CU Abroad – Olga Desyatnik

            If I thought the public library near my residence was nice, the one near the elementary school I volunteer at is simply overwhelming. Three huge floors, computer labs, study room, a sea of CDs and movies of all genres, books on absolutely every topic imaginable – and not just crappy popular fiction. Philosophy, photography, architecture…zoology! I needed to find a book for my Literature and Cinema class final essay, and the number of shelves contained in this building was disorienting enough that I decided to ask the librarian for help (something I usually avoid doing – be it librarian, store clerk, or waiter – I just don’t want the chance of making a fool of myself when they try to make small talk. Small talk is the type I’m worst at when it comes to Spanish.)

I was feeling particularly confident and talkative today, I guess, because out of nowhere I heard myself respond to the librarian in Catalan. I could almost observe his mind register the event (-Native Detected-) and he immediately switched to using Catalan with me. I sighed a little bit internally, because now I was forced to listen much more intently in order to understand him, and would have to embarrass myself at the next turn by answering in Spanish again. But I did, and in the ensuing exchanges (he was also calling another librarian on the phone to enquire about a film for me) he alternated between both languages. The entire time I think he took me as a native. I saw the gears halt and squeak a bit the moment I finally faltered by using the wrong verb for “keep” and having to restate the question. But this fitting-in feeling, I’ve never had here before. I’m just a regular Barcelona citizen, at my local public library, borrowing a book for my local university class, on my way home from the local elementary school where I work with local children. Such elation. J

…Well now he’s come to look for me since he’s gotten a call back from the other librarian (people are sooo nice in these residential parts outside the city center!), and I’ve just given him a blank stare in response to a too-quickly spoken Catalan sentence. Now he’s repeated the phrase in Spanish and is continuing more slowly. Well, there’s that. The anxious “You know I’m not from here” feeling again…So it goes; it was great while it lasted. I told him how helpful he had been, and I think his smile might not have been quite as enthusiastic as it had been before. And they wonder why we get so nervous about speaking their language!

            You have to look up. Or look underground. That’s how you find things.

Every time I ride my bike down the street Diagonal, I see something new. (And I ride down it twice a day, twice a week.) The nature of these modernist buildings is that the tops are the most interesting part. They’re beautiful.

But it’s not just individual buildings. Every time I walk through the same part of town, it seems different. At 10 am, versus 2 pm, versus 11 pm: it’s like 3 different places! It may be that I’m seeing Barcelona through new eyes…but it also seems that Barcelona has many, many faces. And the prettiest ones are hidden. It’s the most valuable kind of beauty—the more you know it, the more you love it.

            You have to look inside doorways too. I walked by the same broad wooden door about seven times before I was finally shown what was contained inside it: a luxurious Opera Café, complete with a garden and piano. And the old abandoned factory buildings in the neighborhood Poble Nou, whose doors I wouldn’t have even bothered passing by in the first place, apparently house the most mind-blowing video art exhibits/performances. (Who knew?)

            There’s a door I walk by weekly (at least), that is only open half the time. But when it is, there’s an eerie blue light emanating from inside, and you can just catch a glimpse of a Gothic-style stained glass window. I finally went in one day with some friends, upon hearing rock music coming from one of the windows. It’s a Civic Centre, and the blue light comes from the outdoor courtyard in the center of the structure, which has a balcony level and apparently an adjacent performance hall.

            [On the topic of Civic Centres: they have so many good movies and CDs at the library in my civic center! And a terrace to read outside, and two floors with free Wi-fi. It kicks the butt of any New York Public library. I’m currently taking a Flamenco class there, taught by none other than a Russian woman. I tell you—this can’t be coincidence!]

