& It also happens to be my 100th blog post.
Photo courtesy of Jessica.
In front of the Fuentes Mágicas @ Montjuic.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Wow
Today marks having lived in Barcelona for six months.
& It also happens to be my 100th blog post.
Photo courtesy of Jessica.
In front of the Fuentes Mágicas @ Montjuic.
& It also happens to be my 100th blog post.
Photo courtesy of Jessica.
In front of the Fuentes Mágicas @ Montjuic.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
A good friend, tapas, sangría, and a Spanish haircut.
Jessica left yesterday to go back to Verona. We had a great time hanging out in Barcelona. We walked around the city tons, Jessica saw the Sagrada Familia four times (it was like the universe was pulling her back to this place), she bought gum from the grocery store because she claims the gum is really crappy in Italy (thus, she stocked up in Spain). We cooked delicious banana pancakes and put peanut butter and honey on top, braved going out at night in the rain, and we had a personalized tour of the city in a car from one of my catalán friends (when was the last time I was in the passenger seat of a car? I can't quite remember...). On her last night we ate a lovely 3 hour-long tapas dinner and drank sangría. This dinner was so good that it left us in a food coma and, in all fairness, partially inebriated. At this point we decided that the apple tart with cinnamon ice cream on the side was a must. We were not disappointed.
See you back in the good ol' U.S. of A., Jess. I had a wonderful time!
After Jessica left yesterday I came back to my room and listened to music for a few hours, immersing myself with music that I remember from 8th grade. Artists like R. Kelly and Usher "wooed" me as I procrastinated on making myself go get a haircut. Finally at around 2pm I motivated myself to get my ass out the door and make an appointment at The Pelu where I had my hair cut the last time.
I returned at 4pm yesterday afternoon for the haircut. Little did I know that this appointment would change my life forever. Yes, I'm going to take the liberty and be dramatic here. I step into the cute salon that was playing the familiar Ray soundtrack with music exclusively sung by Ray Charles. I knew it well. As the hairdresser washed my hair, she hummed the melody and I sang the lyrics inside my head. She asked me, "¿Qué quieres que te hago?" I told her that I wanted to her trim off 3 fingers of length. "¿Y no lo llevas escalado?" Okay, so I do have some layers, all of which were probably dead and gone by this time. They have either been killed by the rugged day-to-day hardships of Spanish life or the fact that my wallet and I have conveniently neglected them for the last 3 months. Whatever the case "un poco escalado" sounded good to me. I didn't realize that later I would rethink my decision.
I sit down in the chair and the hairdresser, still humming to Ray Charles, "Everybody's doing the mess around," combs out the knots and starts the trim. I watch the receptionist behind me in the mirror; her face tells me that she's a bit dumbfounded and worried about the amount of hair I have. Meanwhile, the hairdresser continues to cut. "I got a women," snip, snip, snip, "way over town," snip, snip, "good to me," a snip and a WACK. I tell myself, it's okay. No freaking out at the length. It will be good.
She finished the cut and tells me, "Lo secamos y después lo miramos, ¿vale?" Okay. It looks short to me, but okay. The hairdresser starts to blowdry my hair and the receptionist behind her decides to spring into action to help her blowdry with what is the large, but now trim, animal that lays on my head. So at this point I have two Spanish women hovering over me, armed with hairdryers and humming to Ray while working in sync of each other. It was a sight to see really. After it's dry, they both reach for the next weapon--the flat iron. They divide my hair even in half, each taking a side of it. I have never had so much attention to my hair at once. I couldn't help but laugh.
After they finish the flat iron, the "assistent" leaves, Ray calms down a bit and decides to sing "Georgia on my mind," and the hairdresser decides to "feather" the ends of my hair. I think it looks fine now, but at the time I was a bit unsure. After all was finished I was a bit shocked at the weight of my hair. It weighed nothing. Then when I looked down to see that there was enough of my hair on the floor to clothe a small child, and I felt like I had just digested one of Schmink's hairballs after he has given Bouba a thorough bath. I felt bald. "¿Qué me has hecho?" I thought. I walked back looking at my hair in the reflection of the store windows. Wow, it's gone.
