Dia de Sant Jordi

Celebrated annually on April 23rd and named after the Patron Saint of Catalonia, Dia de Sant Jordi, places brave young Catalans onto the barren battlefield of love in a hopeful search of that special someone. Armed with nothing but a rose and the hope that someone will reciprocate their love, Catalan boys give their crushes roses, and the recipients of these roses respond by dropping some knowledge on their love-struck admirers, in the form of a book. The idea is that while a rose might show a momentary glimpse of puppy-love, the knowledge in a book lasts forever, and that knowledge will stare back at you with nagging eyes 20 years later, telling you to wash the dishes and quit snoring. I like the idea, but let's be honest; in a taste contest, chocolate easily beats knowledge every single time, no questions asked.

Dia de Sant Jordi is only celebrated in Catalonia, so it should come as no surprise that Catalan flags could be seen everywhere. The gold and red flags hung from balconies, decorated the covers of books, and even tied together bouquets of roses which of course suffocated in the white-knuckle death grip of pre-pubescent boys. I was dissapointed to not catch any of these sweaty, nervous, smelly adolescents crying in any public spaces. While you might be right to point out that I have no soul, the surprising presence of Catalan patriotism in a  celebration similar to Valentine's day made me feel like some how I got thrown into a holiday blender  that mixed the store-bought cheesiness of Valentine's day and the fair-weather patriotism of July Fourth.

Commercialized love and beer-battered barbecue aside, the  blooming spring time love of Dia de Sant Jordi proved that, well, sometimes chocolate and jewelry just don't cut it.

Disregarding my bitterness for a quick, sappy, momentary lapse in clarity, Dia de Sant Jordi helps keep the hope of romance and everlasting love alive in a world where feelings are bought and sold every day in the forms of lingerie, food, and greeting cards. It's the holidays and small values like these that really highlight cultural differences in our respective societies. I could leave it at that, with my temporary moment of vulnerability and crap-shot attempt at being poignant, but I also just read that about half of total annual book sales in Catalonia happen on Dia de Sant Jordi.  Slick move St.J, slick move.

Palabra del Dia: Leer - To read
De todos modos, hoy nadie lee nada mas. Today no one even reads anymore anyways.

March Protests

I wrote an article for my school's newspaper. You can read it through this link -- http://www.theaggie.org/2012/04/17/guest-opinion-perspective-on-protests-from-spain/


Palabra del Dia - Noticias - News
Escribi un articulo para las noticias de mi universidad. I wrote an article for my school's newspaper.

Primetime in BCN

   As many of you probably already know, the Spanish 'life-clock' is very unique when compared to the U.S. or even other European countries for that matter. On average, Spaniards get about 45 minutes less sleep than the typical European, even thought they still take a quick siesta in the afternoon, after their 'late' 2 or 3 pm lunch.
   Interestingly enough, this different bio-clock translates to other aspects of daily life as well, like work-schedules, waking hours, and surprisingly enough, television programming.
   In the U.S. prime time TV usually lasts from 8 to 10, but here in Barcelona, prime time TV doesn't usually start until American kids are tucked away, fast asleep in bed after seeing who got ousted on this week's American Idol. Instead, Barcelona and Spanish prime time begins arount 10, and ends at 12, or sometimes 1. I wanted to talk about this for the sole fact of posting this video clip from Crackovia, a popular sketch-comedy show. I think it might be able to explain a little about Catalan culture and Barcelona....

(don't forget to turn on the subtitles)

And then there's this;

And this is the primetime TV here. It cracks me up. Cristiano Ronaldo is such a tool.

Palabra del Dia: Tonto - Silly
"Crackovia" es un programa muy tonto, pero todavia gracioso.
"Crackovia" is a silly show, but still funny.