            It’s just that Barcelona is the ultimate embodiment of the phrase “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I don’t know whether it is on purpose…I mean, there are a lot of really “alternative” youth here. But the amount of stuff that’s contained in its city’s walls is just incredible, and the element of surprise upon discovering that this shabby door that looks exactly like the 27 others on this old street actually leads you into the coolest bar/jazz club, or the most beautiful courtyard café, or the most interesting antique shop…

            The other day, there was a festival on one small street called Carrer de la Lluna (that’s Catalan). And yes, “lluna” means moon. Well. There was a “hair salon” in which a woman stood painted from head to toe, and across from that a store that had made a design on its outside wall out of post-it notes (with stuff written on them too)…and beyond that there was an antique shop where apparently the man wearing a tattered top hat (the really tall kind) made sculptures out of broken furniture. And then there was a photography exhibit—but not just any photos: this artist had made paper-mache figures and then took pictures in different places around the city, including one montage of one of the figures on the beach, in different poses in succession, so that it looked like he was doing tai-chi. Brilliant. Haha

            It seems like there is not one day in Barcelona on which there isn’t a festival, celebration, or fair of some sort. You wouldn’t necessarily know of them—like I said, things are hard to find around here. But when you do, they’re just so…singular.

Whenever something becomes popularized, it starts to lose the aspects that originally made it so precious, and I’m really afraid of muddying the proverbial waters that are the couchsurfing community by writing about it in a public space. But I suppose I can’t reach that many readers with my humble blog, so I’ll continue the thought…

I feel that I’ve come out of my first couchsurfing experience a new woman. Laugh all you want, but there is some reason wanderlust exists, and that travel writing is such a popular genre [Exhibit A]. It wasn’t just a vacation, nor an educational tour, nor a chance to party– not even a combination of the three. It was a sum much greater than all these parts, amplified by what I often like to refer to as “the little things”.

Little Thing #1: The amount I paid for accomodations. But nevermind– this isn’t the most important part.

Little Thing #2: The present I received from the host who was already doing me a large favor: one container of authentic Groninger mustard (made in Groningen, Holland).
–It’s mustard, yes. But what is the difference between staying with a couchsurfing host and receiving this mustard versus staying in a hotel or hostel sans mustard? –I’ll tell you: This is a genuine artifact of Dutch life. It’s something I wouldn’t have tried otherwise, and something that contributes to the particular flavor of the culture, if you will. (Forgive the excessive punnage, but I’m on a roll here…) It just illustrates the difference between seeing the outsides of buildings when you visit a new place, and seeing the insides of homes. What is a culture made up of if not a certain series of homes? The art, the politics, the architecture- sure! But all this starts in some home. The view on life, you learn at home, the daily routine which differs from yours, you can only see in the home. This is what real travelling is about. Not just seeing the world, but getting to know it.

And you get to know people. Small bonus, you might say. But consider this: without being redundant about the “really seeing inside a culture” thing I’m going on about, the bonus of having new friends in foreign countries is tremendous. From now on, if I wanted to just pick up and go to Europe one day, I could. All I’d need to do is buy a plane ticket; I wouldn’t have to find a hotel, or someone to go with, or even something to do there. I could just go– I’d automatically have a friend there. And you might underestimate mu use of the term; this isn’t someone you just met at a bar one night, it’s someone you lived with for a period of time. The people who take part are warm, welcoming, eager to talk to you and show you around or take you to their favorite hang-out spot, because the express purpose of the couchsurfing project is to meet new people and experience new cultures– it’s not an accomodations agency. Your hosts want to spend time with you; it’s not a chore. So what you’re developing is not an acquaintance, but a real-live friendship. The result of all this is again one of those clichés that few people truly understand the meaning of: Have you ever heard someone say “The world is your oyster”? Well that’s how it makes you feel. There’s nowhere in the world I’m afraid of going now, because wherever it is, I’ll be in someone’s home. And the home of an (almost definitely) kind and interesting person. It means I can have friends all over the world. It’s a connection to the kind of global network that I never really thought possible.

So after all this praise, you’re probably wondering, “Well, what did you actually learn?” But I don’t think I would know where to start. I guess I could tell you about the mind-blowing conversation I had with a graffiti artist in Bremen, Germany (a friend of my host). I had never given any thought at all to that particular topic; I suppose I saw graffiti the way the authorities or normative society would want us to see it: it’s just vandalizing and dirtying property. Of course, I did always defend the really pretty murals on walls– I liked to look at them. But as for an ideology in general, I didn’t realize that one existed! He told me about the thought that goes into choosing a time and place, how the strokes and density of the paint demonstrate how the artist was feeling at the time, the socio-political indications of different styles and subject choices of graffiti art…A whole new sea of ideas I had yet to encounter. Absolutely fascinating.