Now, don't get me wrong. It is NOT a bad haircut, but because I was so shocked I ended being pretty rude to Marlene and Xavier when they commented on it.
Xavier: ¡Mira que guay! ¡Me gusta el pelo escalado!
Jackie: Lo ODIO.
Marlene: Ahhh, ¿¡escalado?! Ayyyyyyy.
Jackie: Marlene, no me digas NADA. [goes in room and closes door]
Marlene: [knocks on door.] ¡JACKIE!
Jackie: ¿QUÉ? [without opening door]
Marlene:¡Estás guapa!
Xavier: Marlene, déjala.
They understood the shock I'm sure. Marlene and Xavi, I'm sorry I was so rude.
I guess now I can say that Spain has left it's mark on me.
image added retroactively, due to request. Here's the Spanish imprint on my head.
See you back in the good ol' U.S. of A., Jess. I had a wonderful time!
After Jessica left yesterday I came back to my room and listened to music for a few hours, immersing myself with music that I remember from 8th grade. Artists like R. Kelly and Usher "wooed" me as I procrastinated on making myself go get a haircut. Finally at around 2pm I motivated myself to get my ass out the door and make an appointment at The Pelu where I had my hair cut the last time.
I returned at 4pm yesterday afternoon for the haircut. Little did I know that this appointment would change my life forever. Yes, I'm going to take the liberty and be dramatic here. I step into the cute salon that was playing the familiar Ray soundtrack with music exclusively sung by Ray Charles. I knew it well. As the hairdresser washed my hair, she hummed the melody and I sang the lyrics inside my head. She asked me, "¿Qué quieres que te hago?" I told her that I wanted to her trim off 3 fingers of length. "¿Y no lo llevas escalado?" Okay, so I do have some layers, all of which were probably dead and gone by this time. They have either been killed by the rugged day-to-day hardships of Spanish life or the fact that my wallet and I have conveniently neglected them for the last 3 months. Whatever the case "un poco escalado" sounded good to me. I didn't realize that later I would rethink my decision.
I sit down in the chair and the hairdresser, still humming to Ray Charles, "Everybody's doing the mess around," combs out the knots and starts the trim. I watch the receptionist behind me in the mirror; her face tells me that she's a bit dumbfounded and worried about the amount of hair I have. Meanwhile, the hairdresser continues to cut. "I got a women," snip, snip, snip, "way over town," snip, snip, "good to me," a snip and a WACK. I tell myself, it's okay. No freaking out at the length. It will be good.
She finished the cut and tells me, "Lo secamos y después lo miramos, ¿vale?" Okay. It looks short to me, but okay. The hairdresser starts to blowdry my hair and the receptionist behind her decides to spring into action to help her blowdry with what is the large, but now trim, animal that lays on my head. So at this point I have two Spanish women hovering over me, armed with hairdryers and humming to Ray while working in sync of each other. It was a sight to see really. After it's dry, they both reach for the next weapon--the flat iron. They divide my hair even in half, each taking a side of it. I have never had so much attention to my hair at once. I couldn't help but laugh.
After they finish the flat iron, the "assistent" leaves, Ray calms down a bit and decides to sing "Georgia on my mind," and the hairdresser decides to "feather" the ends of my hair. I think it looks fine now, but at the time I was a bit unsure. After all was finished I was a bit shocked at the weight of my hair. It weighed nothing. Then when I looked down to see that there was enough of my hair on the floor to clothe a small child, and I felt like I had just digested one of Schmink's hairballs after he has given Bouba a thorough bath. I felt bald. "¿Qué me has hecho?" I thought. I walked back looking at my hair in the reflection of the store windows. Wow, it's gone.
Now, don't get me wrong. It is NOT a bad haircut, but because I was so shocked I ended being pretty rude to Marlene and Xavier when they commented on it.
Xavier: ¡Mira que guay! ¡Me gusta el pelo escalado!
Jackie: Lo ODIO.
Marlene: Ahhh, ¿¡escalado?! Ayyyyyyy.
Jackie: Marlene, no me digas NADA. [goes in room and closes door]
Marlene: [knocks on door.] ¡JACKIE!
Jackie: ¿QUÉ? [without opening door]
Marlene:¡Estás guapa!
Xavier: Marlene, déjala.
