La Mercé: Part 3

   And then, the city literally exploded. The "Correfoc" parade in Barrio Gótico (Gothic Quarter) was like walking into a war-zone. Three blocks away, we heard what sounded like gunshots and grenades, echoing among screams and what sounded disturbingly similar to an invading army. At this point, I probably should have turned away, but instead, I reminded myself how much Call of Duty I had played before coming to Spain, and I pushed onward. As we approached the battlefield of some seemingly innocent parade, the shrieks and surprised cries of fear (or joy?)  grew louder, until the gunshots became deafening and we could see flashes of light, accompanied by sparks flying into the crowd, chasing the fleeing, unprepared tourists back toward McDonald's. We shoved our way in to the hordes of frantically retreating families, closer and closer to the 'hot zone.' I then remembered that I left my modded AK-47 on the Xbox, along with my re-spawns back at home in Davis. Again, at this point I should have turned back, but I did not. I decided that I was going into this war empty-handed, or at least without my trusted x-box controller, blindingly fast internet connection, and liter of Mountain Dew.

   In reality, it was not a warzone, but a very life-like re-enactment of hell's gate unleashing it's demons on Barcelona. Descending from the "Devil's Ball" from the middle ages, Correfoc is a short break from a weekend of celebrating Merced, where a symbolic parade of people dressed as demons irresponsibly play with fireworks and shoot more fireworks out of giant demon-floats. Symbolically, it meant to separate the good from the evil, and was meant to pacify the demons by letting them out for a brief night of debauchery, danger, and a serious set of fire hazards before sending them back to Hell. Here is a picture of the 'demons.'

 

   Well, we finally pushed our way through the crowd and into an empty space. The smell of burnt gun powder lofted through the settling smoke and dust, while the onlooking civilians parted for us. For a brief second, it became eerily quiet. I turned around to ask my friend why everyone had parted around us, and upon turning back, I met the mischievous grin of a 'demon,' staring directly into my eyes. At this point, I realized that we had pushed our way into the procession of demons, where the fireworks had been exploding, and where most of the people had been avoiding. I realized this, not because I was getting stared down by a grown man in what looked like a poorly made child's Halloween costume (something to fear in and of itself), but because this same man was holding two lit roman candles, one in each hand, and staring at me intently. 

   I should take a brief pause to mention that when I was little, I was not allowed to play with fire, much less even listen to the song "fire" by Bruce Springsteen. Matches and lighters were off-limits, easy tickets to 'time-out,' so I avoided them like the plague. Originally, it was probably because my parents feared that I would burn down the house, but in that split second while getting eye-probed by a demon, I realized why my parents emphasized fire safety in our household.

   To summarize, when one of those Roman candles exploded inches from my feet, with a team of Catalunyan demons danced around me, I was slightly more than startled; I damn-near shit myself. The blatant disregard for basic fire safety alone scared me,  in addition to the fire, loud noises, and grown men in costumes.

   At that point, I was stunned. It turns out, flash bang grenade-fireworks can be pretty disorienting. But, thanks to my firm grasp of advanced tactical combat maneuvers from a few dozen hours of Call of Duty, I prepared for the upcoming attack. Like a true soldier, I took my camera out and proceeded to take more pictures than a sorority girl at a Toby Kieth concert. If I were going to risk my life, or at least 2nd degree burns, I was going to at the very least get a great profile picture out of it. Disoriented, ears ringing, and desperately needing a new pair of pants, I took the following pictures.

 

It turns out, that after shooting fireworks at broke, innocent, and curious American students, the demons then shoot more fireworks into the crowd through giant demon floats, as you can see in the pictures below.

I am going to wake up in night sweats about this one.

 

On a brief side-note, we learned how you should dress for an event like this.  Joey dressed like this;

 And then the locals and veterans dressed like this;

So that they can go up to the demons and dance with them like this;

I am shocked and appalled at the complete and utter lack of respect for fire safety.