And in Groningen I stayed with an extraordinary woman who has found the cure to the mid-life crisis. The secret is this: to never let your restlessnes take hold of you; just feed it. At age 42, she sounded to me like a student just graduating college with her whole life ahead of her. She has all these new goals and plans. She creates art, she poses for drawing classes, she plans adventurous hiking journeys through unknown parts of the world for herself, and she’s found a new career she fancies, for which she’s currently studying. And all this with a four year-old son, who I don’t doubt will grow up to be one of the most well-equipped human beings to try to accomplish something in the world. She has honestly inspired me…

So if you want to know what I learned from her and from my couchsurfing experience, I suppose I could tell you this:
That there is nothing in life to be afraid of. That kindness exists in abundance. That you are welcome on this Earth. That success only needs to be measured on your terms. And that you should always appreciate things for what they are, most of all yourself.
For these reasons and others, I have called myself “a new woman”. I now posess the most comforting thing a person can have: to feel at home in the world.

P.S.– details of my journey soon to come.

Store-side in Bremen

       It’s really a simple day; nothing unusual at all to the common Barcelona university student. But to me, a lot has changed with the inclusion of a few tiny differences in my day. I met a really nice girl in my Literature and Cinema class today– more friendly than the Catalans had me accustomed to. And I was so excited about having spoken to a Spanish student (in the classroom setting) for more than 1 minute that I felt emboldened to explore the building more. Usually I just go straight out to eat after my class (partly for hunger and partly because the building is hard to navigate and I’m afraid of embarrassing myself), and then bike across the city to my next class. But today, it was raining– a fairly rare ocurrence in Barcelona– something I didn’t really notice until I came outside and realized my own shock. It hadn’t even ocurred to me that sitting outside to eat lunch was a plan that could ever be deterred.

So that meant I had to stay in the building for a while. With the warm pleasure of having conducted a conversation in Spanish with absolutely no flaws or hesitation (for the first time ever!), I sat down outside the cafeteria on the basement level, next to all the other students I was pleasantly surprised to see eating and chatting in the hallway as well. I hadn’t expected this as I turned the corner past the cafeteria– eating is serious business here, and you don’t do it in public or ‘on the go’. Only “tranquilo”. How nice to encounter this casualness. And I thought, “casualness is the key, isn’t it?” Why was I able to speak so well in Spanish all of a sudden? Because for once I didn’t get nervous. That’s always what messes you up: I think my pronunciation always falters when I’m a bit on edge. Even understanding the professor (in Catalan) was easier today! Your brain just benefits from a calmer disposition. Of course, you can only get to this point by having spent time in the “adaptation” phase, during which I compulsively tried to record every new word I heard in my brain; but it’s important to keep this advantage of demeanor in mind. And I thought to myself, maybe the Spaniards really are onto something with this “tranquilo” attitude, that all of us Americans attribute to the inefficient bureaucracy and long waits at restaurants. (Ariel commented on this phenomenon in Latin America as well.) But it just makes everything easier. It’s amazing. Not only have I made my language acquisition smoother, but I made a friend!

With the same casual attitude a Spaniard in Barcelona would have answered a Catalan question in Spanish, I simply told the girl when the paper was due, not even flinching at the switch in language. I told her how the teacher didn’t care about the exact date, and Estèr commented that the she was maja, a slang word I internally rejoiced at having recognized. I agreed, and she asked me where I was from. For some strange reason, Barcelonans are always really impressed when i say I’m from New York City: “Qué guay!” (”How cool!”) It’s as if the greatest aspiration of any place is to be as urban as the city of cities– an interesting attitude as well, which I find quite different from the US. A lot of Americans would be proud of their rural origins, might even detest the noise and grime of “the city”. But Europe is an urban continent; its history is the development of cities, and the country is where you go for summer vacation. There’s no suburban in-between; the city is where you find life. And life is what the Spanish seem to enjoy.