They understood the shock I'm sure. Marlene and Xavi, I'm sorry I was so rude.
I guess now I can say that Spain has left it's mark on me.
image added retroactively, due to request. Here's the Spanish imprint on my head.
Monday, February 15, 2010
An update of nothing, but a little bit of something
So I haven't updated in a little over a week. My mind has been a bit out of focus. It's been focused on school, as I have been enjoying my classes, but every now and then me como la cabeza un poco, quizás.
Today is another rainy day in Barcelona. The 40 degrees is not so cold but it's cold enough to make you look at the sky and ask it, "Sky, where is your sun? Will you still be capable of giving us springtime in March?" It's more of an annoyance than anything else, not having the sun (especially when you live in an interior room and receive no natural light whatsoever).
What have I been doing lately? Well, going to class, cooking with my friend Anca, reading, etc. Yesterday was Sunday and I gave my room a good thorough cleaning (Jessica comes on Wednesday!), making sure to take the occasional break to solve my Rubik's Cube. Yes, playing with my Rubik's Cube is a pastime of mine. About a week or so ago I was walking around Plaza Catalunya, looking at beautiful Barcelona in the nighttime and decided to buy myself a little capricho, if you will. I walked into El Corte Inglés and climbed 4 different escalators until I reached the toy department. There was one Rubik's Cube left. I spent the next few days watching videos on YouTube and applying the different algorithms I learned to solve it. Now, I am guilty of taking my cube with me to random places and repeatedly solving it in public. I know, I'm just that cool.
Besides Rubik's cubing, I read some Don Quijote, ate some chocolate, and read a short story by Borges. I love Borges. An enormous collection of his poetry lies on my shelf in my room in the U.S., waiting for me to come back and hold it again, to undress it with my eyes. I have great relationships with my books. They always allow me to write all over them, accepting my commentaries about what they tell me, my critiques about their respective realities. Words are my form of cariño because they permit subtetly but still allow simplicity. Writing and communicating are only as complicated as you make them and nuances are much more beautiful than blatence. If only actions were as easy to carry out as talk.
It's strange to me that I will be coming home from Barcelona in a few months. I will be ready to go home and at the same time I will want closure with Barcelona. It will be like saying goodbye to a good friend. Can a city really be a friend? Well in my case, yes. It's not that I will not miss the Catalán people, as I have met some very nice ones, but I think I will miss the physical city of Barcelona more. Living here has forced me to be able to work myself out of my own depressions, and I did that mainly by walking or running through the city. Granted, for this same reason I run and walk in every city I inhabit, but only toward a few places I have a connection.
For example, I run in Los Angeles when I am there, but feel nothing toward it. I run in Champaign when I am there, but only tolerate it. I run through Mahomet when I am there, and I love it. I love running in Mahomet because I have that connection with the space; it holds memories that I formed there both alone and with people. I feel this sort of affinity toward Barcelona, as I have made memories while traversing its streets. I have thoughts connected to certain street corners or cafes, and memories tied to certain plazas or neighborhoods. Barcelona takes on a new form in my mind's eye.
Many people don't understand this notion. They ask, "How can you have an affinity for a place that is not your home, that makes you angry sometimes, that does not have feelings? It is only a place." Well, for me, the space that I occupy takes on human characteristics. I live with it, engage with it, occupy it, scorn it, make memories with it, love it, and just feel it. Being an extremely environmental person (there is a reason that I always talk about the weather, as it affects my space) and a loner at heart, the space that I occupy, in this case Barcelona, is always there even when people are not. Its form is erratic, though its presence constant.
I view my life in terms of a narrative, thinking about the different narrative spaces that I occupy. For me, the space that I occupy has almost equal significance to me as do the people around me (though they usually go hand-in-hand, influencing each other). As the narrative space changes, I change a little bit too. It's only natural.
Just as I brought a little bit of the U.S. with me to Barcelona, I will bring back a little bit of Barcelona with me to the U.S. I like to think by the time I leave here, I will have left at least some form of my footprints here. Their presence will not be blatant, though they will exist subtetly. Nuances are more beautiful than blatence anyhow.
Plaça San Jaume, Generalitat de Catulunya. Love this Plaza!!
