The Facebook Skit

I won't implicate anyone here, but you know who you are - and you've come close...

I think too much

I had my palm read today. It was in Spanish, but I understood every word. Here's why:

I am complicated. I think about things a lot. I am very sentimental. I don't fall in love easily. I'm not very romantic. I am always thinking. I need to take care because I am going to have some bad luck.

On a brighter note, I am very intelligent!

In heaven the cooks are French

I read something funny today:

In heaven the cooks are French, the police are British, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian and everything is organised by the Swiss; in hell the cooks are British, the police are German, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss and everything is organised by the Italians.

Dia del Libro

"It's a day of thoughts and feelings and love," Meri explains as we walk through the crowded streets of Barrio Gotica on St Jordi's Day - or Dia del Libro. It's a fabulous day. A day for lovers, a day for friends, a day for literature, a day for Cataluña. And Catalans were out in hordes to celebrate today. There's a gene that ensures they know how to celebrate such festivals, and this festival is one of the best. It's a day that morphs the legend of St George with literary history. Did you know that both Cervantes and Shakespeare died on 23 April? And that in the Catalan legend of St Jordi, out of the slain dragon's blood grew a rose bush? That St George picked one of those roses for the princess he had saved?

On St Jordi's Day, men buy their princesses a rose and women buy their heroes a book. (It's also perfectly acceptable to buy your boyfriend/husband a book, of course.) It's the Catalan answer to St Valentine's Day. But a day with a meaning, and soul. And of course, the princesses get books too these days, thankfully, because in my opinion, there is no better gift than a good book. But it's not only about gifts, it's about sharing your thoughts and feelings with the people you care about. Lovers write poetry and send letters (or emails). It's a day for friends and family as well as lovers. I bought the loves of my life (Harry and Angus) a book each and my flatmate Ivan bought me a rose. I got a signed copy of Anonimos by writer and poet Eduardo Mazo. It's a collection of his philosophical quips that have made him famous along La Rambla. His message reads: 'A Gabriele, con alegria y libertad!' (With happiness and freedom!)

And that's just how I felt today, happy and free.

There were booksellers and rose vendors galore. Book stalls were set up in every plaza, roses were sold on every street corner. The city was packed. Authors from all over the country were out to sign books, and bread made to look like the Catalan flag was the order of the day. At one stall, if you stood at a lecturn and read a passage from Don Quixote to the crowd, you got a free copy. And so the crowd heard all day about the wonderful adventures of that most famous knight errant. Having just started part two myself, I was captivated by this stall, although my understanding of the Spanish was hazy at best.

I recently read a couple of lines from the poem 'Leisure' by Welsh poet W.H. Davies:
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Today I felt like I took the time to stand and stare. And it felt good. In a way I guess that's what I've been doing these past months, but it takes a day like today to make me thankful for having done so. I'll end with an attempt to translate the prologue of my new book:
"Habia una vez una historia esperando suceder."
Once upon a time a story was waiting to happen.

Ouch

I went bike riding yesterday and today I am feeling the pain. It's an effort to sit down and post this entry, but apparently you get used to it, so I am going to stick with the bike plans. I haven't bought my bike yet. A few things are getting in my way, such as money and getting it from Barcelona to London. I know I can take it on the plane, but who will carry it to and from the airport for me? Any takers? So while I work out the logisitics of buying a bike in Spain, we hired bikes. It was such a beautiful day and we rode down to the beach and along the port. I can't wait to have my own to soak up all this sunshine riding around this glorious city! Only I think next time, I'll ride in smaller doses, you know, build up a resistance.

Heels but no dress

Just in case you were on the edge of your seat waiting to hear what my decision on Saturday night's outfit was, it was this: I wore the shoes but not the dress. Meri said I looked like a guiri, which is a rather uncomplimentary term for foreigners. The Spanish aren't known for being politically correct. Being an Amazonian (in Spanish terms) redhead, I pretty much stand out as a guiri anyway, so I don't know how the dress would have made a difference, but it was a bit chilly, and I started thinking about Northerners in their mini-skirts in January and all Brits in their best summer gear as soon as the temperature reaches 18 degrees, and so I took her advice. I wore jeans. (And I wasn't even the tallest person in the bar, thanks to the Englishman responsible for Wednesday night's cava-induced amnesia. Great that the English are good for something other than losing at cricket - being taller than me in a Spanish bar!)

