers up, if you have them.

With my ears bleeding - this may explain my current illness, but whatever - I stumbled towards some food and spent the rest of the night with a couple of peeps traversing some of the concerts around town. The next major event was the following evening, at the festival's closing fireworks display. So once again: more fire, more flashing lights. The display took place around the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya at the base of Montjuïc, with people lining both the road leading up to the museum and the massive roundabout - Plaça d'Espanya - from which it emanates.

That pretty much brings the festival to an end. But the magic continued throughout the evening. The mini group in which I had found myself was naturally getting quite hungry. And what should I find in the cafetería to which we took our custom? Well, I found pizza. But not just any pizza, oh no. Pizza in a cone! Oh, the madness of it all. Of course, there had to be a picture.

The man next to me looking, in fact, more enchanted than I is Omar, whose name I hope I have spelled correctly. Sadly I can't even ask him, because I met him that night and it was his last in Barcelona. Still, for the expression on his face I shall always be thankful.

So, finally, that's that for the festival. More musings on Barcelona in general to come, of course. In the mean time, you can find an entire album of pictures of my exploits so far by clicking right here.

La Mercè, Part One: Giants, Dragons and Goldfrapp.

As I happened to mention last time, I managed to turn up in Barcelona during the month of a great big street festival: La Mercè. Events are wide-ranging and dispersed throughout the city. In the park, there are human pyramids, and in every square, a stage. To say nothing of the free museums day, light shows, street performers, parades, dancing and general abundance of fire wherever possible. There are also, of course, plenty of crowds to get in your way. And through these crowds great leaders of our time do march, holding aloft the sacred tools of worship at any festival: beer. One might think this a difficult task, bound to annoy mostly everyone by the incessant shuffling required to let these people through, or by the raised six-pack swinging into one's head. But these merchants take a different view, and who are we to argue?

The opening procession rather sets the tone. (The tone being one of Pagan ritual sacrifice.) It seems to work as follows: there are giants, and animals which are merely large; they all march into the square; each one takes it in turn to dance around, usually with something aflame; finally, they all march out again. Much of the experience seems purposefully designed to rot the minds of small children. I mean, check out the beast below.

And he's not the only one.

Whilst all of this is going on, there are several concerts across the city, of which all, or so it appears, are free. The following night saw Goldfrapp make a stop-over in Barcelona, to play at The Forum. Now I'm sure not all of you reading this will know who Goldfrapp are, but they are a pretty big deal. And I got to see them, for free. Not only that, but we turned up a mere twenty minutes before the show began yet were nonetheless able to get right to the front of the stage. To the side, but leaning against the barrier. I don't know if that's indicative of the lackadaisical Spanish attitude to life or as a result of the sheer volume of things to do at the festival, but that's never the way of things back home. Would that it were.

Sadly the music experience has not since hit such highs, nor will it do, in all likelihood. After Goldfrapp there appeared an act by the name of Luke Abbot. English-sounding name, bad Euro-rap. Strange combination, and sadly not an enjoyable one.

There's been another day of the festival since, in which I took part in the Correfoc, or Fire Run, for which I posted the warning in my previous entry. It's going to require its own blog post later this week, but I will say this: I am alive, and unscathed. But for a while it was touch-and-go.

Adventures in Barcelona: Part One

Perhaps this is not the most inspiring beginning to a blog post, but whilst I've had a pretty good first week in Barcelona I can't say any of you readers are going to find it interesting.

...

No, wait! Come back! I'll try to be interesting. Just let me explain one thing: I'm not here to be a tourist. I am here, as much as is possible, to simply live, for a month. In the infinite blogosphere there exist myriad entries on the bog-standard minutia of life, such as "The Time We Went to That Arabic Restaurant", or "Dinner At My Friend's House". I could write both those stories right now, but they wouldn't be interesting. And the thing is, I have not been seeing the sights that would otherwise provide the sort of material you dear readers crave. I stumbled across the Sagrada Familia just yesterday, only because it happened to be where we were walking at the time. I've not been inside it, and I may not even go inside it before I leave here. Hey, it's not going anywhere any time soon.

