missive the third, 2/13/3, barcelona, spain

okay, i.ve got to clear up some misconceptions about life in spain. this is for my own peace of mind, because most of you will either totally reject anything i say as massive hyperbole, or will accept anything i say as the truth, which would be a horrible mistake. approximately half of what i say is made up on the spot, and the other half is accurate only from my personal perspective.

thus warned, let me first acknowledge that not everyone gets up at 10 here in barcelona. i and all my flatmates and all their friends get up at 10. and it.s true that most shops open around 10. i know this because i occupy the front room of francis. flat, directly above the street, and so i get to hear all the steel shutters roll up when shops open up for business.

and in fact, somewhere around the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., there is one shutter that rolls up, and a rash of heavy trucks passing on the street, and so i surmise, tho i would never for one moment think of getting out of bed to inspect, that there are deliveries at this time for certain selected shops.

in fact, i believe that the ungodly noise downstairs might be the bakery receiving deliveries. it would make sense. bakers work all night and sleep all day. (did you know your bread was made by vampires?) however, the shutters roll back down, and the truck traffic dies down, and i go gratefully back to sleep for another couple of hours, until i suspect 8 a.m., when i start to hear serious traffic outside.

and 9, when the young schoolkids troop off to school (and they leave again sometime around noon, for lunch and a siesta, and are gone for awhile, and then come back again until about 5.

i know this because the street is filled with loud kid noises several times a day. they seem to be singing things like tick tock tick tock and other young kid counting songs). now, the fact that i.m hearing traffic, and that it disturbs me, is not to imply that i.m a light sleeper. i am in fact, but this isn.t my point.

i.m such a light sleeper that when a neighboring cat comes thru the house touching noses every morning (let in by the door francis keeps open at the other end of the house in order to let in the frigid air that some irish people insist upon for their health), i wake up and greet the cat back, making sure he realizes that touching noses is sufficient and there.s no need to go prancing across my chest or snuggling down next to my head, as my cat likes to do at home.

the problem with the traffic noises disturbing my sleep is that they.re right outside. they are, in fact, 10 feet away and another dozen or so feet down (i.m on the 3rd actual floor, for some reason called primera (principal being below me, and the shop level being below that). the streets in this part of barcelona, i may have mentioned, are very narrow. i.m talking about 20 feet at most. and this is much wider than the streets in the barrio on the other side of the ramblas, which are so narrow that there is no car traffic at all, only foot traffic, and this is a blessing. my street, tho tiny and twisty, is considered a thoroughfare, and one of the ways trucks take to get to the large open air market around the corner, which i keep threatening to describe.

the buildings are extremely tall, 5 and 6 stories, about the maximum you can build without installing elevators. i.m told that even the romans had 6 story apartment buildings (which would go a long way to explain how come all our buildings are made basically the same shape, except for yurts, igloos, and bucky domes). so, even tho the walls are about a foot thick because the buildings were built at a time when it was the actual quality of construction that determined how long a house would last, and not the magic of modern construction materials, the streets being so narrow and the buildings so tall mean that my room faces onto an echo chamber.

every noise, every sneeze, every drunken argument at 3 in the morning is catapulted into the airy space of my room thru the large balcony windows, vaults onto the ancient beams of the ceiling and over the ceramic tiles of the floor, and rachets its way into my ears. however, i have learned to ignore most of this, only finding the sounds intruding into my dreams now and then. except for this morning, when workmen decided to use jackhammers to dig up the street halfway down the next block.

this sounded like a mad dentist working on very bad teeth in the next cube at exwork, complete with muffled screams, and woke me up immediately. the only reason i didn.t curse and throw things was that they had waited until the almost decent hour of 11:30.

so i got up and had a cup of tea and embarked on my work. which today consisted mostly of sitting in an internet cafe writing on my book. i figured out the basic chapter structure last night, when i was kept awake by a vociferous and long-winded argument in the street outside, and rather than moan and groan about it, i decided that i.d let inspiration be my guide.

and so i figured out how i.m going to do the book. the first few chapter headings will be: my story; your story; what.s wrong with this picture; quit your day job in 6 easy steps, 2 of which are redundant; miracles happen; what about all that debt you.re carrying, anyway; and living lazy. how.s that sound?