Estèr told me that if I ever needed anything, I should let her know. And I thought “Tranquila. There’s nothing I need now.”

        Edinburgh was exactly the kind of change I was looking for. (Besides the welcome break from spending several minutes interpreting any sign and understanding only half of what the guy at the bar is saying to me.) Not only was it different from Barcelona (for better more than for worse), it was different from any other city I had ever seen. Maintaining old-time charm is a difficult feat in the age of post-globalization, and one that Scotland’s capital was able to achieve seemingly easily. It’s true– the kilts are not so much a beckon to the far-past as a revival by King George IV in 1822 (to try to popularize himself), but nevertheless they match very well with the Medieval Era palaces, roads, and pubs. The architecture you see is often of the Gothic Revival, and the Edinburgh Castle (built in stages between the 12th and 21st centuries) can be seen from almost any point in the city. With a fantastical structure as that looming over you at all times, I suppose it simply could not have crossed a Scot’s mind to start building tall glass-paneled rectangles within its view. It simply wouldn’t be right. And thank God those scotch-drinking, haggis-eating citizens realized it.

–I tried haggis, by the way! Interesting. I’ll leave it at that. (But not bad.) And of course, the infamous fried Mars-bar. Mmmm…I’ve actually just eaten a regular un-fried one while thinking about this blog entry, and it doesn’t hold a candle. Other highlights of the trip included the National Museum of Scotland, which I enjoyed much more than I had anticipated, and climbing Arthur’s Seat, which did not give me quite as impressive a view as hoped. Nevertheless, Holyrood Park is a wonder; jut exactly where the sidewalk ends begin the most green and picturesque rolling hills I’ve ever seen. And right next to that is a spectacular view of the city, and right behind that is the sea. My favorite view was from the hill of Canongate, next to the barely halfway-completed replica of the Parthenon. Scotsmen call it the “Shame of Scotland”, but I personally loved it. My friend Kate and I were there at night, and we were commenting on just how well they illuminate buildings in Edinburgh. It’s absolutely beautiful at night. And this somewhat silly structure actually looks like it’s floatin in mid-air from a certain angle, with the mauve light under it touching the floating clouds (which apparently never go away). I felt like I was in a dream. All of Edinburgh is one gorgeous, cheerful dream, only seconded in impression by the terrifying nightmare that is its murderous and haunted history. How I love (and hate) the paradoxes of life.

I’ve been here for a month now, and I finally feel like a Barcelona resident rather than just a visitor. Several people have asked me for directions, and I was able to give responses. That’s a great feeling. I now know where to walk, which train to take, and can even read the menus! I’ve learned so much Catalan in the last month; recalling how frustrated and completely clueless I was when I first arrived, it amazes me. I didn’t want to be Negative Nancy by posting this, but here is what I had written:

[      I must confess that I did not realize that absolutely every street sign, menu, advertisement, and map would be written in Catalan. It’s probably my own fault for not looking into the matter more extensively. But everyone I spoke to disagreed on the extent of the Catalan presence in Barcelona life. Some said “they don’t speak Spanish in Barcelona, they speak Catalan;” while others said “You will still be immersed in the Spanish language—Catalan is just an addition on the side.” Well it seems that 28 years after the establishment of an autonomous Catalonian government, Catalan identity has really taken root. Some students apparently refuse to speak Spanish in class, and the topic of Catalan vs. Spanish is very heated.
It was going to be difficult enough to become comfortable with Spanish to an extent that would allow me to avoid asking the cashier at the store to repeat what he just said, or to be able to realize if the train conductor has just announced construction that would change my route. But now I can’t even tell if I should be able to know what they’re saying or not! Some Barcelonans are speaking Catalan and some are speaking Spanish. ….

I think I understand now what it’s like to arrive as an adult immigrant to a country where you know nothing of the language. You expect to just pick up where you left off, buying your bread and going to your doctor’s appointment—it’s just in a different place. But the tiniest differences can change your entire life....]

