Plaza de Bon Success: The Barca Loner makes some unlikely friends and par takes in cultural activity

I met him outside the MACBA on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. Tom was talking excitedly on the phone “yeah yeah awesome, ah wicked yeah AWWWWWWSOME.” Slight and pale with unfashionable glasses and trousers with useful side-pockets I was enjoying his enthusiasm after another painful Catalan class. I asked him for a cigarette, to which he replied, “awwwwsome, you’re English, WOW nice to meet you.” Now seeing as our shared nationality had enraptured him further in a city where there are more Irish pubs than paellas I assumed he was either highly xenophobic or new to this town. He announced proudly that he was on his gap year and was trying to start a band. “DING DONG,” I thought to myself and casually mentioned that I too had been trying to start a band since 1972. Having nothing better to do than sing bad folk with Tom with glasses I hastily picked up my guitar from home and met him in a small park, to while away the sunny hours with this sunny sunny boy.

We had not been going long when our merry duo was joined by Martin the German Anarchist. He stomped over to us head to toe in leather and slumped himself next to us. Occasionally he would contribute his own lyrics, such as “I never really liked your family anyway,” but mainly he just laughed at us and happily guzzled our beer and fags. At one point a tiny little girl with beautiful ringlets toddled up to us, mystified by the unusual goings, at which Martin shouted, “Want some beer, little boy?” Tom and I smiled apologetically at the nervous looking father and resumed our Top of the World harmonies.

I believe it was somewhere in the midst of Crocodile Rock that events took a sour turn. Martin reached over to roll another cigarette from Tom’s tobacco and, finding there to be none left, threw the empty packet at Tom’s face, slightly dislodging his glasses. “What the fuck is this man??” Tom stuttered that it appeared he had run out of tobacco. “Don’t fuck me man! You fuck me, I fuck you man!” At this he held up his fist to demonstrate the point, revealing knuckles branded with F.U.C.K. We hadn’t doubted his words for a moment, and his x-rated tattoo only confirmed our fears. We nodded vigorously in agreement, and I wished that Tom wasn’t holding my guitar at that point so I could have scarpered, leaving my new friend to whatever fate Martin prescribed, but he was, so I held my position and uttered soothing noises. After a medium sized anti monarchist rant the air seemed to be calming, and the whole episode ended in a warm embrace of the two, with Martin’s words, “You have one penis, I have one penis man,” and Tom’s reply, “I totally agree,” being the final words on the matter.

A while later, with the three of us in uneasy equilibrium,  Martin’s mates from the squat house showed up. Leading the way was Sasha(“it’s not girly it’s Russian”), a huge booming Hulk of a man with an equally enormous dog and carton of wine. “Don’t listen to what I say,” he boomed, “I’ve been drinking for...... ten years now.” Alongside Big Sasha sat Zach, a sweet young man introduced to us as the holder of the finest dreadlocks in Barcelona. He smiled modestly and shook his head muttering, “Oh, it’s nothing really,” while we were shown a dreadlock the width of Sasha’s hand. Impressive. Zach and I had much to talk about with Essex, Suffolk and Bristol connections (he was the founder of The Philosophers’ Fair phsy-trance festival in Mildenhall) and Tom tried very hard to woo the giant. Someone inquired as to the name of our whereabouts. Nobody knew exactly. “Bon Success!” boomed Sasha, “I call this, “Plaza de Bon Success”.”

Barcelona is alive with off-beat cultural activities. In just the last week I have partaken in a pillow fight flash mob, attended a recital in a squat of a man playing an African instrument made from a pumpkin and listened to an Effervescent Electronica D.J play at 9pm in a library, while everyone sat down and actually listened.

Language skills are improving, I’ve made a couple more mates and the sun is bloody shining. I call that a Bon Success.