Yes, you are correct, that would be a dragon puking fire onto a group of innocent girls trying to take a picture. If I could describe the looks on their faces 2 seconds after this picture was taken, I would probably use the word 'crispy' or maybe a combination of works like, 'lacking eyebrows.'

And there it is, the elusive Facebook profile picture that put my eyebrows and facial hair greatly at risk. I could finally get out of there. A few minutes after this was taken, we squeezed our way  back onto a crowded metro and watched some incredible fireworks (piromusical) accompanied by some American and Catalunyan music. It was hard to get a good view, or a good picture for that matter.

Needless to say, the fireworks and closing ceremony lit up the sky in a fashion very similar to what I imagine the apocalypse to look like. Barcelona would be the city to have a fire works show like that...

The fireworks took place on avenida Reina Maria Cristina, a street leading from Plaza España, up through fountains to the National Palace of Catalunya, resting at the bottom of Mont Juic and the olympic stadium. Now an art museum, the palace overlooks the entire city of Barcelona, and during that fire work show, I could only think about how great 4th of July fireworks would look here. Then, after fireworks and the closing ceremonies had ended, in true Barcelona fashion, a massive crowd, reminding me of some Haj-like spectacle, prevented us from going home, or moving more than 2 feet in any direction.

     Finally, after four days and four nights and a combined total of 96 hours of dancing, playing with fire, admiring Catalunyan culture, and not sleeping, we made it home. Luckily, I live about 5 blocks away from this spot, so thankfully, I didn't have to get back on the metro. After some great Chinese food, and the realization that I had homework due in a few hours on Monday morning, I gracefully ended my La Mercé weekend. Overall, I had a great time, and seeing what seemed like the entire city of Barcelona outside, celebrating their city and culture, was quite the impressive sight. After living in Barcelona for a month, I'm starting to finally see why some consider this city to be the best in the world. If it weren't for the lack of fire safety, I think it might have the potential to be better than my hometown of Campbell, California. Just maybe.

Word of the Day: Loco(a) - Crazy

La Mercé fue loca. La Mercé was crazy.

La Mercé: Part 2

    I'm a huge fan of live music. I feel like the performance aspect of concerts really changes the paradigm between musician and listener, and it makes for a great time. My friends and I, being regular attendees of the punk rock festival "Warped Tour," consider ourselves decently seasoned veterans when it comes to live music. I thought I had seen alot. It turns out that I was very wrong, and I was completely unprepared for what I was about to see. The 'Forum' or the metro stop 'Maresme del Forum,' if you're interested, is a massive venue resting on the edge of Barcelona on the Barcelona/Badalona border. This venue, made up of three smaller venues, had three main stages set up for the "BAM Festival," a component of La Mercé consisting of a series of concerts situated around the city, featuring popular artists from Catalunya, Spain, and around the world. These three stages consisted of; the pop-rock ampitheater (in the picture below), the DJ/ electronic stage, and the alternative rock stage. There were easily tens of thousands of Barcelona's youth there, dancing, rocking out, and inebriated beyond belief. I was mesmerized, at first solely for  the size and scale of the venue in it's entirety, and later by the fact that it was all completely free. After swimming through the crowd to the rock stage, I heard a Les Paul growl out the first few notes of a rock song, causing the crowd to erupt. Who has two thumbs and had a GREAT time? This guy. Oh yeah, and we managed to get up pretty close.

 

    Like I've said before, Barcelona has a way of making time irrelevant. After seeing a few great shows put on by Spanish rock bands that I still unfortunately lack the names of, we danced over to the DJ set, which turned out to be more of a giant outdoor rave. We got real funky, to say the very least, and we may have very well spent the next 48 hours in that sweaty pit of rhythmic bass and turbo-charged synth. Do I need to remind you that this was all free?

     I'm going to pretend like I don't see the massage train in the lower right corner of that picture. While the massage trains and model-like poses from my friends Julian and Andy (in the picture above), were enough to make a great night legendary, the final DJ that came on towards the end of Saturday night, or should I say Sunday morning, damn-near made me cry tears of joy. I'll let the pictures of this electronic demi-god speak for themselves. Turn your speakers up, let's set the mood for the pictures.