It’s quite different now. In fact, I’m so used to Catalan signs and store names that I’m afraid I won’t understand anything Spanish when I visit Madrid this weekend! It’s my first time outside of Barcelona on my own (apart from the program-directed trip to the French border a few weeks ago), and I can’t wait to see what it will be like to actually be surrounded by Spanish officially. My vocabulary for “hair salon,” “city hall,” “exit,” and “restroom” are all in Catalan right now. It’s so strange to think I know words better in a language I had never seen until a month ago than the language I studied for two and a half years. I even find myself inserting the Catalan goodbye “adeu” after speaking to a taxi driver in Spanish, like a true Catalonian.

I’ve also finally resolved my class schedule (there’s a course shopping period of about a month here), and I walk around the university with much more ease now that I know what’s going on in my life, in the classroom, and what I need to do. It’s not so much the not knowing how to do something that is disorienting in a foreign place, but the not knowing what it is you should be finding out. Especially when your sources of information are in Catalan. Well anyway, I have one of my classes in Catalan now, and oddly enough, I understand more of what that professor says than some of the Spanish-speaking ones. It’s all about vocal inflection and hand gestures. If they talk loudly and emphatically enough, it’s easy to understand the gist of their diatribe.

Warm feelings accompany this sense of comfort. I saw the beachfront by day today with my friend Sunny who’s visiting me from home, nd realized there was a whole side of our city that I had been missing– rather literally. I’m used to “beach” being a small area of sand and water, but it hadn’t dawned on me that the entire southern border of Barcelona is “beach.” It alternates between boardwalk, sand, docks and ports. The ports are covered by restaurants with outdoor seating, as are the boardwalks. I haven’t seen it yet, but apparently there are artists and street vendors along one part of the beach. It’s a whole hub of Barcelona life I was unaware of! Vast, beautiful, picturesque landscape, just beside the cramped, winding, quaint alley-ways of the Old City. What a vibrant contrast. I knew I was missing something. And I found it just in time, as the weather is beginning to welcome people back to the waterfront, and people are more willing to stroll around the numerous grassy parks nearby.

This is the beauty of Barcelona– the mezcla of the really old and small and stony, with the really new and urban and fashionable, plus the prominence of pure, Mediterannean life-force. Every side of life within this tiny area, and all so pretty! I’m so glad I’ve discovered my love for Barcelona before leaving for Madrid; I wouldnt want to be disloyal in case the Madrid soccer fans try to bring me over to their side.

I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist. There are no cold caffeinated beverages here. “Café con leche” is not a latte. It’s a very small cup of espresso with a little bit of milk. It’s delicious, don’t get me wrong—but for an entire month now I have not had an Iced Latte. A big one. Because I’m thirsty.

So today, I finally went into one of only two Starbuck’s I’ve seen (thank goodness there are so few—believe me, I’d go somewhere else for an Iced Latte if there were anywhere else to go). And I got a vanilla flavored one J with that same old orange sweet loaf. It cost me as much as it usually costs me for an entire lunch meal. But it was worth it. Just this once.

As I walked out of the Starbuck’s and walked down the main shopping street Passeig de Gracia (similar to 5^th Ave in Manhattan), I hoped that no one would peg me for an American just because of the Starbuck’s logo on my ice-filled cup. Before I even crossed the street, a woman came up to me and asked if I spoke English. I sighed and nodded my head in shame. She needed some change for the public telephone. I have a feeling she was lying when she said it was 2 Euros—2 Euros can buy you a lot here. But oh well, it was my own fault that I had made myself a target, despite my new European boots and handbag.

            I was on my way to retrieve my new bicycle from the repair shop. And when I say “new bicycle”, I mean the really old one I got for cheap from the second-hand store that sells everything from computers to socks. But it was so worth it. As I got on that bike and pedaled down the street (in high heel boots, oops!), the wind blowing in my hair, I got that beautiful rush that high-speed bike-riding always gives me. Except this time it was in a city. I’ve never done this before. The fantastic thing about Barcelona is that there are bike lanes on most streets. It’s something you’d never see in an American city. There are also bike racks on almost every corner. It’s actually a legitimate form of transportation. (Believe it, America!) Still, it was a little scary to ride down some of the big streets with cars whizzing by, so I opted for the sidewalk at times. – Did I mention the sidewalk is tiled, and every single tile is decorated with a design by Gaudí? My mom would love it, she always notices pretty floors and ceilings. Another thing you’d never see in America. Decorated sidewalk. I couldn’t imagine how long it took to finish paving all of the streets in the city. And Gaudi only came on the scene at the end of the 1900s!

