In Which I Write Because I Don't Wanna; In Which I Write Because I Don't Wanna Forget..

I missed being surrounded by people speaking Spanish.

That was the first thing.

I stumbled and forgot sometimes what language to speak; people addressed me in English, and I felt like there was a mental emergency braked pulled before I responded in Spanish.

That was really strange, because it didn't happen like that in Spain at all with English.



But I'm screwing up the time line - the truth is, that wasn't the first thing. The first thing, probably, is that I took an evening (for Spain - 10:15) flight out of Barcelona to Dublin. But that's not the first thing, either. Before that came my last day in Spain, which I spent contentedly packing; after I'd had most of that done, I went for one last look at the Mediterranean, and some sun. Thus energized, I finished up my business, cleaned the apartment, and got ready to go.

What struck me in the airport, which hadn't before in other contexts, was how many people travel to other countries without speaking the language of the country they're visiting.

I was hungry - I got a little sandwich at a little airport sandwich place, and sat at the counter, watching the other customers come up. It was really surprising, how much pointing went on, how many fingers held up. This seemed like such a vulnerable position to be in - of course, communication eventually happened, the message was sent and received - but that was in the airport, where things can generally be counted upon to go a certain way. But how does it work elsewhere?

Even Italy seems a little intimidating to me, and there have been times when I've been able to understand whole conversations in Italian because of my knowledge of Spanish. But these Germans, these Russians (whom I've noticed seem to comprise the majority of non-Romance-language or English-speaking travelers), they're all up in it, traveling with their families, with their friends, and getting by. Sometimes they don't really speak that much English, either, but they get by.

I think there's something to that. Maybe - I don't know. Despite the fact that I've spent this trip very focused on elements and objects (sun, sand, sky, architecture, art, history), and not really been spending the majority of my time with other people, I've still really enjoyed being able to talk to the people hosting me, as it were.

(Though contrary to rumor, -not- everyone in Dublin is immediately warm and friendly - at least not as far as I've seen. Most, definitely. But then, I've looked very much the tourist the past few days with my backpack and my hat - in Spain, I blended much better. LOLOL. Even so, in general I've found Dubliners to be kind, helpful, and funny.)

In any case, the overwhelming majority of the natives I've met - in Barcelona, in Mallorca, in Dublin - have been nothing but helpful, fun, engaging, interesting and interested. I've enjoyed talking to them, learning the character of the citizens of these cities and comparing them to the cities themselves - wondering how they influence each other. I certainly plan to travel in the future, and I hope to have the opportunity to learn a little of the languages of the places I'll be going when I do. I don't anticipate much trouble with French or Italian - maybe Portuguese for Portugal or Brazil. But I think I would like to visit Germany someday, or North Africa or the Middle East.

(I don't know that I've given up hope on Arabic, but it's not an effort I'm particularly willing to exert at this point in time.)

Anyway, this has become a pretty major digression. I don't know how I feel about the idea of seeing places without being able to communicate with the people who inhabit them. I certainly think that many of the works of art I've seen could be appreciated in any language, but for example, I visited Kilmainham Gaol today in Dublin - and there, in the museum section, everything was in Gaelic and English, and the tour was given only in English. I don't know if historical sites are of any interest to people who don't share the strange sort of cultural commonalities we of the formerly-English-occupied world do, but I was interested in the historical aspects of Spain I was exposed to - but then, I have a hereditary stake there, too - especially in Barcelona, where my grandfather's family was from originally. (Maybe his grandparents and up, I think.)

But then, I'm a history nerd. I don't know why other people travel. Architecture speaks for itself; art does, nature does. Beaches certainly do. I don't think every vacation necessarily needs to be an anthropological excursion. So I guess those things draw other people, too; landmarks, food, music, climate. Those can say a lot, too, about a people, about a place.

I'm interested. But I still want to learn another language.

I just have to decide between French and Italian next.

Culture Clash: My Fellow Americans, You Are Assholes. Kind Spaniards, Stop Lying and Get Yo Shit Together.

I seriously cannot fathom how this culture managed to conquer like, a quarter to a third of the landmass on this planet with this mode of operations. I'm pretty laid back; if something's not going to happen in the time frame I'd hoped, I can work it out and deal with it. But for the love of Christ, don't tell me it's going to happen in ten minutes if it's not going to happen for four hours. Perfect example of the Spanish/American culture clash; on the way back from the Dali Museum yesterday, a tire on the bus that brought us all there blew out. I don't know about everybody else on that bus, but I had a pretty good idea that it was going to be more than a minute before they could handle the situation. But what does a good Spanish tour guide do? He tells everybody we'll be back on the road in half an hour.