anyway, back to barcelona. i.m only moments from the main walking street in the old part of barcelona, the ramblas. it.s a wide street, with huge buildings all built sometime in the early to mid 1800s, and the middle of it is pedestrian, with entire sections devoted to the selling of birds and other wildlife in cages, near the top, to flowers, in the middle, to artists and their work at the bottom of the street. the whole thing descends a slight hill and ends up at the harbor, which is filled with huge imposing buildings and the boats of the rich.

palm trees line parts of the city, and the effect is very monumental, kind of like washington dc with a much more laid-back air. kind of like miami, rather. people walk along the ramblas all day every day. there are drug sellers, hookers, newspaper kiosks, beggers. these are endemic and you don.t notice them after awhile. and i.m kind of naive anyway, so the fact that some people are selling hash and others are leasing parts of their bodies was entirely lost on me until i heard some english people speaking in derogatory terms about it in a bar the other night. i still haven.t seen any of it, but i.m assured it.s there.

oh well. did notice, however, my first transvestite. it seems barcelona is full of them. i only noticed because this was a particularly tall woman, with a very strongly featured face, no hips at all, and walking like a man. otherwise i would have been completely oblivious, as usual. one of the things i do notice is that, especially on the weekend, there are a million and one buskers on the street.

a busker is a street performer. they draw a crowd, perform some feat to delight this crowd, and then depend on people to drop their spare change into a hat before leaving. it.s a wonderful tradition. we don.t seem to have it in america because we tend to drive everywhere, but if you live in new york and use the subway you.ll see a small sampling of what.s endemic here in europe. i.d be out there as well, selling my prints, but the entire system is heavily regulated, and even the begger with one leg has a permit. same thing in dublin, except for sunday when the cops will stroll by with the rest of the crowds and even come over and look at your stuff.

the rest of the week, any illegal sellers have their goods spread out on blankets (sunglasses, pirated cds, used clothing pulled out of dumpsters, african jewellery) that they quickly roll up and walk off with whenever they spot a cop. cops oblige by wearing these bright yellow coats, so you can see them halfway up the next block. it works very nicely. it.s great when there.s a system under which everyone can have their little chance to make a few bucks, legally or not, and everyone cooperates. you have to make a living, no matter what level of society you live in. and just because there.s a law against something doesn.t make it bad.

buskers are a breed unto themselves. i know of several who travel the continent making their living by being living statues, for example, or jugglers. living statues are people who come out in full costume, carrying a box and a prop, and then stand on the box simply being still in some pose. there were, last time i looked, a gentleman dressed as a japanese statue, in a red kimono. there were several guys dressed up as actual statues, painted gray, in gray clothes. last saturday there were a group of 4 woman, one of whom was in white, seated, doing something obscure with a pair of large white objects that looked like bowling pins (i don.t think they have bowling in any form we.d recognize). the other three women were either on boxes or stilts, but they were 8 feet tall, and dressed in long flowing robes painted up like trees, and had branches attached to their backs. one was gold, one was silver, one was green. they were waving in the breeze in slow motion. it was exquisite.

there are performers juggling things that have been set on fire; there was a guy dressed as a magician who juggled crystal balls in slow motion (he dropped one the other day, and immediately lost half his crowd); there were singers with their guitars; there were couples dancing the tango (which is argentinian, but who cares?). it.s a wonderful thing. the birds, the flowers, the performers, the pickpockets.

i passed a pickpocket in action the other day. a blonde woman dressed in a leather jacket with a ski cap on her head ran ahead of me in the crowd, and handed some guy dressed in a business suit with a briefcase what appeared to be a wallet. he put it in his suit jacket. it was all very obvious, and i started looking around in case there was a cop standing by to stop them, and then someone said something behind me, and they both turned and walked back to the camera. so okay it was competely fake and performed for some film crew. i doubt i.ll see it on tv or in a movie, however, because it was a small film crew. perhaps it was an ad.

i am staying with my irish friend francis, who teaches english at the british council, as well as other places. he.s done this for years, and it.s a great gig. my brother mike has taught english for years also, in china, and pretty much all the expatriates i know make their living that way (except for this irish bar where i have a pint of guinness every evening, where this irish bloke with a very thick northern accent works, as well as this american guy who has a very bad cold (the cure is to get drunk, with a hot whisky: whisky, hot water, honey or sugar, and a clove-encrusted slice of lemon. very nice. on the other hand, my brazillian ex-brother-in-law.s sure cure for a cold was to make tea from an entire head of garlic, with honey)).