            The guy at the bicycle repair shop was French. He told me about a Russian bookstore a few blocks down. I was thrilled, because I had just noticed the previous day that in my entire stay here, I had seen a total of 2 Russian people. A mother and daughter on the Metro. And in the elementary school at which I am teaching English, there are a total of 2 Russian immigrants. I, myself, happen to be the only Russian person in my entire Residence (or what I’ve seen of it so far). This realization was surprising to me, because I had heard previously that there was a large Russian population in Barcelona. I asked the lady at the bookstore (which was so cool!) where they lived, and she said “We’re everywhere in Barcelona!” Hmm. I guess I should look harder. Someone told me yesterday that a lot of them are illegal immigrants doing Nanny or House-cleaning jobs. I guess that explains it. They also blend in quite well in terms of dress and demeanor, unlike Americans or Norwegians or Latin Americans. The largest immigrant population however, by an enormous margin, is from Morocco. It makes sense on account of its geographic proximity. But it’s very strange to me, coming from a “nation of immigrants”, to encounter such a distinct explanation of origins. The presentation we were given about the educational system before starting the teaching program showed us a chart of the percentage of each nationality in the schools. Rather than “Asian”, “Eastern European”, “Latin American”, etc., it had very specific references: “Morrocan, Ecuadorian, Romanian, Bolivian” were the first few listed. Immigration is a recent phenomenon in Spain, and a large topic of public debate and governmental action. Spain never had to deal with integration before, and both colored skin and very pale skin/hair still get special attention.

A very upsetting moment for me occurred during one of the elementary school classes I was assisting: The kids were supposed to ask me where I was from in English, and then they started discussing the other kids in the class who weren’t from Spain. The entire class started pointing at one boy and repeating “He’s Moroccan!” They didn’t say much else about it, but the emphasis they placed on this one piece of information was a bit unnerving. I wondered what their parents told them about Moroccans, for them to consider it such a big deal. Though the characters involved are different, the same story occurs in every country—in the U.S. we all know what it used to mean to say “He’s Irish”, or even now to say “He’s Mexican.” For Spain more than for the U.S., though, I believe the connotations include a greater dose of “otherness”. There still exists a large notion of “this person is different,” even if Barcelona is an extremely international city. Walking around the tourist centers of Barcelona is no problem—the workers in the shops won’t have a surprised look on their faces if your eyes or skin are different than theirs, but a place like a school is where these societal dynamics really come out. When you have a group of 25 kids together all the time, unaware of the words “diversity” or “multiculturalism” or what it means to “censor oneself,” that’s when the hidden societal notions come out, and you can really get a glimpse of the local attitudes. More than anything, I think, it made me realize how much I take the idea of respect for diverse cultures for granted. In places that aren’t tourist centers like Barcelona, I’m sure the difference is even greater. It’s so interesting to think that as globalized as the world is, there are some ways in which it isn’t at all.

              You never know how you feel about the things that surround you daily until you’re taken away from them. Sometimes absence makes the heart grow fonder, and sometimes it makes you realize flaws you hadn’t seen before. I never thought I would actually start to appreciate the U.S. more when I went abroad.

             It’s not that I’ve been here for a long time yet, and it’s not that I am homesick. So far, a week and a half has given me only a superficial first taste of the city called Barcelona, and the country called Spain. I can’t even begin to make generalizations about Spain because I sense that Barcelona is not quite representative of it, the same way New York is not representative of the United States. But I tend to notice that first impressions are very substantial—they are usually either exactly right or exactly the opposite of the truth.