To be continued....

La Mercé: Part 1

Barcelona was crazy this weekend. I am still trying to sort through the hazy fragments of memories to figure out what happened. I find myself at a loss for words at finding a worthy comparison or the vocabulary necessary to describe the spectacle of “La Mercé,” Barcelona’s legendary “open-city.” It’s like Barcelona’s parents in Madrid left for the weekend to go to the Canary Islands and they made the mistake of leaving the city the keys to the Ferrari in plain sight, a fake I.D. on the table, and an irresponsibly large budget for food. Barcelona just threw an open house party, and Barcelona already had a reputation for partying. 

Throughout the summer, each neighborhood in Barcelona has a respective festival, with concerts, dancing, and various cultural spectacles like ‘Sardanas’ (popular Catalunyan group dancing), ‘torres humanos’ (human towers), and hordes of people celebrating their various neighborhoods. On the weekend of September 24^th through 26^th however, these festivals culminate into La Mercé, and fortunately for me, I was there to witness what might possibly have been one of the absolutely most ridiculously fun experiences of my life.

First celebrated in 1871, La Mercé, or in Castellano, La Merced, began as a feast in honor of the fall harvest and the celebration of “La Virgen Merced,” a Spanish variation of the Virgin Mary. In 1902, the Barcelona city council, obviously itching to party a little harder, must have realized the potential of La Mercé, and added a calendar of events to their festival, transforming their annual feast into the biggest festival of the year in Barcelona. Now, it is arguably one of the biggest, free, public festivals in the world. Leave it to Barcelona to throw the best party in the world, right?

            My weekend began on Thursday night. Thursday is usually the ‘boring’ night of La Mercé, so we went to the “Ice Bar,” which, like the name says, is a bar made of ice. Even the glasses were made of ice. It became too cold so we left. Who knew that you would get cold in a bar made of ice? Now that I think about it, it was more like a glorified meat-locker. Anyway, skip to Friday.

            We hopped from venue to venue, which were sprinkled throughout the city, seeing everything from famous Catalonian bands to Jazz – funk bands all the way from Japan, to drum and bass DJ’s directly from London. Thousands of people walked the streets and plazas, tourists and Catalonians alike, listening to music and enjoying the various parades, having an all-around great time.

There were alot of people that decided to show up.

 

There were concerts like this in almost every plaza in the city.

A friend recommended that we go to the “Forum,” adding that it was his favorite spot. We complied, and packed onto the metro. I have never seen so many people packed onto a metro before. We found out that they are going the Forum as well, and at each stop more and more people packed onto the metro.

                         It was even more difficult to shove our way to the exit of the metro station.

Finally, we pushed our way through the throngs of Spanish youth to the elusive 'Forum.' To be continued in Part 2.

Beer Log #1

I like drinking beer. I also like telling stories. Furthermore, I really like showing my friends back home that I can drink legally and they can’t. With that in mind, I’ve decided to start what will hopefully be a weekly segment to this blog, called “The Beer Logs.” With this, I will tell short stories about the trials and tribulations of living in Barcelona, some good, some bad, and some downright exhilarating, while testing different beers from around the world.

So it’s my first day of school. The previous night, I made sure to set two alarms, excessively early, to make sure I get to class on time and give a good impression to my teachers.

I wake up, strangely well rested, to the fact that neither of my alarm clocks went off. Perfect, that was exactly what I wanted to happen. Class started at 8:30, it is now 9:30, and I am sitting in my bed, an hour away from campus.

I hustle out of bed, throw on clothes and nearly sprint out the door of my apartment building. I say nearly sprint because it wasn’t exactly a sprint, but more of a sleepwalk, or leisurely, half awake stroll. While walking across the street, I nearly get hit by a car, missing it by mere centimeters. Sweet Jesus, close call.

I get to my metro stop and head to the transfer that will take me to school. We’re okay for now.