Update

A few hours ago, I was soaking in the rain-drenched glory of the ancient colosseum in Rome. One week before that, I was struggling to stay afloat in a flood of final exams while juggling my new internship with the 'Centro de Estudis Olimpicos.' A few short weeks before that,  I was drowning in a melted puddle of Swiss chocolate in Zurich. Needless to say, the last few weeks have been pretty busy with traveling, exams, and the hectic lifestyle of  Barcelona that I have adapted to.
Now that I finally have some time to sit still and sort through the storm of Italian food, record-breaking weather, and enjoy the Catalan warmth of Barcelona, I will finally be able to update this blog and more importantly, get some much needed sleep.

Palabra del dia: Tormenta - Storm
Por fin, la tormenta ha colocada. Finally, the storm has settled.

6 months in Spain

   Today, January 10th, marks the six month anniversary of my relationship with Spain. You could say that things are getting pretty serious, I love it here. Love is an understatement - I am head over heels, smitten, and maybe even borderline obsessed with the people, lifestyle, and the city of Barcelona itself. Since I'm a chronic optimist, I'd like to think that I'm only halfway started instead of halfway finished. As the Mediterranean winter melts away into Sping here in Barcelona, hindsight and my new-found sense of 'cultured-ness' casts a spotlight on everything that I've accomplished here, while I quickly forget that which I missed in the first place.
   These six months have been the longest I've ever gone in my entire life without swimming in a pool, eating In-n-Out, and seeing my family. I would be lying if I said I didn't miss things from home; comforts I took for granted like clothes drying machines, big TV's, cars, and the reassurance of my parents being a convenient 2 hour drive away instead of a transatlantic, 10 hour flight. I miss my friends. I miss Slurpees with my friends. I miss Slurpees with friends in Jacuzzis the most. (There are no jacuzzis in Spain. Let this be a warning.)
   Slowly but surely, however, I am beginning to fill the gaps left by American luxuries with new things that my American, ethnocentric self couldn't even comprehend before these six months. They say America is the land of the free, but surprisingly enough, I think I'll miss freedom most of all when I go home. If I hopped on a plane from San Jose and flew for 2 hours, at most, I would end up in Arizona or Texas, the beer gut of America. After 2 hours on a plane from Barcelona, I could be in Africa, riding camels in Morocco, or Scotland, wearing a kilt with my ancestors in the highlands if I wanted to. With a few clicks of my computer and a short plane ride, I can be neck deep in a completely different society, free of social constraints, adult responsibility, and anything I previously called familiar, or comfortable. Now, I find comfort in the freedom and eclectic nature of the unknown and all of the mystery and anticipation it entails, and when things begin to settle, I get restless and bored . These six months have taught me how big the world really is, and it's just outside our door.
   When I return to California, I'll be slapped in the face with real world responsibilities that I simply swept under the rug before leaving to Spain. So I'll enjoy my freedom while I can.
   I would be lying if I didn't admit that these six months have easily been the best of my life.

Here's to six more.


Palabra del Dia: Jacuzzi - Banero de Hidromasaje (that sounds ridiculous. Jacuzzi is way more fun to say)
Cuando vuelvo a casa, voy a tomar un Slurpee en el banero de hidromasaje. When I return home, I am going to drink a slurpee in the jacuzzi.

A Cátalan Christmas Story

    Naturally, quirky 'ole Catalunya does Christmas in a slightly different way. Instead of a jolly old Santa Claus, the Catalans have the interesting tradition of the "Caga Tio" which brings Catalan children their Christmas presents on Christmas Eve. I'll start by breaking down the translation of "caga tio," The word "caga" comes from the word "cagar" which translates to none other than the verb, "to shit." Cagar does not translate to "defecate," "poo," or anything relatively PG, but directly to our favorite, four-letter cuss word, "shit." "Tio" translates to uncle, and is also used as slang to say "man," similar to our "dude." Once you pack the two words together, "caga tio" translates to "shit man." "Shit Man," believe it or not, is the Catalan Santa Claus.
   At this point, you might be wondering things like, "why would they defile Santa Claus in such a way?" or "Why the fixation on human feces?" or "did I translate his name wrong, or was Santa Claus's name lost in the murky waters of toilet translation? I too had similar questions, until I saw with my very own eyes and personally experienced what exactly it's like to be a Catalan child on Christmas eve.
   Normally, Santa Claus would just trespass through our chimeney, steal some food, leave behind some presents in our giant socks or under the indoor tree, and use his enslaved mutated red nosed reindeer to make a quick escape.
   Here in Barcelona, however, children have to put in some work to get their presents. Surprisingly, Caga Tio is not actually a man. In fact, he is more closely related to the likes of Pinnochio, because Caga Tio is actually a quite handsomely decorated tree branch.