Oh, nelly.

Obviously, this is not what happened. We were seriously ten kilometers (I don't know, roughly five miles, maybe? I dunno) out of Barcelona. We broke down in front of a sign that said so. But sometimes shit takes longer than we want it to, obviously, and the Spanish inclination seems to always be to give the best case scenario (or I think, in many cases, "when in doubt, bullshit!"). But half an hour came and went; then an hour came and went.

Now this is one of those moments when my American brethren exhibited the reason the rest of the world thinks we're such assholes. (No, it's not just because of Bush - Bush was just the epitome of everything that the rest of the world thinks is wrong with America, and Americans.) It's because we go out into other countries, and act like we have no fucking home training or sense of politeness whatsoever. Something doesn't go our way, and the immediate assumption is that somebody's trying to fuck with us, or get over on us, and ZOMG GOD BABY JESUS IN HEAVEN FORBID somebody EVER try to FUCK WIF AN AMURRRKAN, BECAUSE DON'T MESS WIF THE USA.

Or something.

Now, I don't know where these people were from - I couldn't place their accents (isn't it always the way that the worst offenders won't have identifiable accents so that the rest of the Americans can be like, "Oh, we're not from THERE"). But as soon as the tire blew out, one of them grabbed the guide as he was trying to give out water to the people on the bus and demanded in a really shitty, smarmy tone, "Hey, tell us what's going on! You should make an announcement!"

(Actually, he already had, but it hadn't been over the loudspeaker, for whatever reason.)

I heard their rumblings at the back of the bus almost exactly thirty minutes after the guide's announcement, it seems like. Not another thirty minutes later, this rather angry, aggressive, and ill-mannered couple stood up (FREEDOM FIGHTERS AGINST THE AXIS OF VACASHUN RUINING EVIL) and started shouting (no, seriously, shouting) across the bus to the tour guide, demanding answers, asking when we were going to get back, and essentially waving their dicks around.

Now let's take a pause.

It's not like the bus driver pulled over to chug sangría, or masturbate, or even to barf from partying too hard the night before. The goddamn tire blew out. You could see the damn thing in little chunks all over the road right out of the back window of the bus, which they were all gawking out of anyway. I know that you've probably planned a very exact and demanding itinerary for OPTIMUM FUNTIMES on your vacation, but maybe you could take a fucking pill, since it's nobody's fault!

Anyway, the guide at this point was no less agitated himself, but told them there was nothing he could do, that they were all waiting for the bus.

Now here's where the tour company needs to take a lesson.

Recognizing that it wasn't just Americans on this tour, it did seem like at least half of the people were, indeed, from the States. I don´t know how anybody else was handling it; everybody else seemed to be pretty chill. But while in this instance, it really wasn't anybody's fault, a company dealing with Americans probably needs to recognize that Americans are often a lot better behaved dealt with in a direct way. I think things would have gone more smoothly if they'd said, "Hey, we're very sorry, but it's going to take about an hour for them to get a bus out to us." That at least would have kept the bitching to a dull roar until the bus had gotten there.

And I'll be honest - it's not always in innocuous contexts like this. For example, the situation with the air conditioning in my apartment. I was told on Saturday it would be handled Saturday. Then it was Monday. On Monday, they didn't have the damn key to the roof of the apartment, so the check-in manager said he'd go get it from his office; he never came back, so the repair guys couldn't get to the roof when they came back. So then it was supposed to be Tuesday. Nobody came. The guy says Wednesday. Wednesday, nobody came, and the check-in manager was waffling, soI told the him if he didn't fix the situation by the time I got back on Thursday, I'd be talking to the landlady/big boss. Oooooh, all of a sudden, his panties are in a twist, and when I get back on Thursday, my AC is working.

But see what I'm saying? The situation could have been handled on Tuesday, and he'd had no intention of handling it on Saturday or Wednesday, but just kept telling me shit I wanted to hear to shut me up, which in turn only pissed me off more.

I kind of felt like an asshole American in a few of these instances, but at the same time, I don't know how they get shit done here; I only know how we get it done back home. And I wasn't trying to sweat my cojojos off until mid-July out of politeness, fo' sho!