I get on my train, and I feel okay. 20 minutes later the train reaches the end of the line, and I realize that I took the wrong train to some Spanish strip mall outside the city. A man tells me I can transfer to the right station if I stay on this train, but me, being American, and not really understanding what he said, get off at that train station. I contemplate just going home. Then I remember I have no idea how to get home from here.

I wait for the next train for 10 minutes, thinking about my life.

I get on the next train, and take it backwards 20 minutes, to what I think will be a shortcut.

It turns out that it is not a short cut by any means whatsoever, but I get off anyway.

I wait 10 minutes for the next train, and decide to just go all the way back to the beginning, to Provença.

Once I’m finally there, I get on what I hope is the right train and head to school.

Even though I missed a class and got to my second one an hour late, I’m proud to say that the death stare given to me by that teacher was easily the most incredibly angry, scornful, soul-crushing look I have ever received in my entire life. That teacher might have very well put a curse on me.

Beer: San Miguel 1516

(accompanied by a rather delightful plate of spaghetti and chorizo)

Word of the Day: Tarde - Late

Llegue tarde a mis clases en el primer dia. I arrived late to my classes on the first day.

Waiting in Lines

   During my two months here in Europe, I've waited in my fair share of lines. Some lines are fun and move pretty quickly, like the cafeteria line in Cádiz, or the line to the Picasso museum the other week. Other lines however, like the one I stood in today, reminded me of some sick DMV-reminiscent stage of Catalunyan purgatory that no human being should ever have to experience.
   Today, I stood in line for a combined total of 4 hours to get the last step of my student visa, the notorious and much sought after "NIE." While I still don't really know what that stands for (residency number?), all that matters now is that I have it, and I never have to go back again to that sick twisted insanity-inducing police station.
   This step, mind you, is the last step in a long line of Consulate visits, deadlines, fees, and mountains of paperwork to make sure I can stay in Spain (legally) for the year. Believe me, during this whole process, which began last March, I've definitely debated being a stow away on a ship and living behind Camp Nou, the Barcelona fútbol stadium, or just staying in California and dropping EAP all together. Yes, it was that bad, but so far it's definitely been worth it.
   Anyway, my day began at 6 30 this morning, I woke up at this ungodly hour because our advisors had told other students to get there early, for fear of lines, and me, being the chronic procrastinator that I am, was rewarded for procrastinating with stories from my friends who spent more than 5 hours in line at the police station. They spent 5 hours there because they were only one hour early, and apparently not early enough. So I wake up at 6 30, leave at 7, and eventually find the police station at 7 30, where I am greeted by one of the most massive lines that I have ever seen in my life. This guy wrapped around multiple blocks already, and I was an hour and a half early. If there were a Disney Land ride giving away chocolate-soaked-hundred dollar bills, there would still not be a line as long and disillusioning as this one. Well, the next four hours played out as follows;

7:30 am - I accidentally cut in front of everyone and go to the front of the line. They laugh at the silly American and tell me to get in the back. Glad I could give them some Comedic relief. I walk to the back, hop in line, prepared with my coffee, homework, and an Ipod full of Red Hot Chili Peppers. At this point, I'm just really excited to be done with this process, but then again I'm still slightly delirious because it's still dark outside, and I haven't been up this early in years.

8:00 - I read my homework and my butt starts to fall asleep on the cement. They're only letting 100 foreigners in at a time, but "Can't Stop" comes on and I get distracted.

8:30 - The line moves, I find a change of scenery. I am now facing a giant Spanish underwear ad. Obviously, I stop reading my homework, and I'm officially distracted from the lack of sensation in my butt and the massive butt of a Spanish model on the wall in front of me. I hear the Russian girls behind me whisper something and look at me. I giggle and blush uncontrollably.

8:45 - At this point, I've been here for a little over an hour, and I've had a bottle of water, and a coffee. My bladder begins to subtly hint at my poor breakfast decisions, but the hypnotic harmonies of the Chili Peppers keep me distracted. I make friends with the Italian guy in front of me. We unsuccessfully hit on the Russian girls.