   On December 8th, the night of the feast of the Immaculate Conception, families being to feed the  Caga Tio leftovers from each night of the 12 days of Christmas. Caga Tio digests these leftovers into presents. So, the presents are located inside Caga Tio, somewhere in his colon I believe, and the children must beat the presents out of him. Yes, the children must literally "beat the shit" (read: "presents") out of this constipated Yule Log.

Here I am, beating the shit out of a small log while
my roommates sing. The presents are underneath the blanket.

You sing a song while beating him, and it goes like this;

"Caga tió, caga torró, avellanes i mató, si no cagues bé et daré un cop de bastó. caga tió!" Which translates from Catalan to; "Shit man, Shit turron (delicious pastry), Hazlenuts and Cottage Cheese, If you don't shit well, I will hit you with a stick. Shit man."    Personally,with lyrical genius like that, I think that could be a hit single given the right producer. Also, I am fighting really hard to plug the bubbling volcano of poop jokes in my head. Even "bubbling volcano" becomes a horrible metaphor to use right now.

   Well, my Caga Tio must have eaten an interesting meal beforehand, because I managed to beat out a bottle of Catalan Liquer, a hat matching that of my Caga Tio, and a nativity scene character.
The liquer was a ratafia-licorice type alcohol, the hat went nicely with my complexion, but upon closer examination, the nativity character appeared to be defecating as well.

   This is when I started to become confused, better yet, I didn't really know what to think -- my thoughts became rather constipated to say the least.

   Apparently, the story goes that this pooping pastor, or "Caganer" (translates to "shitter,") drank a bit too much egg nog, and then proceeded to go leave poopy-presents on all of the nativity scenes in his pueblo. There are several stories that are rumored to be the 'true' one, and the only true fact is that this tradition began about 200 years ago in the 17th or 18th century. Usually, the Caganer gets tucked away in a corner, or hidden somewhere in the nativity scene for the children to find. Surprisingly, and provocatively enough, the Caganer supposedly symbolizes equality of all people, in the idea that even a drunk mess is still a person, just like baby Jesus. Regardless of race, class, gender, or economic status, the Caganer teaches the often overlooked and valuable lesson, that everyone poops. Basically, we're all human, drunkards and Jesus alike, and Catalans make a point of trying to teach the lesson of equality to their children in the often commercialized, materialistic economic-disparit-highlighting holiday that Christmas has become in today's society. By placing our pooping pal in the biblical idealism of a nativity scene, the Caganer brings a healthy toilet bowl full of humility and realism to the holiday.
    I'm not too 'into' the holiday season, or very religious for that matter, but last time I checked, pooping men were probably the last thing you would see at the birth of baby Jesus. Then again, maybe that's why they needed all of that Frankincense and Mir. Either that, or maybe it's just a huge load of crap ( I was saving, or better yet, holding that one for a while).

I snuck a picture of Caganer and Caga Tio bonding over their
mutual love of everything bowel movement related.

My roommates and I at dinner before Caga Tio showed up.
 What a party pooper ! (hur hur hur) 

 Palabra del Dia: La Navidad - Christmas
Caga Tio es un parte gracioso de La Navidad Catalan. Shit Man is a funny part of the Catalan Christmas.