BARCA LONER

The second leg of my world conquering adventures (Finblog: Barcelona), began in a haphazard, if not typical Finbow style. Having lost my mobile going through Stanstead’s super new security, then gone to gate 34 instead of 4 with 3 minutes left to take off, I had to be chaperoned silently by a rubbery  guard through all the back doors that said “staff only” until we emerged onto the runway, where  a little electrically powered bus met us and carried us round the runway directly up to the plane , the Whitney Houston classic “I will always love you”  bizarrely cutting through the awkward silence. The whole plane was clearly and unsympathetically waiting so I did that Wallace and Gromit half-grimace face and a jovial shrug and buried my face in Torso of the month.

Having thought that my little broken heart would never heal after leaving behind the white beaches and lazy daysof Cartagena, I suddenly realised that the sun also rises in Barcelona and my period of mourning has melted away into such excitement and impatience to do EVERYTHING. Where in Cartagena the people seemed to be satisfied with the very art of existing from one day to the next, here in Barcelona they seem to be jostling with one another to create something new and to not be left behind when something comes sweeping down. ..

Unlike Colombia where the sum total of my day to day activities seemed to be “having a nice time” I have been forced to do something productive in Barcelona and have enrolled at La Universitat de Barcelona to study Catalan Philology. All bar one of my classes are in Catalan, which is proving to be quite frustrating as I don’t actually speak it. At all. My Catalan language classes have only got me as far as being able to say that aubergine is my favourite vegetable and I have four of them in my kitchen, but that’s just not appropriate for debates about the true definition of literature. Imagine it, “Yes that’s an interesting point Professor, but have you ever considered that my mother is called Nina and in her free time she likes to read the newspaper and listen to the radio?” So for the hour and a half lectures I sit there quietly trying to pick out words. I’m pretty sure that they’re incredibly interesting because everyone else seems to be highly engaged, in fact in one class I could have sworn the debate was whether pornography could be defined as literature. But then again I usually emerge from the lectures with just the date written on my specially bought notepads, and maybe a picture of a stick man hanging himself with a rope made of Catalan words, so what do I know? I am also totally friendless at uni, because everyone looks at me like I’m some sort of freak, which I find ironic seeing as the majority of them have bull nose rings, impractically short fringes and fuzzy rats’ tails and wear the same sort of clothes as the kids in those GCSE French grammar books (think running trainers, too short jeans and a gaily coloured anorak). Hence: I am the Barca Loner.

I live in a 3 bedroom flat with Adrian and Meritxell, a couple of actors who sublet their spare room to students. My mum had great misgivings about the place before I looked around as the advert on the internet asked for “open minded individuals interested in the arts”, which she immediately assumed meant that they were lesbians. I use the term ‘actors’ quite loosely as I can see no evidence of them actually being on stage apart from some bizarre masks of their own faces, a mannequin in the hallway and a seemingly never ending stream of weekend guests who sit around the living room smoking through cigarette holders, listening to old French music and laughing heartily at extracts from a book about Barbara Streisand.  We seem to be coexisting quite nicely, as although Adrian is eccentric, passing the days in a marijuana haze shuffling around the flat in his pyjama bottoms, pointlessly opening and closing doors, they are kind and definitely open minded.

The most wonderful thing about my flat is that it is located in the part of the city called El Raval, that having read a book called The shadow of the wind ,made me fall in love with Barcelona. Along with other areas of the old city, it is comprised of tiny winding back allies, where you always feel like you’re being followed and that someone is waiting for you in the shadows. Catalan flags and washing hang out of windows and balconies over streets dotted with pink blossomed trees and lined with scooters. Getting lost is a standard part of life in Barcelona, even those who have lived here many years, or their whole lives merrily resign to endless back tracking or asking the shiney-toothed and slick haired policemen for directions. But losing yourself is not an unpleasant experience, because although there is the disconcerting sensation that the streets might have actually changed or somehow moved since you last came (platform 9 and ¾....) , there is always the possibility of stumbling upon somewhere new and undiscovered.