9:05 - I see an American friend. He looks at me, looks at the line, looks at me again, and says, "shit." Guess he'll be here for 5 hours. Maybe he'll get lucky and get deported so he doesn't have to deal with this line.

9:30 - This is where things get interesting. I've been in line for two hours at this point, and only moved about 20 feet. Two Russian guys cut in front of me and my new Italian friend. Italian friend gets mad and yells at them in Spanish. My only thought is trying to cork the geyser of a piss that is getting ready to explode like Mt. Saint Helens in my bladder. I turn up my music, and begin to wonder what is in Spanish Coffee.

9:33 - I go 'silent-but-deadly' on the two Russian line cutters. That one was for you, Kennedy. 'Murica.

9:45 - The line moves alot, I get a number, and get sent to a waiting room. I feel like a cow in a herd of cattle. I'm excited, and forget about my discomfort. They give me #A20, this number is now my life.

10:00 - I make friends with a Macedonian girl. They speak Macedonian in Macedonia, go figure. She says I sound like a typical Californian boy. I tell her Macedonian sounds like Russian. She didn't like that.

10:13 - Luckily my American friend gets into the same waiting room as me, because the Macedonian girl looks like she is about to go Cold War on me. Fear keeps me from having to use the non-existent bathroom.

10:45 - Just as I begin to think that time has stopped existing, and that this windowless waiting room might actually be some stage of purgatory, I get called by a lady. She gives me a new number 'D74.' I go to a new waiting room. "Otherside" comes on, go figure.

10:50 - I get to the new waiting room, and I remember my bladder, which is stabbing me repeatedly in the gut, wreaking havoc on anything close to it, as if it were the Hoover dam and both of the polar ice caps had just melted.

11 - I start to sweat. At least they're already on number 55.

11:15 - I switch to Metallica. Never in my life has there been a more fitting time for Metal.

11:20 - They are 4 numbers away from mine, on 69. I bury my head into my homework and struggle to focus. I blast my music. I begin to wonder if I'll get deported if my bladder bursts.

11:30 - I look up and see that they skipped to 75. I missed my number. I have just waited 4 hours to miss my number. No.

11:31 - I hobble to the desk, squirming uncontrollably and luckily she tells me I can still get my NIE. At least that's what I think she said. She probably told me where the bathroom was, I wouldn't have known differently at that point. That or she asked me if i was trying to smuggle something into Barcelona, legally of course.

11: 35 - She tells me I have the wrong paper. By the look on my face and the string of English cuss words I whisper under my breath, I think I convince her to rethink her unfortunate decision.

11:40 - She says everything is working out, I imagine what the bathroom will feel like after this.

11:42 - Another hiccup with my paper work. Apparently it says "matriculate" instead of "exchange." I give her the look. Lucky for her, she says everything is ok.

11:45 - I finally get my NIE and say thanks for the heart attack and future kidney problems. I run to the nearest bathroom, as a Spanish resident.

   So I finally emerge from the police station, or one of the many waiting rooms, as a legal Spanish resident, and dear god, in that moment, I took the most victorious, refreshing, glorious pee of my entire life. As I stood there, emptying liters upon liters (metric system, no big deal) of what may or may not have been a mixture of coffee and radioactive waste, 'Scar Tissue' comes on and I have an epiphany.

Here's the song, play it right now to set the mood for my epiphany in the next paragraph. (And they have a new album out, I'm With You, if you're interested)


