I arrived in Barcelona via the Wonderful RyanAir then took a bus to the neighborhood where I was to meet up with my CS host, Cris. I tried calling her from the Airport using my skype on my phone though the airport´s intermittent wifi. Since I didn´t buy a pricey simcard in London (literally pennywise and pound foolish) and was only able to communicate to her that I´d meet her in front of Solmania in 50 minutes. When I viewd her area on streetview, Solmania was a brightly signed shop so I figured it´d be an easy place to find. Turns out Solmania is a suntan and skin cream shop or something, definitely a weird choice for a commie such as meself. After realizing that the directions I wrote myself weren´t accurate enough, I asked around for Solmania, but no one knew what the hell I was talking about (I should have asked some guidos, but I guess they were all out clubbin´it up), but finally I went into a restaurant and they directed me to the joint, a couple blocks away. I got there before Cris did and was all sweaty from lugging my backpack dressed in lots of layers so RyanAir woulnd´t stick me with a 50 pound fee for having a bag larger than its lilleputian limitations. I took off some layers and took a second to relax when Cris came up to me and gave me the kiss on the cheek, pausing before the second one explaining that, ¨here we kiss on both cheeks.¨ ¨Oh, ok!¨ I said. We walked back to her place so I could drop off my bag and we spoke in Spanish about general stuff. It turns out my spanish is actually pretty bad. Fortunately Cris spoke more English than I did Spanish so we were able to communicate just fine. I spoke in spanish when I could and she spoke in Englilsh when she wanted to, or when I didn´t understand what she´s saying.
We walked with her bike-boom era step-through bike (yet with a really nice Miche rear wheel!) 30 minutes through town to a cultural center housed in a typical old town building. There were 2 big main rooms, one with a bar, and the other with a stage and space to salsa. They had a giant plate of paella with whole shrimp and mussels of which we bought the last plate of for 4€ and shared. She informed me halfway through the plate that she had had a fever that morning and still had a cold. I guess the Catalunians aren´t as paranoid about germs as I am. Beer was cheap from the tap at €1 per small glass.
As the folks danced (all between mid 20s and mid 30s it seemed) I was blown away by their willingness to engage each other and smile and laugh. Partner dancing is so foreign to me, as my experience at parties is that everyone dances by themselves without relaly engaging anyone else´s body movements. Although I guess specifically going somewhere to salsa is different than going to someone´s rager to get wasted and moonwalk.
After I hung out watching for a while Cris found me and said that she was ready to go. Before we left her friend Jose insisted that she and I dance. So she showed me the basics of Salsa (she was taking lessons and considers herself to be intermediate) and we shared a bit of a dance before the song ended. By then I had caught on and was getting into it, but´twas time to go. She borrowed a Bicing (the local bikeshare) card from Jose and we left, grabbed a bike for me (sorta clunky 3 speed with 26¨rear and 20¨front that rode well enough) and meandered home, talking about this´n´that.
After I hung out watching for a while Cris found me and said that she was ready to go. Before we left her friend Jose insisted that she and I dance. So she showed me the basics of Salsa (she was taking lessons and considers herself to be intermediate) and we shared a bit of a dance before the song ended. By then I had caught on and was getting into it, but´twas time to go. She borrowed a Bicing (the local bikeshare) card from Jose and we left, grabbed a bike for me (sorta clunky 3 speed with 26¨rear and 20¨front that rode well enough) and meandered home, talking about this´n´that.
Just like the VHS lounge/cafe that sold fresh peanut butter that I frequented and loved in Xela (and had decided to open in the US before realizing that the profit would be nonexistent) I thought that it would be great for there to be an inexpensive paella bar that had salsa nights in, oh, I don´t know, Portland! Maybe the inexpensiveness of the places was a distortion of my relative wealth, (Cris said wages are really low and her place cost 180€ a month for each of the 3 rooms, which was not exactly cheap by her standards). Maybe such places already exist, but they sure as hell aren´t all Anarchisty like this place with a bike-tire-reuse-as-belts workshop. The only salsa club I know of in Portland isn´t as reasonably priced for obvious reasons, nor is it lefty.