Rivalries

Walking into a crowded bar in Madrid wearing a Barcelona jersey is like jumping into a shark tank with a cinderblock tied to your waste; it’s just not smart. In fact, there are few things dumber, or more pompously arrogant than wearing the colors of a rival team (borderline gang) into enemy territory. 

This is exactly what I did on one of my nights in Madrid. I wore my Barcelona home jersey into a rowdy bar in the heart of Madrid on a Friday night at the request of my Cataluñan friends.

The Madrid-Barcelona rivalry is well-known. Like many rivalries, the never-ending, symbolic battle between the two teams represents much more than just a competitive rivalry, it’s a politically feuled struggle between two warring factions, the historic monarchy of Madrid and the Spanish empire against the rebellious underdog Catalonia, and their desired autonomy and sovereignty.

In Barcelona, if you even remotely mention a slight criticism of FCB, you will never hear the end of it.

One night, while watching an FCB game with Julian, my Catálan friend, I made the mistake of asking if Barcelona had any weaknesses, because according to him, they had none. Just as he began to answer, the other team scored, and before I knew it, Julian would not watch any FCB games with me for two weeks, out of fear that I was bad luck, and a traitor for assuming that FCB had weaknesses.

Another night, I was watching a game with a group of American friends and one made the mistake of wearing a shirt with a cartoon-ized picture of Ronaldo, the notoriously arrogant, high scoring Portuguese star of Real Madrid, playing fútbol with Homer Simpson. Upon standing up from his seat, a man noticed his shirt, and immediately after calling attention to it, it was as if a group of sharks smelled blood in the water. My friend was the injured baby seal, in a frenzy of patriotic Cataluñan sharks.

To the people of Cataluña and Barcelona, fútbol is more than a sport—it’s a politically and historically significant symbol that represents the culture crushing years of Franco’s dictatorship and historic oppression of Cataluña by the Spanish government. It’s a very passionate subject to say the very least.

Surprisingly, upon walking into that Madrileño bar with my Barcelona ‘blau-grana,’ nothing happened. I didn’t get lynched, incite a riot, or get in any physical fights (a few heated debates, but nothing out of the norm). Honestly, I was kind of disappointed at how little the people seemed to care about what originally seemed to be a massive rivalry worth dying over. It just wasn´t a very big deal in Madrid.

Rivalries, I realized, are always much different in the eyes of the underdog. For the people of Cataluña, the FCB –Real Madrid rivalry represents a modern day war, where players are soldiers that fight with goals and slide tackles instead of guns and bombs. For them it’s a message to Spain, and the rest of the world, that Cataluña isn’t just a part of Spain, but it’s own respective country.

For Madrid and Madridleños, FCB and Cataluña is just another defiant colony, squirming resistantly underneath the colonial fist of the Spanish empire. Madrid loves their fútbol, I got yelled at enough to know not to wear my FCB jersey there again, and the glares from across the room made me want to return home, but by the end of the night, I was friends with nearly everyone in the bar. Madrid, on average, began to seem like a friendlier place in general.

Opression is subjective. Opression, from the view of the oppressor, is insignificant. Opression, from the view of the oppressed however, is incredibly significant. The rivalry between FCB and Real Madrid exemplifies this perfectly, and when it comes down to it, seeing just one perspective will never tell the entire story.

Upon explaining the rivalry from the perspective of Barcelona and asking what fútbol meant to Barcelona, Julian, with a fire in his eyes that I had never seen before, told me that, “Spain can take our land, and our language, but they can never take our fútbol.” 

After asking the same question to one of my new Spanish friends in Madrid, he replied with, “Well, I love Real Madrid, but more importantly, want another beer?”

Personally, I rather just watch a Sharks game.

Palabra del día: Rivalridad - Rivalry

En Madrid, la rivalridad fue muy debíl. In Madrid, the rivalry was very weak.