   If I could barely do this, with an ipod, snacks, plenty to keep me busy,  and a decent grasp of the Spanish language, imagine what it must be like to wait in a 4 hour endurance line with two hungry children, or a pregnant wife, or a sick parent in tow? Or what if you couldn't understand the language, like many immigrants in California, how could you possibly know what papers to bring, or the difference between 'matriculate' and 'exchange?' Imagine if you had just spent the last few hours crossing the border in the back of a pickup truck? What if you just finished smuggling radioactive coffee over the border and for some reason wanted to become a legal citizen at that point? Sparing my dramatic embellishments, I can no longer deny or ignore the plight of the immigrant. Immigrants have a tough time guys, and I know, from personal experience, that most of us definitely do not spare them any empathy or any shred of compassion, whatsoever. My slight discomfort during this process was only a glimpse into the many obstacles that immigrants face on a daily basis, and I gained alot of respect for immigrants through this whole process of obtaining my student visa and NIE. Not only did it take money, time, and help from college advisors, and of course my mother, but it literally made me use every resource I take for granted; two devoted parents, cars, a job to pay for miscellaneous costs, advisers holding my hand every step of the way, and a schedule that left enough time to fit it all in. Remember I'm here in Spain to study, and for fun, and for many immigrants, their lives and families depend on getting into the new country. And they most definitely do not have advisors to call at 3 in the morning, desperately trying to meet a deadline or to help you express ship two pieces of paper to Washington D.C. for 70 dollars. I'm glad I'm here, because I wouldn't have had this epiphany without the whole process.

Here's a view from the roof-top terrace of my Apartment, yes, that is Gaudi's La Sagrada

 Familia in the background.

 

      Here it is from a closer angle. Damn Gaudi, that's some sweet Modernisme if I've ever seen it.

Word of the Day: Cola - Line (The type you wait in)
Estaba en la cola del diablo por cuatro horas este mañana. I was in the line of the devil for four hours this morning.

Time

Let’s be honest, being American doesn’t really conjure up the same mental image it did 50 years ago. Today, we Americans have a lot on our plate. Our military is spread throughout the world, our economy is in the gutter, China is quickly surpassing us as a world leader, and our politicians can’t seem to do anything besides argue. We’re stressed out, and it’s taking a physical toll. Physically, as a population, 33.8 % of us suffer from obesity, and about one in every three adults has high blood pressure. Another 15% of our friends and family has high cholesterol levels, and that doesn’t count the percentage of Diabetics. The CDC predicts that 1 in 4 of us will die from a heart attack, and in 2006 there were about 630,000 deaths from heart disease alone. Every year, about 785,000 Americans will have their first heart attack, and another 470,000 who have already had a heart attack will have another one (CDC.Gov).

After taking these statistics into consideration, and realizing that the rest of the world judges us based on the image presented by Lady Gaga and the cast of The Jersey Shore, it’s no wonder why we’re so stressed all the time. Combined with the fact that we might very well be on the brink of the Mayan-predicted 2012 apocalypse, it’s pretty clear that we’re all just really stressed out. We are frazzled, worn down, and biting our nails every second, anxiously anticipating our next move and Shnooki’s next book deal.

             Spain, however, has helped me realize why we’re so stressed all the time.  

            We grow up and live our lives according to the time-money metaphor. I remember some of the earliest things I learned being that “time is money,” and to “spend my time wisely,” or to “budget my time.” I used to drive instead of walk or bike in order to “save time,” as if sacrificing cardiovascular health and the environment would help me save time and money. When we relax with friends, we are “spending time with someone,” and when we practice a skill or study, we are “investing in our futures.” We even schedule time to relax! Doesn’t that defeat the purpose? We place monetary value on relationships and everything we do because we are literally ‘spending’ our valuable seconds and minutes like pennies and dollar bills at the grocery store. We have turned people and experiences into money, and what could that possibly say about us as people?

 The idea that time has monetary value is deeply engrained in our collective conscious as a culture, and we worry that any ‘wasted time’ will somehow, God-forbid, hurt us financially, jeopardizing our futures and the lives of our loved-ones. We live according to a clock, and in America, the clock is directly linked to money. Almost every choice we make is chosen in regard to some aspect of a moneymaking pursuit. I’ll be honest; I came to Spain to learn Spanish so I’ll be able to get a better job someday. Of course I came to have fun, see the world, and become a better person, but you can’t deny the inherent, sub-conscious monetary motivation behind everything we do. It’s no wonder why we’re so stressed. What else can we do besides smoke and over-eat to calm our nerves? 