Today is another rainy day in Barcelona. The 40 degrees is not so cold but it's cold enough to make you look at the sky and ask it, "Sky, where is your sun? Will you still be capable of giving us springtime in March?" It's more of an annoyance than anything else, not having the sun (especially when you live in an interior room and receive no natural light whatsoever).
What have I been doing lately? Well, going to class, cooking with my friend Anca, reading, etc. Yesterday was Sunday and I gave my room a good thorough cleaning (Jessica comes on Wednesday!), making sure to take the occasional break to solve my Rubik's Cube. Yes, playing with my Rubik's Cube is a pastime of mine. About a week or so ago I was walking around Plaza Catalunya, looking at beautiful Barcelona in the nighttime and decided to buy myself a little capricho, if you will. I walked into El Corte Inglés and climbed 4 different escalators until I reached the toy department. There was one Rubik's Cube left. I spent the next few days watching videos on YouTube and applying the different algorithms I learned to solve it. Now, I am guilty of taking my cube with me to random places and repeatedly solving it in public. I know, I'm just that cool.
Besides Rubik's cubing, I read some Don Quijote, ate some chocolate, and read a short story by Borges. I love Borges. An enormous collection of his poetry lies on my shelf in my room in the U.S., waiting for me to come back and hold it again, to undress it with my eyes. I have great relationships with my books. They always allow me to write all over them, accepting my commentaries about what they tell me, my critiques about their respective realities. Words are my form of cariño because they permit subtetly but still allow simplicity. Writing and communicating are only as complicated as you make them and nuances are much more beautiful than blatence. If only actions were as easy to carry out as talk.
It's strange to me that I will be coming home from Barcelona in a few months. I will be ready to go home and at the same time I will want closure with Barcelona. It will be like saying goodbye to a good friend. Can a city really be a friend? Well in my case, yes. It's not that I will not miss the Catalán people, as I have met some very nice ones, but I think I will miss the physical city of Barcelona more. Living here has forced me to be able to work myself out of my own depressions, and I did that mainly by walking or running through the city. Granted, for this same reason I run and walk in every city I inhabit, but only toward a few places I have a connection.
For example, I run in Los Angeles when I am there, but feel nothing toward it. I run in Champaign when I am there, but only tolerate it. I run through Mahomet when I am there, and I love it. I love running in Mahomet because I have that connection with the space; it holds memories that I formed there both alone and with people. I feel this sort of affinity toward Barcelona, as I have made memories while traversing its streets. I have thoughts connected to certain street corners or cafes, and memories tied to certain plazas or neighborhoods. Barcelona takes on a new form in my mind's eye.
Many people don't understand this notion. They ask, "How can you have an affinity for a place that is not your home, that makes you angry sometimes, that does not have feelings? It is only a place." Well, for me, the space that I occupy takes on human characteristics. I live with it, engage with it, occupy it, scorn it, make memories with it, love it, and just feel it. Being an extremely environmental person (there is a reason that I always talk about the weather, as it affects my space) and a loner at heart, the space that I occupy, in this case Barcelona, is always there even when people are not. Its form is erratic, though its presence constant.
I view my life in terms of a narrative, thinking about the different narrative spaces that I occupy. For me, the space that I occupy has almost equal significance to me as do the people around me (though they usually go hand-in-hand, influencing each other). As the narrative space changes, I change a little bit too. It's only natural.
Just as I brought a little bit of the U.S. with me to Barcelona, I will bring back a little bit of Barcelona with me to the U.S. I like to think by the time I leave here, I will have left at least some form of my footprints here. Their presence will not be blatant, though they will exist subtetly. Nuances are more beautiful than blatence anyhow.
Plaça San Jaume, Generalitat de Catulunya. Love this Plaza!!
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Saturday Fiesta
Nights spent in Barcelona reading your tattered and used copy of Don Quijote in the dim lighting of your cinnamon-scented bedroom is my version of a Saturday Fiesta.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Underwear, sex, committing suicide, and eggs for dinner
So all my underwear is hanging on the clothesline outside Jorge's window right now. I swear I did an entire load of laundry consisting of only socks and underwear (okay minus the 2 pairs of jeans, t-shirt, and camisole I threw in as well).