To wear high heels or not to: the hard decisions of a bakcpacker who is no longer a backpacker

Yes, that is what I am doing. Sitting at home trying to decide what to wear tonight. I am feeling quite in the mood to get "dressed up". I even went to the mercado and bought nail polish and painted my toenails for the first time since 10 March. Wow, huh? I feel like I should mark the occasion by wearing the pair of high heels I packed and traipsed all over the countryside and never wore. Of course wearing high heels would put me about a metre above Meri and ensure I was considerably taller than most of the Spanish men in the Champaneria we're going to. But then, I am taller than them in flatties too so what's the difference? Never stopped Nicole.

Aside: Yes, I did say 'champaneria', and yes, it's heaven on earth. Who wants to open a champaneria with me back in Old London town? I'd be drunk all night and life would be wonderful. Of course, I did have a run-in with the cava earlier this week when a few hazy things happened that I can't quite remember, and I didn't think a life of perpetual champagne-drunkeness would be a perfect existence the following day as I fought my hangover trying to speak Spanish in class, but then - what the hell - I had fun!

Anyway, back to me and my shoes. I think I have decided to take the plunge into glamour by wearing them. I have red toenails after all, and what are red toenials without gold stilletoes? But that brings me to another problem. When I packed my gold high heels I didn't pack anything that actually goes with gold high heels other than a couple of dresses. Shall I wear a dress too or is it all just OTT! Oh dear, decisions, decisions. I need counselling. Help!

What do you think? Is it too much?

Yes, I'm buying a bike

Now for those of you not on Facebook (why?) you may not know that my announcement to buy a bike has met with some ridicule. Some of these people are in no position to be throwing stones if you ask me, but you didn't, so I won't go on.

I went to the Cataluyna Bike Show today. Geneally speaking I find anything with 'Cataluyna' in the title quite annoying because it means everything will be in Catalan, which is not helpful for my ability to learn Spanish. But, today was fun! I got totally into it and now I'm really excited about it all. I am going to ride to class every day and Meri and I are even going to go riding in the Pyrenees for her birthday weekend. OK, apart from my test drive today, I haven't riden a bike in about five years, and that wasn't exactly the best experience, but it really wasn't my fault. Let me explain.

When Mum came to visit me when I lived in New York, we went to Martha's Vineyard for a couple of days. Mum had this great idea to hire bikes and ride around the island. Great! So we picked up our bikes, I grabbed my hat, and we set off. About half way in the 25 minute journey from Oak Bluffs to Edgartown, Mum demanded my hat.

"But you didn't want a hat because you just blow dried your hair this morning," I replied.
"Yes, but I didn't realise it was so hot and my head is getting sunburnt. Let's share," she smiled.

I didn't get it back.

After lunch Janet and I wanted to carry on riding, but Mum had decided she'd had enough and set off to find a taxi that would carry her bike so she could make it to the Oak Bluffs dress shop before it closed. She couldn't find a willing driver, unbeknown to Janet and I, who had a lovely time checking out Chappaquiddick (of Ted Kennedy fame) and rode back to town, sun on our face, wind in our hair, enjoying the lovely ride and me fantasising about buying a bike back in NYC. But Mum hadn't been seen at the bike hire shop. Nor at the dress shop. After about three hours we rock up to the police station freaking out and telling them that Mum has a heart condition and we need to send out a search party. They told us to go back to our hotel and wait calmly. But even they seemed a little worried and got on those walkie-talkie thingys quick smart, giving descriptions, including the shoes she was wearing (presumably they were also picturing her head down in a ditch with just her feet in view, sticking up by the roadside!).

A little while later Mum appeared (in my hat), stormed in, grabbed her wallet to pay for the taxi that eventually agreed to take her and her bike, and I won't repeat the exchange of words that then took place. It seems she'd eventually found a taxi but only after riding to the other side of the island (through the centre rather than along the coast, which is the way we went) and being helped by a 70-year-old fellow bike enthusiast. When Mum had calmed down, I asked her if she'd noticed, on her three-hour journey inland, that there was no longer ocean beside the path she was on. After all, we'd only riden from one coastal town to the next...along it! She replied that she'd "smelled a rat" after about half an hour, but by that time she was well and truly lost.

Needless to say, we didn't hire bikes again, and my fantasy about buying a bike died. Let's face it, I couldn't even afford the metro. I walked everywhere anyway so it's not like I needed the exercise.

Anyway, I don't think that experience need determine my next one. I was fine on the bike. I loved it. And I am pretty damn sure I'll love it again! All my other memories of riding bikes are great! I used to hoon around to Helen's place on my BMX. I was a BMX bandit Goddamnit and I will be again (not a BMX one though).

I'm slightly worried about riding in the mountains though, and on the roads, but how hard can it be? I'm sure it's just a case of getting used to it, and since Meri is also a novice, we can learn together! It's always fun when you're learning with someone. So watch this space for further news of my biking endeavours.

The picture is of the bike I want to buy, minus the basket I will put on it for convenience.