   This picture is completely unrelated. It was taken in el mercat de Boquería, just off of Las Ramblas, in the seafood section.

            Industries are built around the idea that fast and efficient is always better, just look at speed dating and online dating. It’s built around the idea of convenience and speed. Why spend the time investing in a relationship when it can be done at the click of a button, or in 30-minute cycles during your lunch break? Smart phones and computers are built around the same concept – to do the most tasks in the shortest time possible, in the easiest way possible.

            Well, Spain does it differently. In Cádiz, time moved slowly, to the point where it felt like time was at a standstill. Here in Barcelona, I’m pretty sure that time doesn’t even exist. Spaniards don’t go out until 1 or 2 a.m. once they’ve finished dinner, and they don’t come back until the early morning, or when they’re good and ready. There is no direct translation for ‘jetlag’ in Spanish, my teacher told me that it was simply a ‘cambio de horario,’ or a ‘change of schedule.’ Time, in Spain, is irrelevant. After all, who cares about time when you’re busy living and enjoying life?

            So, my question is, what would happen if we reinvested our time into people and relationships rather than our futures and financial pursuits? Investing might be the wrong word, but as an American I don’t really have the vocabulary to describe what I’m witnessing here with Spanish culture. I’m just saying, that instead of always looking forward and budgeting our time, maybe we could try living in the present, with the people we’re with. Maybe if we just sat back, took a deep breath, and shared a beer every once in a while instead of running around, stuffing McDonald’s down our throats to make it to our speed dating session or our Cardiologist appointments we could see how lucky we are to have the people around us. Then again, I’m just writing this blog to get some writing experience for my resume, and ‘invest in my future.’ Being a hypocrite is the American way, right? It’s my culture, what am I supposed to do?

                                              Now that's what I call a good investment.

Word of the Day: Estrés - Stress 

No tengo el estrés ahora. I don't have stress.

5 things in Sitges, Catalunya

   Barcelona is nuts. The people here do not sleep, and I have never seen or experienced night life like this before. As of right now, I'm not exactly sure what day it is, time is irrelevant, and I woke up a few hours ago, in the afternoon. Luckily classes have only recently started, so I'm still slightly free from the 'pressure' of school. Nights last well into the mornings, and from what I've heard, there are clubs that continue into the day, called 'afters'. I'll explain later. Anyway, the night life combined with adjusting to living in a big city has made it hard to keep up with the blog, much less find time to do simple things like shower, eat, or even sit down for more than 30 minutes. While hygiene and nutrition may have both fallen a few spots on the priorities list here in Barça, I decided to skip the shower and head to Sitges for some much needed R & R.  Consider it a 'vacation from a vacation.'
   Barceloneta is the main beach in Barcelona. Because this beach is dirty, crowded with pale Dutch tourists,  and riddled with thieves, most locals go to Bogatell to the north, or Sitges, which is a 30 minute train ride south of Barcelona. You basically hop off of the train and you're at the beach -- it's a nice break from the city. However, Sitges is not for the judgemental nor close-minded, as I will explain with the next 5 things.

1. Sitges is gorgeous. There are 9 small beaches, each with a theme (family, singles, nude, etc...) seperated by small breakwaters. This is the one we settled on.

                                         You can see the Sitges cathedral on the right

2.We explored a bit, and I took this picture of the beach next to us.

There were a lot of guys at that beach. My best guess was that they were all from the Sitges fútbol team, enjoying  some sun at their beach, or maybe this beach was the 'best friends' themed beach.

3. Even though I felt like Sitges was hiding something from me, I was distracted by the fact that they have bear bars! I didn't know what that meant at the time, maybe they have men who drink whiskey and wrestle bears? Damn. Badass. But why would a bad-ass bear wrestling macho man bar be called "Queenz"?

 4. Well, it turns out that Sitges is indeed considered to be one of the gay 'capitals' of europe, and a popular European vacation destination for older homosexual men, nicknamed 'queens' or 'bears' (osos).

