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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday and Thursday this week were holidays. Tuesday was "Día de la Constitución," and Thursday was "Día de la Inmaculada." I was in Madrid until Monday, I didn´t get back to Barcelona until around noon, and the majority of my classes had already been canceled because of the holidays, so I ended up not going to class on Monday. Since Tuesday and Thursday were both holidays, Wednesday became what the Spanish call "Día del Puente," or "Bridge Day." "Bridge Day" bridges the gap between holidays like this, so Wednesday, by default, becomes a holiday as well. Since the three middle days of the week were therefore all holidays, the entire week became a holiday. Thus, no one was at school or work this week, and I had to reschedule my English lessons as well.
Let´s pause a moment to really think about this. Spain is a part of 'P.I.I.G.S.' (Portugal, Ireland, Italy, Greece, and Spain) which are the countries that have floundering economies, barely staying afloat, and dragging down the entire E.U.. Widespread protesting, strikes, and riots have broken out because of the economic situation, unemployment, and rampant inflation in these countries.Obviously, people aren´t very happy. In Spain, a staggering average of 21.3% of the workforce is unemployed, with unemployment rapidly increasing, and with some areas, like southern Spain, much worse than others. The people here in Barcelona call it a 'crisis,' and while at first I thought the crisis they referred to was FCB's two game losing streak, statistical evidence like the rising unemployment rate points toa slightly more severe crisis in the economy. The people demand increased social welfare programs, unemployment insurance, and at the same time limits to education fees and limits to hikes in taxes.These demands make sense, kind of.
I hate taxes, work, and school just as much as your typical Spaniard, but once you take into account the magic of siesta, and holidays turned entire weeks of vacation, it´s hard to feel bad, or even think of a solution for the economic crisis Spain. A friend of mine recently talked to an English protestor in Madrid, impersonating a typical Spanish protestor, he announced that he would "gladly work from the hours of around 8-12, but needed a four hour break for lunch and a nap, and if he felt like it, might come back to work another few hours after his nap." While his demands were sarcastic, they were also soberingly honest, give or take a few hours. Siestas, the apparent lack of structured work hours, and random holidays sprinkled throughout the work week make it very difficult to empathize with Spain when countries like Germany are forced to spend billions of euros bailing them out. If one were to comment on how the siesta and random holidays might possibly be, oh, i don´t know, a root cause of the economic crisis in Spain, they would be lambasted and ostracized for critizing cultural activities like mid-day naps and Tuesday holidays.It might be considered racist to ask the question that, "If your city, or country, shuts down for a few hours every day, or a few days every month, how do you expect to create revenue generating jobs, or dig yourself out of an economic recession?" I would continue my rant, but I´ll be honest, it made me pretty tired, and now I need a nap.
Palabra del día:Perezoso - Lazy
No puedo terminar el proyecto hoy porque tengo que dormir en la tarde, y hay un dia de puente en el miercoles, pero no soy perezoso. I can´t finish the project today because I have to sleep in the afternoon and there is a bridge day on Wednesday, but I am not lazy.
The Maury
Povich show was a 90´s tabloid talk show, and public access channels play
re-runs during the day time back in my home town. Every so often, amid topics of teenage
pregnancy, makeovers, phobias, and disfiguring illnesses, they had a rather
poignant episode about a paternity dispute where a young mother tries to find
her baby’s biological father. The mother tells her story, which is always
rather depressing, about how the father impregnated her with a one night stand,
or ran away with another woman, with absolutely nothing, not even a kiss good
bye. The proposed father comes on stage, ushered in by ‘boos’ from the
crowd, and the bouncers ritually hold back the mother from mauling the dad.
After some heated debate, death threats, an ocean of bleeped out words, in
addition to general sassiness from the audience, they finally reveal the
results of the paternity test. Sometimes, it turns out that the dead beat dad
is not the father at all. The mother is incredibly surprised, because she turns
out to be just as promiscuous as the father. The look on the young mother’s
face when Maury announces that the dad is in fact, “not the father” reeks of
betrayal, shock, and blatant “dumbounded-ness,” if that is even a word. I´m
pretty sure that´s not a real word, but no one can deny that this is 90´s
daytime television at it’s absolute peak.
Well, long story short, when I told my
Cataluñan friends that I was going to Madrid for the weekend, it was if Maury
had just read them the paternity test results, and I was in fact not their
baby’s daddy all along. I have never in my life seen faces with such twisted
accusations of betrayal, shock, and surprise, among others. My friend simultaneously
dropped his fork and jaw to the floor while eating lunch when I told him the
news. My roommate stiffened and froze and warned me about the dangers awaiting
me in Madrid when I dropped the proverbial ´bomb´on her. I’m also pretty sure
someone might have given me some sort of strike on my Visa for being a
‘traitor’ back at that damn Visa office.