You've gotta love the Germans

Watch this.

http://media.theage.com.au/?rid=27170&sy=age&source=blogs.theage.com.au%2Flifestyle%2Fsamandthecity%2Farchives%2F2007%2F04%2Fsam_and_the_cit_12.html

I have nothing more to say.

Ten reasons to go to my Spanish lessons

1. So I can go to the free Mac workshops in Barcelona (obviously).
2. So when I get pulled over by undercover cops and accused of buying cocaine, I can defend myself.
3. So when I break a glass jar of asparagus in a deserted aisle in the supermercado I can actually tell someone what I've done and not just point, shrug my shoulders, say "perdona" a lot and skulk out of there.
4. So I don't have to rely on the pictures on the front of cleaning products to know what to buy.
5. So, after buying draino (thanks to good picture on bottle) I can read the instructions and not just guess that Bindi's advice to "pour some down the drain, wait for half an hour and rinse" is correct, and then have product turn to concrete and block the drain more than it already was. At least water could actually get down it before. (Are there lessons in how not to take Bindi's advice?)
5, part 2: So I don't have to type draino instructions one by one into a dodgy translation website in an effort to find some way of salvaging the concrete stuck in the drain because I am too scared to tell Meri what I've done on my third day in her house.
6. So I can understand if I'm being picked up - either in a club or on a street corner by a kid on a school excursion (surely not?). Believe me, it's not enough to understand "guapa" and the numbers. While speaking and understanding the numbers is very good for giving out your phone number, it provides little in the way of interesting conversation while actually on the phone.
7. So I can lie about my age (think I may have already mastered this one, mind you.)
8. So when my friend is being mugged I can morph into the devil and yell at the attackers in words they understand.
9. So I can understand all of the menu and not just "go for it" when ordering in a restaurant. (Not all good restaurants have English menus. In fact, the fewer tourists the better in most decent Barcelona eateries - they do their best to drive you out.)
10. So I buy chicken, and not turkey, when I mean to buy chicken at the supermercado.

Spanish dancing lessons

(Muchos gracias and muchos besitos to Nick for helping me figure out the audio track for your enjoyment.)

We're back!

Fully recovered from our illness, we were back in form on Saturday night, and didn't Barcelona know it! The evening started eventfully and we knew we were in for a good'un.

Having stopped on a corner to consult my map as to which direction we had to go in, a strange man stopped me to ask for directions. Since I am so good at the numbers I stood there busily counting out the streets he had to cross to get to his destination, when suddenly a police badge is shoved under my nose and then muchos shouting began. When Bindi and I stood there staring with looks resembling deaf mutes, they asked us if we were English. We said yes (it was easier) and we think they then accused us of buying cocaine from said strange man. Then I think, and I only think this because only every second word was coming out in English, they said we should be careful in Barcelona because we may think we're buying cocaine but bad men sell us heroin and (other things in Spanish) instead.

What?

Still standing stuck to the ground looking like deaf mutes we all of a sudden started shouting, "No, no. We're not buying cocaine, we're giving directions."

The undercover cops in Barcelona are not a friendly bunch. They were still yelling, demanding our passports.

Me: "I don't have it with me."
Bindi: "I don't have it with me."
UCC: "Show us your drivers' licence."
Me: "I don't have it with me."
UCC: "Give me your bag. What did you exchange with that man?"
Me: "Nothing."
UCC: "Give me your purse."
Me: "I don't have it with me." (My wallet does not fit in my new teensy, gorgeous little Marc Jacobs handbag (thanks Fran and Ross)).
Bindi: "Oh no, I forgot to bring my wallet. I have no wallet."
UCC: "What money were you giving him? What did you get from him. Give me your bag."
Bindi: "Oh no, we have to go home. I've got no money."
Me: "Here's my handbag, take it, there's no cocaine."
Me (to myself): "Sh!t, sh!t, sh!t! There's no cocaine, is there? Did he put it in? What was he doing while I was counting the streets?"
Bindi: "I don't have my purse."
UCC: Searching through our bags: "lots of things in Spanish".
Bindi: We have to go home. I don't have my purse."
UCC: Still more yelling in Spanish/English.

They let us go with lots of other warnings and advice that we didn't really understand. Meanwhile said strange man has done a runner and no one is yelling after him. Weird.

So, after we go home to get Bindi's wallet, we set off again on a different route, to meet Meri for dinner. And we had some yummy traditional Catalan food and no wait staff stole my plate before I'd finished eating. Muy bien!

