When you live 30 seconds from the theater

On only one other occasion in my life have I gone to the theater alone, and it wasn't planned. This was last year, when Doc was showing Almodóvar every Wednesday, and I was meeting a guy that I had met at the UChicago Folk Festival. He never showed up. I went in anyway. The film ended up being not one of my favorites. I think that it was La Ley del deseo or something, and the irony of watching it after being stood up was just enough to turn me off.

Really, though, there's something quite therapeutic about going to the movies alone. There's no talking, no passing of chocolate between friends, no "What did you think?" after it's over. You are silent. You are absorbed. 

I opted to see Milk again, and for two hours, I could have been anywhere in the world; all clues to my surroundings disappeared, along with the strangers sitting around me, in the darkness of the theater, all eyes fixed on the screen, not even a hush emitting from the audience. We followed the film with a devotion that I've observed during silent prayer in church. The worst part about seeing a movie alone, though, is when the lights come on. You take your time putting on your coat because there's no one waiting for you. You skip the discussion of "What's next?" because who's going to go to a bar by herself? Still, I liked it, especially after three hours of sleep last night and the nightmare that was my medieval history final--8 essays that I put off all semester.  

In other news, my flatmate, Robert, might be one of my favorite people in the world. 

Feeling like I needed you

During my morning commute to Latinos Progresando in Chicago this summer, I was almost always accompanied by my little iPod mini, something that made taking two buses across town a lot more tolerable. I'm fond of the shuffle setting - there are always songs in my 4 GB portable collection of music that end up surprising me. On the #9 one morning, during the second leg of my journey, Goldfrapp's "A&E" came on. I had put it on my iPod but had never actually given it a listen. The somewhat corny introduction usually caused me to skip it. That morning, though, I let it play for the full duration of 3:18 minutes, and I thought that the way it complemented the cloudless blue sky and hot Chicago sun beaming through the bus windows was enchanting. 

It's kind of a sad song, really, and as I was listening to it while studying in the UAB library one day, looking out at the same blue sky from the second-floor window, now thousands of miles away from Chicago, I had to hold back tears. It's a song that not only reminds me of that summer in Pilsen, but of everything that I miss about home - not just Chicago, but Grand Rapids, too, and all of the places and people that helped raise me. It makes me miss my mom, someone who I was so close to as a child but with whom I've have had a more complicated and sometimes frustrating relationship in recent years. I see kids here being picked up by their parents from school, laughing and eating pa amb xocolata, and I realize that I'll never be in that place again. I remember when my mom used to pick me up after school and how sometimes we'd stop at Kava House to get a giant cookie. I remember how my dad came to my mom's house to take me to school at 7:05 AM every single weekday morning from the time that my parents got divorced until I graduated from high school (about 13 years), and how he would sometimes stop by Kava House beforehand to get me a coffee or spritzer. We usually didn't even talk during those ten minutes in the car. I was always too tired. At the time it all seemed very mundane and routine, but I've romanticized such experiences to an extent such that I can't help stumbling into the hole left by their absence. It's not as if I can't still get coffee with my parents, but that perfect and simple quality about our relationship has transformed into something more difficult to characterize, and I imagine that this process will only speed up as I grow into adulthood. 

I don't know what more to say about it, but I guess that I've always had these feelings, and being in Barcelona has only amplified them. It's ridiculous to be so melodramatic about everything. I suppose that music often has that effect. It brings you back to a memory so vivid and particular that a part of you would simply prefer not to leave.

It's 2:06 PM

 There's really no sense in reserving an entire Saturday for studying if I'm going to wake up at 12 PM and lay in bed until mid-afternoon, sipping bad instant coffee and listening to the NPR 24-hour program stream. Had I really made an effort, I could have gotten up at 9 and spent a relaxing couple of hours wandering the MACBA or CCCB before committing myself to the UB library. 

These days, though, I feel pretty stuck. A visiting professor asked me yesterday at our program dinner "what I did" in Barcelona, and I realized, to my shame, that the answer isn't so far from "absolutely nothing." Had it been "study," I wouldn't be scrambling to finish all of my mandatory reading for my history class. Had it been "museums," I wouldn't be completely unaware of everything that's going on at MNAC and other Bcn cultural staples. Had it been "volunteer," I wouldn't still be making excuses for not getting in touch with Amics de la Gent Gran.

I'm starting to feel a little bit like author David Sedaris in Paris. I see movies. I drink coffee. I walk around with an irritated look on my face, convinced that none of the passers-by understands how I feel, as if I'm somehow oppressed, worthy of being the protagonist of some sort of existentialist novel. Unfortunately, unlike Sedaris, I don't have any book deals, and I'm not old enough to resign myself to bitter creative nonfiction or the life of a chain-smoking expat. 

I'm going to take a shower. I'm going to buy groceries so that I don't have to keep eating PB&J. I'm going to finish my reading. Then, I'm going to plan a lovely Sunday at the museum. 

P.S. If you remember my first post about protests at the Autonomous University, here are some photos of how my colleagues have chosen to focus their efforts against the Bologna Process: click here. 