Jorge is moving out. His newly raging sex life was cramping our coexistence in the apartment so he decided to silence the moans and sighs for good by leaving. I can't say I'm not sad to see him go. The four of us have become a pseudo-family, but we shall prevail nonetheless. Farewell Jorge, and thanks for helping me augment my Spanish vocabulary. I know the vieja next door will be happy that you're leaving, as she has frequently complained to Marlene about the "odd sounds" that preclude her from sleeping at night. Can't say I blame her for being somewhat annoyed, but really she just needs to find a hobby besides envying and being bitter.
In other news, I have started the new semester and am loving my classes. I am taking Arte Español Contemporáneo (Picasso, Dalí, Miró), Cine Español Contemporáneo, Literatura Hispanoamericana, and of course DON QUIJOTE! The profesor who teaches the art class is the father of the profesora who teaches Don Quijote. I love this father and daughter -- the Losadas. They are the most interesting people, both of which employ what I characterize as the bourgeoisie in Barcelona.
I have to talk a little bit about the Losadas because they are just that worthy. Daddy Losada is an 80-year-old German man who wears a bristley beard yellowed with age and has permanant swollen bags under his eyes. Although German, he speaks perfect Spanish (to which he proudly attests) because he learned it when it was 9 years old. He has survived four plane accidents, spent a year as a blind man (he only had 10% vision in one eye) due to an eye surgery gone awry, is deaf in one ear, and takes garlic pills everyday to preserve what he describes as "immortality."
He told us that during his blindness he was so depressed that he had planned to take his life, but before he would stick his head in the way of a train, he would first go to the cafe on Aribau right outside the facultad to have a coffee. "If any of you ever decide to commit suicide, it's important that you have a coffee first," he informed the us. This note of Professor Losada's reminded me of Papa Hem, who decided to eat breakfast before he committed suicide. I guess taking one's life is something that should always be done on a full stomach.
Anyway, Daddy Losada told us that art saved his life. That day at the cafe on Aribau, as he was sitting there in the dark (because when you're blind it's dark during daytime too), he heard the most beautiful music. Turns out that music was Beethoven's Opus 133 "la gran fuga," and D. Losada decided that he would take his life the following day, the day after he went to the store to buy some Beethoven records. Needless to say, Daddy Losada is still alive and kicking "with mostly everything working." After which he add that at his age "the thing that doesn't work isn't really that important anyway" (I love this subtley).
Baby Losada, who is really 50 years old and not a baby at all, has been one of my professors since I arrived in Barcelona. She was one of my professors during ILP (the Intense Language Program that we all had to endure during the first 3 weeks of our time in Barcelona), she taught my Barcelona en su contexto cultural class last semester, and now she teaches Don Quijote. I love her. She is austere and firm but has some really good stories to tell. B. Losada buries herself in books, falls in love with characters, and then returns to read the books again later. She told us about how one summer she fell out of a tree and broke her leg completely. She was bedridden for the entire summer and was only about 11 or so (I'm not exactly sure of the age but it was pre-teen or teenage). Being bored out of her mind, B. Losada grabbed the longest book that she could find in the house -- War and Peace. It lasted her the entire time her leg was broken, and she is convinced that Pierre Bezukhov is the best man to have ever existed. So she falls in love with book characters too...
Anywho, it's 10:30pm and it's eggs for dinner tonight. Woohoo! (Don't you love how I act as though someone else is controlling what I eat? As if I don't cook my own food every night...) Though, I never did think that I'd get used to eating dinner so late.
Jorge is moving out. His newly raging sex life was cramping our coexistence in the apartment so he decided to silence the moans and sighs for good by leaving. I can't say I'm not sad to see him go. The four of us have become a pseudo-family, but we shall prevail nonetheless. Farewell Jorge, and thanks for helping me augment my Spanish vocabulary. I know the vieja next door will be happy that you're leaving, as she has frequently complained to Marlene about the "odd sounds" that preclude her from sleeping at night. Can't say I blame her for being somewhat annoyed, but really she just needs to find a hobby besides envying and being bitter.