Cataluña and Madrid are rivals in everything
from fútbol to the historically seeded political battle for Cataluñan autonomy
and subjugation of the Catálan culture. Until now, I had only seen it from the
side of Barcelona, the passionate and somewhat zealous heart and capital of
Cataluña. Cataluña has always been the underdog to Spain, and professors and
students at my university made an annoyingly firm stance at teaching and
speaking in Catalan. Don’t forget that FCB isn´t just a fútbol club, but a
militia that fights for Cataluña with goals instead of guns. Upon leaving for
Madrid, I thought that this zealous brand of patriotism, was (dare I say it) a
bit over the top, to be completely honest. After all, I came to Spain to learn
Spanish, and frankly Barcelona seemed like a more interesting version of Madrid
with better weather (i.e. Mediterranean beach). It turns out that Spanish is a
whole lot different than Catálan, and the cultures have their differences as
well. Madrid’s royal majesty helped
unfold a whole other chapter of the story that I hadn´t learned about in
Barcelona, helping to explain the story of Cataluña that has been muddled (and
a slight challenge) through letters like “Ç” and outspoken fútbol fans. My trip
to Madrid helped clear some of the muck in the murky waters of the
Cataluña-Spain debate, but until I get into the guts and glory of the Cataluña
and Spain debate, my 5 things from Madrid are just shameless pleasures from the
Spanish culture, like tapas and the royal legacy of Spain.
1) Tapas
Before coming to Madrid, I was told stories,
bordering fables, of Tapas piles so high that you couldn't even reach the top in a
multi-pitch, Everest-like ascent.
Naturally, with tapas edging out Penelope Cruz in my favorite things
about Spain, my one goal in Madrid became to find and conquer this so called
‘montón’ of tapas. With the help of a few friends and some ambition, I did
exactly that.
This is a bad picture from the first restaurant, "El Tigre." I wasn't concerned about taking pictures, or the deer head on the wall for that matter, I had tapas to take care of. After that, We were all nice and squished
together making new friends in a fine establishment named ´Respiro,´ while
enjoying the fine Spanish art and delicacy of tapas.
2) Art
I like to
explain Madrid by telling people that Paris is to France as Madrid is to Spain.
Besides being capitals of their respective countries, Madrid and Paris also
epitomize their respective cultures. Long before America´s reign at the top of
the ladder, British supremacy during the Industrial Revolution, Napolean
and the glory of the French renaissance, Spain enjoyed a few centuries as the
most powerful country in the world with it´s vast overseas empire, Armadas, and the Inquisition. The Spanish
royal family, and it´s respective culture therefore led to a rich and prominent
collection of art and cultural history, which one can see in Madrid at museums
like El Prado and Reina Sofia. Some paintings, like Velasquez's "Las meninas"(considered by many to be the best painting, ever) shows insight into
life into what it might be like to live in one of the most powerful familes to
have ever lived, while others show the horrors of civil war, like Picasso's "La Guernica," or Goya's "The Third of May, 1808." Overall,
for me, these two museums were the highlights of my trip to Madrid, with Goya´s haunting and thought provoking ´black paintings´ being a cherry on top of my weekend in Madrid.
3) Parque
Retiro
Madrid, like most big cities in Europe, is a
huge metropolitan hub that never siestas, or even sleeps for that matter.
Unlike silent suburban blocks in America and empty parks, people actually use
the parks and public spaces in Europe. Musicians, children, and the elderly all
escape from cramped apartment living and spread out in sprawling parks and
plazas.
Parque Retiro is the go-to choice for Madrid
parks, and it was easy to see why. Not only did this parque have a ´Harry
Potter-esque´ section called ‘El Bosque de Buen Recuerdo´(Forest of good memory)
but a man-made lake filled with row boats, in addition to a ´crystal palace,´ complete with black swans. Besides feeling like I was in a set from "The chronicles of Narnia," It was
impossible to take bad pictures at this place, and there was a tranquility in the
air that I hadn´t felt since Cadiz.
4) Toledo
“Holy
Toledo!” I said shamelessly, upon stepping out of the bus onto some of the world´s oldest
cobblestone streets, on our excursion to what is considered to be the world's most well-preserved, midevil city, Toledo. I ended up saying “Holy
Toledo,” among other explicatives, about 12 to 13 times that day, mostly in reference to the swords I saw in gift shop windows next to full suits of armor. Back in the day, Toledo was the capital of Spain and point of embarkment for guys like Don Quixote, while Madrid was just beginning as a small humble military barracks protecting Toledo. Now, their main export is swords and armor. Personally, I think it's an improvement.
5) Temple
Debod
Just when you think you've seen everything that Madrid has to offer, you stumble upon an ancient Egyptian temple, that overlooks a nantional park. Temple Debod everyone, a round of applause.
My first Spanish tortilla (pretty much a fancy omelette)
Overall,
Madrid was great because it gave me an opportunity to reassess why I came to
Spain in the first place – to learn Spanish, and immerse myself in Spanish
culture. My friends in Madrid are living and learning everything Spanish, with
their nightly tapas, royal plazas, palaces and sprawling parks, except one thing. An
unfortunate, and rather neglected side of Spanish culture are the centuries of
oppression and subjugation of other cultures, like the Aztecs in the Americas,
and the Cataluñans here in Barcelona. It’s hard to see something like oppression until you see it from
the top, where it originated, and the bottom, where it happens. I saw it every
day in Barcelona from the bottom, with subtle flags of protest hanging from
balconies, road signs in catálan, and FCB. Now, I finally got the chance to see
if from the top, with Madrid’s austere sense of nobility and
monarchical control of Spain, and the world. Very few people get the
opportunity to learn and live about a colonial empire, or dictatorship from the
subjugated minority, and well, here I am, doing just that in the ´party
capital´of Barcelona. It´s not just a year long vacation anymore, it´s a chance
to learn about a side Spain than I had ever originally intended, and I welcome the challenge.
Word of the Day: (It's about time I change this to Palabra del día)
Palabra del día:Aprender - To learn Aprendí como cocinar Tortilla Española. I learned how to make Spanish Tortilla.