El Raval is also the skateboarding centre of Barcelona, and so the whir of wheels on pavement sends me running to the window or outside to the plaza around the MACBA to watch them doing kick-flips or 360s or whatever those sweets little tricks are. The coolest thing is that EVERYONE skates around there, not just beanie touting, baggy trouser wearing stoners, but young boys, old boys, skinny boys, chunky boys, boys wearing loafers, cowboy boots, Allstars, Nikes, wax jackets, tweed blazers, hoodies, trilbies... even girls whizz around, darting in between tourists like seals cutting through water. By far my favourite ‘skater’ I have ever seen was a small Japanese boy dressed in all the gear of a Harlem gangster, on a micro scooter, joyfully singing Bob Marley’s “Three little birds” at the top of his voice as he sent flocks of edgey pigeons scattering to the sky. I saw the same small Japanese boy about a week later with the same clothes and hearty grin, minus the micro scooter, but an absurd full moustache and beard drawn on with a black marker pen. I would like to think that this little boy is some kind of metaphor for life, riding the scooter of happiness or something, but am yet to form a coherent philosophy. Watch this space.

Although being European Barcelona is much closer culturally to England than Cartagena, there are sometimes instances in which I am shocked by the differences. I was recently in an unsuspecting bar just on the border between the nice and not quite so nice part of town, drinking a customary San Miguel with a friend when a overly boozed tramp came in. The barman firmly sent him on his way, but moments later he returned, seemingly having forgotten his recent expulsion. Again, a little firmer, the barman pushed him outside. Oblivious to his unwelcome reception, the tramp came back a third time, and this time the barman physically dragged him outside and began to push him. A scuffle began, with the barman throwing punches and waist high kicks, while an elderly lady fascist screamed encouragement and suggested alternative boxing moves. It was all kicking off. The tramp appeared to realise he was beaten and stumbled off into the shadows. But just minutes later, despite the collective groan of the clientele, the tramp with a death wish came back for one final showdown. The barman decided that enough was enough and deftly pulled out a very man sized baseball bat from under the bar. I gasped, but everyone else just shrugged knowingly as the tramp was chased outside and swung at. There was a thud and a crash and the screeching of a cat and then quiet, and the barman strolled easily back in, rolling down his sleeves. “Same again?” he asked, with a jovial smile.

I must briefly quantify the title “Barca –Loner” because although not the most popular Polly in school I would hate to give you the impression that day and night I stumble alone around this gothic city, blinded by tears and loneliness, with only the taunts of gangs to count as spoken contact with the outside world. I have in fact a couple of acquaintances, some English, some Spanish, some of indeterminable nationality,  and I sometimes get replies to those awkward friend of a friend emails which inevitably begin: “Hiya. You don’t know me but.....” Time to make some skater friends.

Finblog Finale: The Final Chapter

Of course everything happens suddenly when you're moving this slow...

Driving away....

Goodness Finbloggers, is that the time? How odd that a whole month has past since last we spoke. I bring you this, the final Colombia correspondence from the safety of England, literally a world away from Crazytown, on the eve of my next adventure: Finblog; Barcelona…

 

It is bizarre relating events of the Caribbean from England, almost like talking about someone else, or as if I were making it all up. Walking through London yesterday it seemed like we were all attending some mass funeral; everyone wearing black and unwilling to catch another eye. I was told that when I returned I would burst into the pub to find everyone sat around the table in exactly the same positions as six months ago and after ten minutes of exuberant anecdotes someone would say, “Well you’ll never guess what Dave did last Friday…” And while people do seemed to be intrigued by my Colombia tales, they soon become bored of my wild eyed enthusiasm for the theme.

Juanita, Jair the dancer, Camo the photographer and some idiot with really small eyes

And so to the final events. By the end of November it had become clear that the teaching was coming to a natural end, when classes of 15 became classes of 8, and then 2, and then 0. It seemed better to end it on a high. So, I began working for El Universal, a highly esteemed broadsheet newspaper, writing captions for photos in Spanish and a blog in English for expats and English speakers; Cartagena through the eyes of an English girl, i.e. Finblog, but with less use of the word “megalolz”. I wrote from the heart, casting Cartagena in as beautiful light as I had been accustomed too. However, this inoffensive, rather bumbling blog earned me a vicious enemy. Operating under the pseudonym “Block”, an embittered Englishmen began writing essays (there are over 7000 words in total. To put that in perspective that is 3 times the length of a Bristol University 2^nd year essay) of hate mail. Terrible, filthy, personal stuff, most inappropriate for a 21 year old girl on work experience. Below are a few of my personal favourites:

• “ I found this article condescending and completely superficial. It reads as if the author is an arrogant or pretentious young adult who thinks she knows more than other people about Cartagena just from having lived there for a few months. As a gringo who lived there for almost two years total, I can say that you're almost completely full of sh#t.”
• “ I'm curious as to what exactly qualifies you to be writing anything about Cartagena in the first place, besides the fact that you've been living there for a few months. How did you get this position? Do you actually get paid for it? Because I could offer much more pertinent and relevant insights into the costeño culture if given 5 seconds to come up with a coherent thought.”
• “Also as a brief aside: I wouldn't let all of the compliments you are receiving from the Colombians go to your head.”

YEESH. This dude got more issues than a Ricky Lake participant. It also sparked something of an internet war between Colombian fans who were relieved that their city was finally being celebrated and this big old mental head who had far too much time on his hands. An interesting moment in my Colombian career, and definitely a test of the “sticks and stones” philosophy…

The island farm. It was nice

Far more happily, my family joined me in Cartagena for Christmas, which was a triumph in itself. I don’t know if you noticed, but apparently there was a bit of snow in England just before Christmas. A lot of snow. So much snow that it looked as if Family Fin were not going to make it. For two days I sat alone in my room singing “It’ll be lonely this Christmas” and “Have your self a merry little Christmas.” I announced to my friends that Christmas was cancelled. However, at the 11^th hour a miracle was performed and at 6am on the 23^rd December airports were re-opened. My family’s flight was at 7am. Christmas eve was a stunning night, with dinner at Hotel Santa Clara (the 5 star where I had done some translation work and attended the v swanky party) and then an after party in the beautiful old town house that had a pool in the living room.

No words

Now, I could bore you with lists of parties and beach and island expeditions but then I would sound like an “arrogant or pretentious young adult.” Cheers for that Block. Instead, I’ll cut to the end, to my final week and leaving party. The despedida took place on a friend’s farm on the island of Baru just off Cartagena and was to be shared with the birthday party of her husband. The place was unreal. All carpets of white wild flowers, hammocks, mango trees that at dawn looked like hands held up to high five the sun with rays splitting through each gnarled finger like sand, and frightening expanses of sea. Of course we had some home comforts: a darts board strapped a tree and an outdoor cinema scrambled from a sheet held between two trees, a projector and a lap top. Robert Downey Jnr has never looked so good. I was supposed to arrive on Friday and leave on Sunday, but Sunday came and I couldn’t leave, and then Monday came and I couldn’t leave, and then Tuesday morning, and then Tuesday afternoon and the realisation that my flight was the next day and I was yet to pack. The Saturday was the main party night, with about 20 friends showing up. As a surprise for the birthday boy (yes you still are the birthday boy at 41) I had devised with 2 dancers a sort of “show”; I was to walk down to the beach and the congregated party through a path of candles playing MGMT’s Kids on my little guitar, and once settled, Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah, while the boys performed a choreographed dance. On paper, it sounds horrible and cheesey and brassy, but on the night, through the moonlight and sound of the lapping sea, it was magical, and I finished shaking, as if tectonic plates in my chest had just moved a little. The rest of the night was full of beauty and creativity and a surreal celebration of the friends I had made.

On Tuesday when I finally left, on the back of a motorbike along the dirt track to the ferry I imagined I was in Ernesto in The Motorcycle Diaries, leaving behind a seemingly unthinkable world to the dust.

Outdoor darts

Goodbyes were very, very painful, and I cried for 4 hours of the flight back home. Embarrassed onlookers kept asking me what I needed and I repeatedly gasped that I was just very sad. But how far I have come, and what a lot I have learned. I have lived alone, learnt some Spanish, made many many beautiful friends who have taught me everything that they could, survived a robbery, fallen in love, out of love, in love, sang a lot, danced some more, grazed my knees and brushed them off. What on earth will happen in Barcelona?

Birthday boy Javy and Albert the dancer

Finblog Colomblog; over and out.