nick from new zealand and hillary from england also make their living teaching english, and to hear them tell it, it.s a nasty job full of people who either don.t want to learn or can.t. but they tend to have the expatriate attitude, which is that even tho we.re in a different country that has been here for thousands of years and has gotten along very well without english-speakers thank you, we.re better than they are primarily because we speak english and drink tea and eat fried potatos and things. (yes, i spell potatos the alternative way, which is still correct, simply because i.m lazy. you.ll notice i spell “through” “thru”, as well. and if we could recognize words without that silent “e” at the end, i.d drop that as well as the “u” americans have dropped from most words that the english moan about, like colour. just be grateful that i don.t use “u” and other text shortcuts my kid swears by. see also http://members.tripod.com/~kavya/inglsh.htm)

english speakers are far from being the good example setters we think we are. for example, americans invented cigarettes, which tho we.ve largely given up the habit, they.re very fond of everywhere else, and you can be blinded by smoke everywhere from the street to every bar and restaurant to the movie theaters and busses, and even this internet cafe, which to give it the benefit of the doubt also sells beer for pretty cheap.

as non-smokers know, there.s a natural law that states that cigarette smoke always flows toward the non-smoker, so all my clothes reek, and my face is filthy every night. even my bedclothes smell of smoke, and this is only because francis, all the way down the hall, smokes a whole lot, and the smoke always travels straight toward me.

but here.s something else i noticed last night while waiting for a bus back from the movie. drinking and driving doesn.t produce the intolerant reaction it does at home. like smoking, drinking is apparently thought of as good for you. we were waiting for a bus at the terminus. the bus pulled up, but the driver told francis that it would be another 10 minutes before he started out on his rounds again. and he walked off toward a bar/restaurant (they.re the same thing). so we followed him, figuring we couldn.t possibly miss the bus that way. we sat down and ordered a carajillo de anise (espresso with a shot of anisette in it, a wonderful habit). and as we sat down we noticed the bus driver signalling no to the bartender. the bartender slipped the bottle of beer he was getting out for the driver back into the cooler.

i immediately felt horrible, because there we were acting like cops and preventing the poor man from enjoying his break properly. however, the bartender instead poured the guy a glass of wine. i asked francis about this, not being all that surprised that the driver wasn.t willng to drink beer in front of his passengers, but wondering about the wine. francis told me that wine is not alcohol (even tho its alcohol content is higher than beer). wine is food. like in germany, he explained, where beer is considered food, and everyone drinks prodigious quantities without getting drunk.

and even drunk is not considerred a bad thing, anywhere in europe. it.s certainly not considered the moral failing it is thought of in america. so what if you want to get drunk every night, if you don.t hurt anyone, is the thought. i find it hard to argue with that, because although by that token they as a nation drink as much as the worst alcoholic on a slow night, they.re not all dead of liver disease or living on the streets incontinent and starving.

in fact they seem about as healthy as we are, who don.t smoke and don.t drink and don.t tolerate those who do. perhaps it.s the attitude rather than the activities.

we arrived home safely despite the glass of wine in the driver.s belly, and i never noticed a weave or bob or anything other than utter competence in his driving. and face it, with the traffic as crazy as it can get, who knows if being a little tipsy isn.t a good thing.

in the flat where i.m staying, francis has a flatmate. he.s rather a soft touch, my friend francis, and recently brought home a stray guy. he found this elderly fellow from argentina fishing on the beach at the bottom of the hill, along the mediterranean coast. he.d been fishing on the beach just next to a fashionable hotel that had air conditioning, and managed to catch legionnaire.s disease. the doctors (free healthcare here, and no concept of suing people, so the diagnosis of legionnaire.s disease is because it strongly resembles that set of symptoms, and not from any other reason, like fashion or newsworthiness) prescribed bed rest, since there.s nothing much that can be done about it.