Backlog: Saturday/Sunday, June 27/28, 2009

Okay, this isn’t really relevant to my whole travel adventure, but I picked up a pair of Sennheiser headphones (honestly, they’re earbuds) in Dublin that were, by my usual standards, outrageously priced, especially since I was paying in Euros. However, I have to say as I sit here in my apartment that’s on the first floor, right on noisy little street, that not only is the sound quality light years above and beyond anything I’ve experienced in portable audio before, but it is blocking out everything but “Enjoy the Silence” right now, and my iTunes volume is only about a third of the way up.

Oh, the pleasure.

Anyway, today was a day of lesson learning. I was already a crankypants because I slept too little yesterday.

As was implied in my last post’s subject, I went to the beach yesterday, which wiped me out entirely, as it tends to do. I should take this opportunity to mention that it’s agreed upon in both my guidebooks and by everyone I’ve talked to here so far, while the beach I was at yesterday is one of the better ones in the city, none of the city beaches compare with the ones that are about an hour out. (The guy who handled the exchange of funds for the apartment , who’s a really sweet Italian guy called Junior, gave me a map, and at my request, circled places I should go, tourist traps I should avoid, and wrote the names of places off the map that I should go see).

I should also say that despite this consensus, for someone who’s spent the majority of her beach experiences at the Jersey shore, it was still a massive improvement. The Mediterranean is beautiful and warm and the perfect color entirely. Walking up to it felt like wonder and home at the same time, because though I’ve seen it before, by this point in my life, I figured my impression of its loveliness must have been embellished by nostalgia and the fuzziness of a memory so far faded. And maybe, even just yesterday, even now, the near-overwhelming feeling it inspired is skewing my perception.

It’s not an exact thing, this feeling; there was some inexplicable feeling of rightness in it for me, some feeling that this was what water meeting earth is supposed to look like, feel like. There are too many facts in my head about this sea for me to let myself believe that there is some ineffable and transcendent connection between me and it. Surely my understanding of the as the sea from which I am descended, on both sides of my family , is a recognition of the mind that has wended its way through my body. It must be that knowing that this sea was once a desert, and that every part of my known heritage leads back to it, that made me feel quieter, more humbled, and somehow perfectly placed in its presence than perhaps I ever have before. (The Spanish ancestry of my Cuban grandfather leads back here – his family were Catalán, from Barcelona. And certainly, the fact that no less than three people have asked me for directions since I arrived here only reinforces this strange sense.)

I did not come here for this; I did not expect this.

In any case, yesterday was a day of enjoyment and reflection, of warming myself in the sun and moving with the waves.

But like I said, that wears a girl out; so I took a nap when I got back to the hotel.
A nap that went way long.

So, long story slightly less long, ended up staying awake until five AM, then waking up at eight to pack up all my stuff, shower, etc.

I’d met with Begoña, my landlady, yesterday, and she was extraordinarily sweet, welcoming, and apologetic about the problem with the apartment. She explained that the last tenant had suffered a heatstroke, and that was why the apartment hadn’t been available – the doctor had told him he should delay traveling a few days. I would have felt more than a twinge of guilt for my behavior in light of this knowledge, but I still don’t quite understand why I hadn’t been told this from the beginning. In any case, she gave me the key, welcoming to come stay at the apartment as soon as I liked. I’d opted to stay at my hotel specifically because I’d been told the beaches in that part of town – at Poble Nou – were better than the ones near where I’m staying, at La Barceloneta.

So okay. I got to the apartment a bit earlier than noon – the time I’d set up with Begoña – to meet with the Check-In Manager, Ahmed, to pay for the room, set up the internet, and do whatever else needed doing.

The first issue was that the air conditioner isn’t working.

This was not a great tragedy, as the high today was 77 degrees. It got quite warm in the apartment as I unpacked (and took pictures! To follow when plausible), but I figured Ahmed would fix it when he arrived (with my USB modem).

The second issue was that Junior arrived instead of Ahmed.