                                             I should have realized that after I saw this poster.

5. The gelato in Sitges is absolutely fabulous. Great way to finish off the day.

 Well, my assumptions were correct, as my Spanish friend later jokingly explained to me. Regardless of Sitges's status as the gay destination of Europe, it is a great place to take a break from the city, relax on the beach, and get to know some friendly locals . Sitges was a great time, I got a solid nap on the beach, and I discovered that Christiano Ronaldo (cocky pretty boy fútbol player for real Madrid) moonlights as a stripper in Sitges.

Word(s) of the Day: la playa - beach, el oso - bear
Fuimos a la playa de sitges y pasamos con los osos. We went to the beach in Sitges and hung out with the bears.

Cádiz: Spain's Alabama?

Here in Barcelona, I recently learned that Cádiz, located on the southern tip of Spain, and where I spent the first month of my trip, is what Spaniards describe as the Spanish equivalent of Alabama. Apparently, for Spaniards, Alabama, ‘the cotton state,’ and self-proclaimed ‘heart of Dixie’ is the mirror-image of a 3000-year-old European ‘welcoming point’ sitting on a peninsula in the Atlantic Ocean. Paradise, in the truest sense of the word that I have ever experienced, is equivalent to Alabama. This makes me a) want to see what the Spanish consider to be paradise, and b) stop telling Spaniards about my deep affection and month-long affair with Cádiz. I've made a quick compare/contrast list to hopefully help clarify this. 

Cádiz

- short for Cádiz de la frontera

- lined by cobblestone streets

- bordered by white sand beaches

- setting for Halle Berry’s divorce-inducing beach scene in “Tomorrow Never Dies.”          

Alabama 

- known for cotton

- the civil rights movement

- Evangelical Christians. 

- Setting for Rosa Park's civil rights inducing scene on a bus in 1955.

I think it's relatively easy to spot the differences between the two places. Last time I checked, Alabama didn’t have white sand beaches, or Halle Berry for that matter. However, Alabama did have Rosa Parks, who, in my book, is just as much of a babe as Halle Berry, if not more. What Cádiz and Alabama both have in common, and what I believe is the foundation of this comparison, is a thick accent, the people’s status as Spanish ‘red-necks,' and of course a mutual love for great hairstyles. Let's try comparing the people of the two places instead.

 Alabama

- They have southern drawls, accents only found in the deep, dirty south of the U.S.A.. 

-  Big fans of mullets and rat-tails

 Cádiz, 

- They have a huge accent, where they do not pronounce the ‘s’ in words. 

- They make Alabama look like they just found out about mullets and rat-tails this century.

In Spanish, it turns out that there are a lot of words with ‘s.’ For example, “We go to Spain, I am from Cádiz” translates to “Vamos a España, soy de Cádiz.” Apparently several states in Andalucía in addition to Cádiz, pronounce this like they don’t have toungues, i.e. “amoh ah Eh – paña, oy de Kah-dee.” While this accent makes it really hard to understand Spanish, it does help explain the comparison between the two states. Basically, a shared appreciation for the infamous ‘rat-tail’ and mullet, a southern accent, and a mutual love of a good time make these places disturbingly similar.

I would also just like to point out that in Cádiz, they say ‘picha,’ which translates to the equivalent of ‘dude.’ Recently, I found out that 'picha' means penis everywhere else in Spain. That was a fun conversation.

So basically, people in Cádiz are the equivalents of rednecks in America, and that is why Spaniards make this unexpected comparison. Personally, while I have never been to Alabama, I hear it’s lovely this time of year, and if it’s anything like Cádiz, it would make for a great trip. I think I might go just to try and bridge the distance created by the Atlantic Ocean in between mutual mullet lovers. 

Word of the Day: Sorreño - Southern. Los sorreños del sur del E.E.U.U y España tienen muchas semejanzas. The southerners of the south of the U.S.A and Spain have many similarities.