its symptoms are very much like what we know as fibromyalgia these days, and to me it.s just another version of the disease called modern society and its ills, which means the man is seriously exhausted and weak all the time, can.t get enough sleep, and couldn.t hold down a full time job if he wanted to. i had mono, myself, which strongly resembles fibromyalgia, for no apparent reason other than overextension, several years back, and i.m serious when i say that i would drive my daughter to school feeling well enough, and come back home in a state of collapse, and have to spend the rest of the day in bed because i.d overdone it.

anyway, this argentinian fellow.s name is esteban, and he.s a very nice guy. he left argentina in the midst of pinochet.s repressiveness when 10s of thousands of anti-government protestors went missing and were never seen again. francis let him move into a small room in the middle of the flat, and because he had no money for rent, let him stay for free in exchange for cooking dinner every night. and he.s an excellent cook.

i sit there in the evening while he.s cooking and try to dip my fingers into the pot for a taste, and he swats it away with a torrent of spanish invective. i dig up the phrase book and the spanish-english dictionary and try to have a conversation about ingredients and cooking methods, and it always ends up with me saying “no lo se” and him saying “you don.t understand”.

so i have a whole lot of very unusual recipes to try out when i get home. here.s one; i watched him make it: boil or bake some small potatos until they.re good and soft. then hollow out a core inside the potato, without cutting it in half or anything, and insert a mixture of blue cheese and butter. then stick the whole thing into the oven for a few minutes to melt the butter. it.s wonderful. want another one? boil or bake potatos until they.re done, and then cut them in half, scoop out the insides, mix them with blue cheese and tuna and a little milk or cream, then put them back in the jacket and put a finger of chorizo on it, grate some breadcrumbs on top, and put them in the oven to heat and brown. again, wonderful. and never mind my describing the pizzas he made the other night, which were only brilliant.

tonight i have no idea what he.s making, but it was too late for me to enjoy last night.s dessert (a cross between a flan, which is an egg custard, and a pudding which is made from the insides of a loaf of bread, milk, eggs, raisins soaked in rum, and caramel) so i.m looking forward to downing it when i get home, assuming of course that francis hasn.t gotten there first and eaten the whole thing.

i.ll try to describe the flat, which is where i spend the majority of my time, second only to this internet cafe, which i might try to describe except all i really have to say is “call-center” and everyone will immediately get a picture of a huge cavernous room with endless rows of computers and the tops of the heads of endless occupants of the seats in front of the glowing screens, with harsh fluorescent lighting and tile floors and barely comfortable chairs that scrape when you move them.

francis. flat is large. it takes up the entire side of the building. the building itself is a couple of hundred years old, but still looks like any building. it.s box shaped. it.s got a central staircase that goes up 5 floors. the steps are worn and smooth, and there.s a light on every landing, but they.re all on timers, so you get a certain amount of time to get upstairs, and suddenly you.re plunged into total darkness as the timer switches the lights off. so if you.ve got far to go, you press every switch on every landing, perhaps as a sort of good luck charm.

the buildings in this part of the city are pretty narrow, and quite deep. there.s a front room, mine, which is 15×20. then there.s this little roomlet off the front room, with glass doors floor to ceiling, in which my bed sits, and nothing else. if you go out of the door to the front room, there.s this hall that stretches all the way to the back of the flat, where francis has the same setup, a nice big room with a sleeping compartment off it. in the middle, at my end, are esteban.s 2 rooms, but they don.t have any windows in them, which suits esteban fine, since legionnaire.s disease has ruined his eyes and he wears dark glasses all the time, and doesn.t like the noise that comes in the windows.

after that, in the middle of the flat, is the front door, and sitting room, where there.s a big table covered with papers and objects that never make it past the front door (every front door in the world has some horizontal object where things live that are too afraid to go very far from the door).

next to this living room is the kitchen, which is a one-ass kitchen, which is part of the reason why esteban yells at me when i try to taste dinner before it.s served. the kitchen has the flat.s water heater, a fridge and freezer, a cute little cooker out of a fairy tale, some shelves full of food and herbs with spanish names written on them, and a small table totally unsuitable for eating, at which everyone ate until i insisted on clearing off the table in the sitting room.

after the kitchen comes the bathroom, which is like bathrooms everywhere, only older. and then francis. rooms. altogether it.s a massive flat, some 100′ long and 15′ wide. it.s all floored with red spanish tile, it.s got 10′ ceilings with wooden beams every foot, some of which bend a little. when the doors to the back porch off francis. room and the balcony door in my room are open and latched back, and the intervening hall doors are latched back, then there.s a delightful airflow thru the flat.