Maybe people are more trusting in Spain; it’s obviously more laid back here than the States in most ways I’ve been able to perceive. But clearly, when a different man than I’d been told to expect arrived without me having heard from Begoña about it, I was immediately on guard.
But Junior had the exact same paper Begoña and I had looked over together, with her writing still on it where she’d adjusted the price to compensate for the four days I hadn’t been in the apartment. So I let him in and told him about the air conditioner, which he promptly tried to fix, but couldn’t. There were phone calls; there was lament; there was the promise that his boss would come to look at it later in the afternoon. Also, Ahmed hadn’t told him that I’d needed internet, and so he hadn’t come with the USB modem Begoña had assured me I’d have, though he promised to return on Monday. In good faith, and because he promised me, despite my reticence, I gave him my credit card and paid the remainder of the balance on the apartment, as well as the deposit. We ended up talking for a long while about America, Italy (where he’s from), what he’s doing in Barcelona, what I’m doing in Barcelona, the problem with the ways universities work, and politics. It was a great conversation, and put us both at our ease, I think. He went on to circle locations of interest on my map, to warn me about pickpockets and where they’re most often found, and to tell me I had less to worry about than a German or a Swede, because I look like I’m from here.

So, as he advised, while I’d waited for him to call and let me know his boss was coming over, I went out into my neighborhood to pick up some things for the house (they totally don’t refrigerate eggs or milk here! BANANAS. Also, Kinder Joy is just that – a joy!). He was supposed to have called at 4:30, and meet his boss here at 5:00 (which I’d already taken to mean 5:30 based on my experience with Spanish timekeeping thus far – HA!).

When I got back at twenty after six, though, the air conditioner still wasn’t working, and no one had called me.

So I called Junior, and raised – well, maybe not hell, but purgatory, maybe. I was maybe kind of a bitch – certainly unyielding and not the pleasant conversationalist I’d been earlier in the day. He was extremely (and I think sincerely) apologetic, and told me his boss was coming with fans; he explained that everything in Spain is closed on Sunday, and so truly, there wasn’t anything they could do until Monday. Still upset, I called Begoña and informed her of the situation, and she reassured me of the same. Junior’s boss, Rafael, came shortly thereafter with two fans in tow, as well as an explanation and a USB modem (!).

Okay, so that’s cool. The modem had a disc for setup, and I was so eagerly excited for my internet connection, I failed to remember that my netbook doesn’t have a CD drive. By the time I realize this, Rafael was gone, and my pre-paid cell had run out of minutes. Shit.

So I’m trying to get in touch with Vodafone, my cell provider, and the automated system I’m trying to buy more minutes from isn’t understanding me, or won’t take my card, or something. After four attempts (one of which with a very impatient dick who obviously had no interest in helping someone who was not Spanish, and probably American, and hung up on me), I finally got to talk to someone who could help me, only to discover that they can’t accept my debit card because of some American legal issue with what people are allowed to use debit cards for. So what I have to do, apparently, is go to a Vodafone store, or recharge my card at a cajero (which I think may be an ATM, but damned if I know). Anyway, by this point, I was exhausted, so I’d just given myself over to dealing with it tomorrow (today). If I find a cajero today where I can recharge my card, great. If not, it’s fine – a communications blackout till Monday won’t kill me, and it’s not like I can’t write during this time (clearly – HA!).

[As it happened, didn't get connected till today - and only 3G, not wifi! Sadface! I will try to work out my wifi situation - but tomorrow. LOL)

What’s good about this, though, is that I’m thinking less and less that this is about deception or getting over, and simply a cultural hiccup. Back home, when shit goes wrong, we’re taught to expect it to be taken care of now – right now, twenty minutes ago, now. In Spain , the pace is simply more leisurely, less urgent. This is really cool when it comes to chilling out and enjoying oneself – it can be pretty distressing when plans go unexpectedly awry. But once everything was done, and I’d settled in for an early night (I am more and more rejecting this idea of “you’ll sleep when you’re dead” – I’m on vacation, and my capacity for enjoyment is exponentially greater when I’m well-rested), advice a Spanish-Portugay friend gave me came to mind – to just go with the flow. What that meant didn’t crystallize until I’d just given over to my situation, put away the modem to stop trying to make it work, put away my phone so its lack of functionality would stop tormenting me, and just read some things on my netbook and my magazines.

I’d really like to get my phone working again this morning, since I’ve made plans with a friend of said Portugay’s for this evening – but if it doesn’t happen, I’m not going to die.
As an aside, I totally just saw the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen scurry across the floor of my bedroom. I can only assume that this is as much how things go in Barcelona as it is in New Yawk. LOLOL Man, that is the one thing I hate about city living!

[In cockroach news, I haven't seen another of the damn things yet - though I'm being extra careful now with dishes, crumbs, moisture, and other roach-bait. Oh roach!)