             My first impression, sadly enough, was that of a lack of surprise. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe nothing is shocking when you’ve seen and heard so much on television and in books, and had the opportunity to travel outside your hometown. But that is exactly what I fear. That there really is nothing more to exotic places than what we’ve already heard about them—except the un-exotic parts that make them just like “back home”. In a way, it’s comforting to know that people are people, and that not much differs from place to place when you get down to the core of life. But it’s awfully disappointing for a travelling romantic.  

               I thought I’d be surrounded by art. And in a way, I am. But the stunning Casa Batlló created by Gaudí is flanked by a modern hotel and a row of the same Chanel and other brand-name stores that you would see in any other large Western city. La Rambla, the crowd-drawing central street of food and nightlife has a fascinating maze of narrow alley-like streets branching off of it, with old grey buildings, cobble-stone roads and tiny Medieval-sized sidewalks. But after walking around for even ten minutes, you start to see the same “Pans & Company” sandwich place, “Desigual” clothing store, and “H&M” over and over. As my friend Jonathan called it, it’s simply “the same stuff in different packaging, with a European label.” Pans & Company is like Quizno’s or Subway, Desigual is like Hot Topic or Pacsun, and H&M is well, H&M. To be sure, it all has a bit of a different flavor. Fashion is quite different here—you will never ever find pajamas or sweatpants on a passerby, or even running sneakers, for that matter. North Face jackets or hooded sweatshirts are a major no-no. But essentially both Americans and Spaniards are eating the same sandwiches from chain restaurants, shopping for the same types of clothes, and listening to the same music. That was the most disappointing part—all the stores, bars and clubs play American music. I’ve heard about one Spanish song for every ten or fifteen American (or British) ones since I’ve been here.

But the bigger issue is this: In the modern, modernized world, nothing is sacred. A city is a city is a city, glorious as the place may be. Barcelona has the same number of independent film theatres as New York (about a handful, maybe 4). It has the same ballets and operas in its theatres, the same books in its bookstores, and the same magazines on its newsstands. They even hand out the same “AM” and “Metro” newspapers as they do in the subway in New York! For all the American pop culture they consume, though, the Spanish are not very receptive to American tourists. I’ve never looked at it from the defensive perspective before—I always shared in the “European” criticism of American culture, or lack thereof, as we like to say. I’ve found myself instinctively identifying myself as Russian rather than American when I am asked, and saying I’m from New York rather than “The United States”. But now I realize how much New York has. Rather than lamenting its membership to the United States, today I have understood that this is what made its existence possible. Such a city could not exist but in a country without a history. Barcelona does have culture, yes—but it is a vague pride in art and historical continuity thinly transposed on a blanket of same-old, same-old. New York may be ambiguous at first, but there is a locality and a groundedness to every piece of culture. We never had a “national culture” like Spain or Italy or France—we are fragmented, composed of the frontier dreams and hard work we are both proud of and embarrassed of at the same time. New York is a perfect hallmark of the land without a past; every neighborhood retains the character of the ethnicity it represents: the Arabic neighborhoods are Arabic, the Russian neighborhood is Russian, and the Chinese neighborhood is Chinese. They’re not just “American” neighborhoods with a few restaurants containing ethnic food. Because that idea does not exist. America is the conglomeration of many different cultures—but they’re able to keep their roots! (In New York, at least.) So I can go and eat Japanese food, and really experience a piece of Japanese culture. Then I can hop over to the Russian neighborhood and everything is different. It’s a mish-mosh of a mosaic, but it’s all very genuine. I have yet to witness a demonstration of what exactly is Spanish culture in the city of Barcelona—or even what Catalonian culture is. Barcelona (and Europe in general) may have contributed a lot to what we consider “culture” now, but it seems like it has lost that connection to what made it unique. Its contributions have been uprooted and spread across the world in the web of ideas and objects we call modernity. And in the meantime, it has become like everyone else. But New York is everyone, it’s not like everyone. (And as for unique contributions to the world, I remembered that we do have some: Broadway is a singular sensation, original to the U.S.)