when the doors aren.t latched back, there.s a horrible banging all the time as the wind wangs them on their hinges. this happens now and then, as francis likes to sleep in subarctic (45 degree) air.

on the street level, the storefronts are about 15′ wide, and so everything that you can go shopping for is only barely hinted at from the open door, and you must go deep into the heart of the building past both sides packed with goods in order to get to a slightly wider space where there is a row down the middle packed with goods. you pick a row and go all the way back to the back of the store, some hundred feet along, and then work your way up the other side, having seen millions of different items along the way.

stores are pretty single-use here in europe. there.s a shop for every conceivable item. in my block alone there.s a masonry shop, where they sell tiles and cement. it.s next to a tobacco shop, where i get my stamps for postcards back home (and have to cut my way thru the smoke of all the occupants all tearing open packs and jamming several cigarettes at a time into their lips (okay, no)). then there.s a bakery with very tempting croissants and wonderful crispy light loaves of french bread except they wouldn.t call it that here. then there.s a bar. then there.s a laundry. then there.s a condom shop; yes, a shop devoted to condoms, which are highly respected over here. and then there.s another bar and restaurant (all bars seem to serve food). then there.s a clothing shop. then there.s a candy store. then there.s a cash machine place. then there.s a supermarket. then there.s a place to buy towels and linens. then there.s a hairdresser.s. then there.s what appears to be a dollar store. they.re all the same size stores, and all carry about the same number of items in them, and this is repeated on another street a block over, and a block after that, etc.

the thing about this setup, tho it looks redundant, is that everyone walks, and everyone lives in a neighborhood. and everyone.s got to make a living. so there are a million little shops, selling a million different things. there are a couple of huge enormous grocery stores, but they.re usually more expensive (and with a covered open-air market around the corner, i don.t bother except for cream for my tea and the odd bottle of wine (starting at $1.77 for a decent red)).

i must describe the market. maybe later, however, as i.m beginning to get hungry and all i.ve had is a coffee with milk and half a chocolate croissant, and am thinking pleasant thoughts about an actual salad bar restaurant i passed on the way here that offers all you can eat for $6.90. and it was wonderful. green things.

francis is a big fan of meat, and mostly the vegetables we get in restaurants consist of potatos dripping with the fat they.ve been fried in. perhaps the oil is vegetable oil, but i wouldn.t bet on it. i.ve taken to ordering ensalata mixte, which is a side salad, or ensalata especial, which has an asparagus spear and several anchovies (fresh anchovies, not little and brown and incredibly salty, but wonderfully tasty), as well as a boiled egg and a tomato.

and at the market i even found some chard, which i.m going to boil up tonight. i.ve been asking around for collard or mustard greens, but the normal spanish-english dictionary has never heard of these things, so i have no way to describe them.

the next day.

it.s raining in barcelona. yesterday i was going to say something about how you could forget the phrase “the rain in spain falls mainly on the plain” because it was obviously a myth. however, it started raining here sometime after i went to bed at 1 in the morning, and hasn.t stopped. it gets lighter and heavier, but in general, it.s rain, and rain as we know it. everyone has an umbrella here. they cost 3 euros, and when it rains, every street corner has a guy holding up umbrellas for sale with a nice grin on his face.

in dublin, nobody has an umbrella, because not only does it rain every day and so peoples. skins and clothes are naturally waterproof (another myth) but it never really rains, it only spits. a real downpour is rare in dublin.

here in barcelona, however, i.m told that it rains a whole lot in november and march, and not at all the entire rest of the year. which is why they flood every street at midnight to clean it. the poor pavement doesn.t get any water at all unless it.s for cleaning. except today.

today i.ve got my scarf on my head, instead of just wrapped around my neck. i.m told i have brought the weather with me. it.s the coldest winter, according to francis, since he came here 14 years ago. it hasn.t reached 60 except a couple of times a few weeks ago, and right now it.s hovering around 50, and raining (did i mention that?).

to anyone north of atlanta, the idea of it being cold at 50 is ludicrous, i know, but remember that this city has tons of palm trees in it, so it.s like saying it.s 50 degrees in miami, where i know from experience that people go around with mufflers and gloves and fur coats when it gets this chilly.