If I have to make a single comment on Barcelona so far, surely it is this: In a city where the norm is to have dinner not before 10pm, why do the trains stop running at midnight? There are night buses which are pretty good, but they're no substitute. It's almost inevitable that any given evening will end with me missing my train home. It has already happened on one occasion despite my best efforts, or, as was the case last night, because we realised without much time to spare that the trains were about to stop, and just weren't ready to go home yet. No effort was made.

Unfortunately I'm also a bit of a sucker for a good walk, and the grid system here seems easily to fool me into thinking that any two places are much closer to each other than they actually are. It was a long walk home, and not the first this past week. I actually had to take painkillers during the night such was my belief that my knees were about to disconnect as a result of the cumulative mileage under my belt. Today, I'm staying indoors.

Anyway, fear not, my adoring public. I am, in part, holding out on you. I have not, for example, told you about the language exchanges I attended, and will continue to attend. I'm saving that for later, when hopefully I'll have a better handle on the matter. It also transpires that I've accidentally rolled into Barcelona during the occasion of its biggest annual street festival, which commences this Thursday. So, there should be plenty to write about for my next entry. Here's a snippet of text from the festival guide regarding one of the events, the Correfoc [Fire Run], to whet your appetites.

Whoever wants to watch the Correfoc must be aware, above all, that it involves a certain level of danger, so the greatest care must be taken and a number of rules need to be respected. Those attending should cover up as much as possible to avoid burns. We recommend you wear long-sleeved clothes, avoid shorts and use a cap and scarf to cover your neck. Wear clothes made of cotton rather than sintethic [sic] materials. Above all, never throw water on the devils, as damp gunpowder is dangerous.

Marvellous.

My kingdom for The Apocalypse!

The Apocalypse, were it to happen, would have benefits twofold. First, it would provide a reasonable excuse for my monumental failure to populate this here blog for two whole years. (Plus a bit.) Second, it would certainly provide some interesting material, assuming that neither myself nor my laptop had been incinerated during the pyrotechnical events, and that there remained at least one person left on Planet Earth to read the subsequent blog entry.

At this point, I'd kill for even one reader.

I'm sure I had some, way back when, but they've all vanished, and I have only myself to blame. But hey, my life, I suppose, is quite simply not interesting except during such times as I am traversing continents and sampling assorted pancakes.

Well, the joke is on you, doubters one and all! One week tomorrow, a new adventure begins, and this blog will be reborn, regaling you with stories from Barcelona over a period one month in length. I suppose this entry may in itself count as a rebirth, but I'm really just poking little ol' Mr. Bloggie (first name: Joe) with a pointy stick, to check he's still alive. I think that he is, and has a shiny new design to boot.

It occurred to me that with a gap of over two years, my soon-to-be and formally loyal readers may feel they've been short-changed somewhat, as there must surely have been something worth writing about in all that time. I maintain that there was nothing. However, here's a summary: I moved house, twice; several close friends are now either married or engaged; I have a niece; my primary venue of employment has turned into a daily, 7.5 hour-long episode of The Office (turns out it's not so funny when you're actually in it); the second moving of house involved buying a place of my own; my mother is on Facebook *shudder*; I am, technically, the director of a one-man company and have proven to be a harsh taskmaster. I may very well quit from myself.

Numerous things remain the same, of course. I remain so utterly rubbish that I laugh at the jokes I typed on this very blog two years ago, and had since forgotten. I also retain an intriguing scar across my left wrist, where Lucky The Sheepdog once bit me. Having read the old entries, I may well impose the following quest on my blog as a means of perpetuating its existence: get back to Guatemala. The damage caused by a tropical storm in May has been compounded by recent heavy rain, so I'm guessing there is an even greater need for volunteers than before.

I'd also like to reacquaint myself with Lucky. Just to show her that there are no hard feelings. Especially in my wrist, where now I feel nothing at all.