               I suppose I expected something better, if not bigger, than New York. Better in the sense of a more natural, historical, unified culture. But maybe such a thing does not exist. Maybe New York is as good as it gets in terms of centers of music, film, and art. I always knew how much I loved New York, but I thought that the European lifestyle suited me more than the American one. But now I realize that if “more of everything” is what I want, as I said in my first entry, then New York is the place to be.

              Nevertheless, the “different packaging” here is interesting enough, and the flavors of the region are rather delightful. I think the age we live in has sucked the flavor out of most places, and perhaps the ones to see are the most remote ones, where the spice is most concentrated. But then again, perhaps Barcelona will still surprise me, and prove my first impression entirely wrong. Meanwhile, I do enjoy those small cobblestone streets and quaint cafés.  

One bottle of wine at a grocery store: 99 cents.

One Estrella beer, sold by the guys on every corner of La Rambla: 1 Euro (50 centimos if you bargain).

One bottle of water, because the tap water tastes like soap and they don’t serve it at restaurants anyway: 1.50 Euros.

The ability to drink any type of alcohol outdoors at noon without shame: Priceless.

As I step off the plane and walk through the airport (looking down to make sure I was following the green line marking my luggage pick-up terminal), I can hardly contain the grin creeping across my face. I am here. In Spain. In the country I will be living in for the next half-year. Do I fit in? I look around at the shops in the airport and the people walking through them, trying to assess the opposition: Assesment positive. I think to myself that I will fit in quite nicely—there are even a good number of Spanish-speaking women with blonde hair. (Everyone warns you that you’ll stick out like a sore thumb if you are blonde. I don’t think it’s true. Although even our local program director said so. He also said that our group was dressed less obviously in American fashion than previous ones, so kudos to us.) On my left I pass a delicatessen shop with endless amounts of cured meats, and then on my right I pass a Supermercado de Arte. An art supermarket! My grin got bigger. I knew from these first moments off the plane that I belonged in Barcelona. I apologize to the vegetarians and vegans out there, but I do love meat products. And Spain has quite a lot of them. In fact, one of its most famous products is jamón Iberico, which means “Iberian ham”; it is a type of cured pork which only comes from Spain or Portugal. What’s special about it is the pigs are fed only (or mostly) acorns. I know—I had never heard of anything like this before either. But apparently it works. This stuff is absolutely mouthwatering. Spaniards have quite a selection of cold cuts they call jamón, and none of them are what we in the United States would call “ham”. It turns out there are approximately a bajillion ways to eat pork. Good thing they kicked out the Jews and Muslims early on, or I wouldn’t be able to ignore Kosher rules so deliciously.

The taxi driver who took me to the hotel we’d be staying in for the first night did not speak English, of which I was glad. I took my first stab at Spanish, and didn’t do too badly. We actually talked the entire way. He told me about important buildings or streets we were passing, and asked me what I was doing in Barcelona and what I was studying. For a talkative person like myself, I could already sense the frustration I would be having for (hopefully only) weeks to come from not being able to express myself freely. I had to just let some thoughts pass without voicing them, because I didn’t know how to. But luckily, the Spanish and I both talk with our hands enough that we could understand each other quite well.

My very first impression of the city, the wide avenue we drove down for most of the way, was quite ordinary. The taxi driver agreed with me when I said that it looked much like a busy street in Paris or London, or any other city. I was a bit disappointed that Barcelona didn’t shock me right away. On the other hand, there were also palm trees along the center walkway (they have a walkway between the two car lanes in addition to sidewalks, and diagonally cut corners). The next night, a couple of friends from Cornell and I decided to take a stroll around, and we walked down to the beach, which we were pleased to find out was not too far from our dorm (which is in a fantastic location!). Along the way, we ran into some curious sculptures. My excitement mounted again as we passed an interesting mix of small, quaint alleys and vast, modern avenues.

I have been told that art is a public event in Barcelona– that architecture is expressive and graffiti is just a part of the view. It seems to be true; it is a city which is itself living, breathing art. So far, I haven’t seen anything as outrageous as I thought I would. To be completely honest, I felt no surprise at all (except at the fact that some of the “medieval” buildings were built much later just for the tourist appeal, pretty as they are:)