But the biggest adventures of the night came in a club where we went to meet Meri's colleague and his mates. For the Sydney crew, this place was just like Minsky's. Why do posh boys look the same the world over? You can spot them a mile away. I tell you what, Ralph Lauren has a lot to answer for, and so do the schools that educate these boys - start instilling a little imagination please! Anyway for the crew not from Sydney, the crowd was a mix of middle-age desperadoes, posh boys with collars up and v-neck jumpers and girls trying to get lucky with the posh boys. It was ace!

We danced the night away to Spanish and Latin American music and even got a few lessons on how to do the moves. It was so funny I've made a movie of it, so look out here. I will post it as soon as I can fix the audio track.

(Nick - write back to me about the audio track please!)

NB: Can you guess which aforementioned type the man in the pic is?

Settling in sin food

We spent the whole 16-hour journey from Fes to Malaga salivating over what we would eat when we got back to Spain. We adored the tagine and cous cous - never have I tasted cous cous so light and fluffy - but since we had to eat it for every meal because people had scared us so much about bugs and only eating cooked food, we were looking forward to some salad. There was that time we slipped up and ordered a tomato salad. And our 16-course banquet in Fes also included many salads as well as the tagine and cous cous, so I don't know why we were so eargerly anticipating a salad. We were also seriously craving some vino and a cerveza and these cravings seemed to be affecting all the other cravings.

It was a beautiful day in Malaga. We had lunch (Russian salad) and a couple of cervezas. In the evening we got some vino tinto, queso and chorizo and had a little supper on the balcony overlooking a concert in the plaza. In the night time I vomitted everything I had eaten in the past week back up in the unisex communal toilets. Who knows what it was, but it wasn't good. (I suspect it was the out-of-date icecream we had in some dodgy caravan park bus stop but I can't seem to get any corroboration on this.)

Thankfully, we had chosen the pension we were staying at by the Lonely Planet's advice that it was "immaculately clean". We needed something clean after the mildew-infested Fes euphemism. There, I thought I was going to vomit because of the smell. It's hard to weigh up whether you brush your teeth and risk throwing up in the sink as you do so, thereby defeating the purpose of brushing your teeth, or just go without. In the evening I went without, but in the morning I just couldn't go any longer. Have you ever tried to brush your teeth without breathing? It's not an easy endeavour.

Anyway, back to Malaga: I used my very little Spanish to book us a room with a bathroom. The owner/receptionist/laundry person (I saw her ironing the sheets!) doesn't know one word of English. I know the numbers in Spanish and about three others: habitacion, por favor, bano. It got us a room with two beds, a shower and a basin. But no toilet. For once, praise be to God, the Lonely Planet was spot on. As I spent the night hugging that porcelain in the unisex communal toilets all I could think of was: "Thank you Lonely Planet. I forgive you for not printing the number of the Brigade Touristique. Thank you kind lady for keeping your place immaculately clean. I am sorry I am messing it all up."

It went all night long but stopped just in time for us to leave for the airport at 6am, which is about when it started for Bindi. We got to Barcelona and slept all day. Poor Meri. We'd been looking so forward to seeing each other. Whatever we had it didn't want to go away and so we spent our first week in Barcelona being quite sick, eating bland food and feeling pretty sorry for ourselves.

On Thursday, we finally felt well enough to go out for a menu del dia. We found a lovely little place on the beach with no English menu and took a punt on what we were ordering. It was fab. We enjoyed every mouthful. I was savouring the last taste of my main course, soaking it up in the fresh bread when an overly keen waiter came and efficiently swiped away my plate.

"Do you know how long it's been since I've enjoyed a meal?" I would have shouted if I wasn't so stunned! Then, Barcelona isn't known for its friendly service, is it? Welcome to Spain.

Calle Computer Geek 42

Translation: 42 Computer Geek Street. That's where I live now. These are my flatmates Meri (whom most of you know) and Ivan. The best thing about our Barcelona flat is the harmonious way we all go about staying up til all hours sitting at our computers. I feel so at home.

The best thing about it all is that now I have so much spare time I am discovering so many new, geeky things to do with my beloved Mac. I literally cannot wait to get back to London so I can go to the free workshops. They run them here too, but I figure my Spanish isn't good enough yet, especially since I missed my first lesson yestersday.

The worst thing about it is that I think I have become addicted to my computer. I missed my first class yesterday because I had to come home and finish the movie I was making about Saturday night (watch this space). OK, it was also pouring and I couldn't face going back out in the rain and I also had to go to Ikea with Meri to get some slats for my bed. But really, if I am honest, I probably would have gone back to the class if it weren't for the unfinished movie. I am definitely going to class today, if only to learn enough to be able to go to the free Mac workshops here so that I can actually finish my movie.

(I am having trouble with the audio track - any experts contact me please.)

Anyway, better go and get back to my movie-making.