At 4 in morning, sleeping on the couch in the living room, I was instinctually pulled out of a dream by the sounds of someone puking to beat the band. Oh, fuck, I thought. I really hoped it was Cris´s housemate doing the puking and not Cris since we shared the same plate. Then I heard Cris get up and go the bathroom, but there was no puking while she was in there. When she returned to her room, I heard more puking and tried to go back to sleep, but the wretching continued until morning as did my prayer of ¨guts of steel.¨ Cris left early to go to work and I didn´t see here again until that afternoon. When I asked her if that was she who I had heard she said no but that the walls are SO thin that everything the neighbors do is audible, and it was her 50 year old shut in neighbor, who lives with his mom, who was emptying it out. whew!
That day, on the way to the Frederic Mares museum I ate my first of many chocolate croissants. It turns out it´s really difficult to pronounce croissant in Spanish and I would default to French pronunciation which probably made me sound like an idiot. Some places call them napolitano, which I can say convincingly. But I don´t think I was fooling anyone when I asked ¨¿como?¨ after pretty much anything they´d say. Anyhow, the Mares museum was supposed to have some ancient bikes and collections of random and weird things which sounded right up my alley. It was in the old town next to the big Cathedral where all the tourists go. The museum did in fact have numerous collections of numerous odd things, like keys, scissors, lighters, sewing machines, fans, yads, 5 strange ancient bikes made of solid iron and wood, etc. The collections were overwhelming to look at, especially since each piece was so interesting to look at. I sort of scanned the 500 keys, 400 scissors, 200 lighters, 50 life sized crucifixes, etc. Each floor had a docent or two who guided you in the direction the exhibit should be viewed, some more forcefully that others by which I was mildly confused. On the Jesus floor, a docent around my age followed and directed me around as though she though I was gonna tear down a Jesus for myself. As this was the first museum I´d been to I wasn´t sure if this was normal Spanish museum staff behaviour, so I didn´t say anything sassy. Besides my sass is best tasted in English.
That day, on the way to the Frederic Mares museum I ate my first of many chocolate croissants. It turns out it´s really difficult to pronounce croissant in Spanish and I would default to French pronunciation which probably made me sound like an idiot. Some places call them napolitano, which I can say convincingly. But I don´t think I was fooling anyone when I asked ¨¿como?¨ after pretty much anything they´d say. Anyhow, the Mares museum was supposed to have some ancient bikes and collections of random and weird things which sounded right up my alley. It was in the old town next to the big Cathedral where all the tourists go. The museum did in fact have numerous collections of numerous odd things, like keys, scissors, lighters, sewing machines, fans, yads, 5 strange ancient bikes made of solid iron and wood, etc. The collections were overwhelming to look at, especially since each piece was so interesting to look at. I sort of scanned the 500 keys, 400 scissors, 200 lighters, 50 life sized crucifixes, etc. Each floor had a docent or two who guided you in the direction the exhibit should be viewed, some more forcefully that others by which I was mildly confused. On the Jesus floor, a docent around my age followed and directed me around as though she though I was gonna tear down a Jesus for myself. As this was the first museum I´d been to I wasn´t sure if this was normal Spanish museum staff behaviour, so I didn´t say anything sassy. Besides my sass is best tasted in English.
I had a nice conversation in Spanish with a mom-aged docent on the ¨old bikes floor¨ about the bikes and Catalunya before heading out to wander the old town. I found a guitar store that had a bunch of new Tokai guitars and some Steve Vai Ibanez guitars with the handle cut out, so people know you´re a prick, complete with ¨do not play¨ signs on them. Put that in your Mom-like-docent´s skull-bong and smoke it.
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