as for me, i.m only uncomfortably cold when i.m inside trying to work, but as i must have mentioned because it.s really important to me, i finally got a bottle of butano and am now happily warm, altho half-poisoned by the fumes (hey, it.s a trade off. dublin used to be black with coal in the winter until they made everyone switch to anthracite, and i have in my imagination huge palls of woodsmoke hovering over the encampments of indian teepees. but anything for warmth).

about the only american luxuries i miss are central heating and a hot bath. the bath water here is heated by a butane furnace installed in the kitchen (or else attached to the hose in the bath itself, as at brendan.s place in dublin) which you have to light like an old fashioned gas stove, and then run to the bathroom to switch on the hot water so the pilot light won.t go out. the shower is only hot on the side of your body where the water falls; the bathroom isn.t heated, so if i.m showering my front, my back is cold, and if i turn around, my front gets cold, and if i point the showerhead onto the top of my head, i get curious little rivulets of hot and cold all down my body.

there.s no way to take a bath, because the water pressure from the heater in the next room is so low that all the water in the bath would be cold before the bath was filled. but i.m not complaining. i long ago realized that my hair would not fall out if i didn.t shower every day, and so i.m not insisting on a hot bath until i get back to atlanta. it.s just that one of my favorite places to read a long book is in the bath, topping it up with hot water every 20 minutes or so, and coming out of the bath either when i.m done with my book or can.t see anymore to read. i.ve read “pride and prejudice” 27 times that way, and my illustrated 1905 copy of it has very little red dye left on its cover because of the hydrophillic tendency of my raisiny fingers.

here in barcelona when i want to read (i.m reading “city of joy”, which is the book about the poor in calcutta that patrick swayze made a movie about, and bill bryson.s “notes from a small island”, a travelog of his trip around england (i think i.m a better writer, but then this is stream of consciousness, without the benefit of an editor or a degree in english), i get to cower in bed with just my head and the tips of my fingers poking out, holding a book with the blankets if at all possible.

i lived in a barn once during my college years. it had no heat. in fact, it had no walls, because my boyfriend and i were renovating it, which meant that in the late fall we tore off all the wood on the outside because the owner of the farm was ordering new barnwood, but it never came because he never actually ordered it, and so we retreated to the internal storage rooms when the winter came, and tried to live there. and i found out that i couldn.t use my hands to write if the temperature got below 45. the internal storage rooms turned out beautifully done (my boyfriend was an architecture student), including a bathroom in which the sink was a mosaic of local river stones polyurethaned thick and smooth (my doing). it was very nice until the following spring when a high wind tore thru the valley and blew the entire barn down because it didn.t have any siding. at any rate.

this is long enough, and incoherent enough for me to be tired of it for now, so i think i.ll end here and send this letter off.

i.m returning to dublin on wednesday of next week, so perhaps there.ll be a fourth missive from here, and maybe not. and maybe i.ll get a chance to write something from dublin, and maybe not. depends a whole lot on how cold it is in brendan.s flat and how much work i feel like getting done.

while i.m writing to you, i.m also writing long letters to my wonderful kid allison, and working like the dickens on my bestselling demotivational handbook, “lazy is good – quit your day job”.

so for now i think i.ll take a break and walk in the rain down to the irish pub, and have a pint while i read a book i.m using as a reference for my handbook (called “undoing yourself”, a really obscure magical text (all magical texts should be obscure, that.s what occult means, after all) about reinventing your life and living on miracles, which is what i.ve been doing since i quit my day job over 2 years ago (!)), and then hit another internet cafe at the other end of the ramblas and continue working on my book.

and then i.m meeting francis for a gin and tonic around 10, and home to esteban for dinner around 11, and then, since i didn.t have my siesta this afternoon, to bed around midnight. to get up tomorrow and do it all again. except that tomorrow night we.re having a dinner party in honor of me, and in honor of that, i.m making an american-style salad (just greenstuff with a couple of round red things in the middle), and an apple pie, which has francis. mouth watering. i.m just trying to decide if i should top it with cheddar, or go for whipped cream.

anyhow, hasta luega.

love jeanne


  1. […] missive the third – 2/13/3, barcelona, spain. missive the fourth – 2/27/3, barcelona, spain. […]


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