In other news, I have started the new semester and am loving my classes. I am taking Arte Español Contemporáneo (Picasso, Dalí, Miró), Cine Español Contemporáneo, Literatura Hispanoamericana, and of course DON QUIJOTE! The profesor who teaches the art class is the father of the profesora who teaches Don Quijote. I love this father and daughter -- the Losadas. They are the most interesting people, both of which employ what I characterize as the bourgeoisie in Barcelona.
I have to talk a little bit about the Losadas because they are just that worthy. Daddy Losada is an 80-year-old German man who wears a bristley beard yellowed with age and has permanant swollen bags under his eyes. Although German, he speaks perfect Spanish (to which he proudly attests) because he learned it when it was 9 years old. He has survived four plane accidents, spent a year as a blind man (he only had 10% vision in one eye) due to an eye surgery gone awry, is deaf in one ear, and takes garlic pills everyday to preserve what he describes as "immortality."
He told us that during his blindness he was so depressed that he had planned to take his life, but before he would stick his head in the way of a train, he would first go to the cafe on Aribau right outside the facultad to have a coffee. "If any of you ever decide to commit suicide, it's important that you have a coffee first," he informed the us. This note of Professor Losada's reminded me of Papa Hem, who decided to eat breakfast before he committed suicide. I guess taking one's life is something that should always be done on a full stomach.
Anyway, Daddy Losada told us that art saved his life. That day at the cafe on Aribau, as he was sitting there in the dark (because when you're blind it's dark during daytime too), he heard the most beautiful music. Turns out that music was Beethoven's Opus 133 "la gran fuga," and D. Losada decided that he would take his life the following day, the day after he went to the store to buy some Beethoven records. Needless to say, Daddy Losada is still alive and kicking "with mostly everything working." After which he add that at his age "the thing that doesn't work isn't really that important anyway" (I love this subtley).
Baby Losada, who is really 50 years old and not a baby at all, has been one of my professors since I arrived in Barcelona. She was one of my professors during ILP (the Intense Language Program that we all had to endure during the first 3 weeks of our time in Barcelona), she taught my Barcelona en su contexto cultural class last semester, and now she teaches Don Quijote. I love her. She is austere and firm but has some really good stories to tell. B. Losada buries herself in books, falls in love with characters, and then returns to read the books again later. She told us about how one summer she fell out of a tree and broke her leg completely. She was bedridden for the entire summer and was only about 11 or so (I'm not exactly sure of the age but it was pre-teen or teenage). Being bored out of her mind, B. Losada grabbed the longest book that she could find in the house -- War and Peace. It lasted her the entire time her leg was broken, and she is convinced that Pierre Bezukhov is the best man to have ever existed. So she falls in love with book characters too...
Anywho, it's 10:30pm and it's eggs for dinner tonight. Woohoo! (Don't you love how I act as though someone else is controlling what I eat? As if I don't cook my own food every night...) Though, I never did think that I'd get used to eating dinner so late.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Madrid en blanco y negro
1. una fuente y yo 2. dentro el Palacio de Cristal en el Parque de Buen Retiro 3. fuera el Palacio de Cristal, Parque de Buen Retiro
La Almudena Catedral, Madrid
Maybe the photo makes this cathedral look grander than it is but, as far as cathedrals go, it's really quite ugly. The inside is just a festival of tacky with strange colors plastered on the roof that don't go together at all. As for the facade, I read that it has an "unfinished" appearance because it was constantly being rebuilt in different times. Stands to reason I suppose...
Back to Madrid
Finally made it to the Palacio Real in Madrid. The weather there was really nice, surprisingly. I heard that it was pretty crappy weather in Barcelona this past weekend while I was gone. Guess I stole the coastal weather from Barcelona and brought it with me to the desert. When I left Madrid, it started to rain...
I got to see my friends that I met Sevilla again, this time in the place where they study!
We always enjoy each other's company...
Other than hanging staying with friends, I visited the Thyssen museum, walked through Parque de Buen Retiro again (this time for 3 hours), cooked some tortellini with veggies for Martin and myself, drank a caña (or two), and ate montaditos (see below photo).
And then, eventually, on Sunday at 3:45 I got on the plane to head back home. Fifty-five minutes later I landed in Barcelona, got on the bus from the airport with my little suitcase in had, and made my way back to my apartment on the Gran Via.
Home again, home again.
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