Would you like cash back?

I returned from Sweden today at about noon to an apartment with no groceries that I could claim as my own. Along with a lack of sustenance was the absence of usable cash in my wallet - only kroner remained. I went to the grocery store hoping to pay with my card and get a twenty as cash back. I needed to add money to my phone, and before I realized that nothing good was showing at Verdi I thought that I would take advantage of the Dia de l'espectador discount and catch a movie. (That Harvey Milk film arrives in just a few days.)

When the final bill came up, I handed over my card and asked the cashier if I could ask for cash. Her response seemed both puzzled and annoyed. 

"Like how?" 

"Um, like a 20 euro bill?" 

"Well, if you gave ME cash, I could give you change."

"No..."

The exchange continued for a few painful seconds. Faced with a long line and a look that said, "you're an idiot," I said never mind and walked away. 

The tradition of asking for cash back, prevalent in the United States, Sweden, and perhaps other countries, is one of my most cherished. It is a clever way to avoid ATM fees and to save oneself from not having cash at a crucial moment. I was dismayed when the cashier insinuated that I expected her to just GIVE me cash, purely out of the kindness of her heart, and realized that this was yet another moment that would add to the pile of evidence attesting to my complete insanity.

I wonder where the U.S. Consul General shops for groceries, and if he has ever asked for cash back. 

Huevos rotos

I had the most pleasant lunch today - patatas bravas, olives, scrambled eggs with potatoes (enough starch?), the best coffee I've tasted in awhile, and cinnamon ice cream with a dessert that I can only describe as french toast x 100, in terms of how delicious it was. I left the restaurant with the feeling that I get when I have Med brunch on a Sunday afternoon. Despite any work that I may have, that hour of respite makes me love the fact that I exist, and that even when I'm stressed or in the academic hole, I can still go out to breakfast with my Dad, or a friend, or whoever it may be. 

But now I'm searching for an apartment and attempting to navigate the harrowing process of choosing classes for next semester.

I'd like a big chocolate bar right about now.

Too many troubles

Perhaps that title (my favorite Beta Band song) isn't so apt for today, but I've come home feeling like I have an anvil sitting in the pit of my stomach (maybe it's the two cups of coffee and lack of lunch), and I'm torn between the separate urges to cry, to head to Plaça Catalunya to buy a sweater (retail therapy? always a good choice) and (perhaps the best option) to take a deep breath and repeat the sentence that has led me to accept whatever disappointments, large and small, I've encountered here: "la situació és així i prou." 

My interview with la Caixa de Catalunya was somewhat tainted with drama from the start. I went to the wrong address, entering an apartment building and asking the unassuming painters if they'd ever seen a woman named Olga. In the end, though, I arrived only a couple of minutes late and won at least the tolerance of the other girls by assuring that yes, I could indeed follow a session led in Catalan. For a few weeks now, I've wanted to do a program here called Viure i Conviure in which Caixa Catalunya places a student in the home of a 65+ adult. In return for a free room, you keep the person company, help with chores and agree to be home during the week. In considering my motivations for participating, I could only think back to my time with Celina and Teresa in Buenos Aires and how living with them was what truly defined my experience there. Since I'm leaving at the beginning of June, though, I probably won't be accepted, as participants are expected to stay until at least the end of June. I know that it isn't the end of the world, but during my interview, the program began to appeal to me more and more, and I started to imagine myself making dinner with an aged Barcelonan, talking about the city that she knew when she was younger and how different things are today. Living in a residence with wealthy Americans can't begin to compare to the experience of living and sharing a space with a person of a completely different culture and generation. I plan to write a very gushy email in Catalan to the woman who interviewed me and will just hope for a positive outcome. 

Today was memorable for various reasons, I suppose. As I was attempting to determine the location of the interview, a tourist from Israel came up to me and asked me if it would be worth seeing la Sagrada Família. After I offered to give him the names of some places here that I like, we ended up having a coffee and chatting for half an hour, and the whole time, I had to marvel at the propensity that humans have to connect even with complete strangers. If I hadn't had a map in my hand (something that I try to avoid), he never would have made the assumption that I, too, was a tourist and decided to approach me. There's something very nice about the thought that some sort of serendipity exists, even though the concept is probably just a product of our need to think that there's some kind of reason behind everyday coincidences. Who knows? Maybe we'll even have Thai food together tonight. 

In any case, after skipping lunch and then essentially bidding farewell to the housing program of my dreams (though I won't stop crossing my fingers), I think that it's time to make myself a bikini (ham + cheese + toast = GREAT). 

Procés de Bolonya

I've been debating starting a blog since I arrived in Spain (more appropriately, Catalunya), and evidently I've caved. I was good about keeping a travel diary in Buenos Aires, and it used to feel good to put the pencil to paper and talk about things that, in large part, probably wouldn't interest the public anyway. Today, however, sitting in my Organitzacions Internacionals class, I decided that there are some experiences that I never want to forget. When the students came into our class at the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona to talk about occupying the Political Science department (again), I couldn't help but think of the University of Chicago, and how if a large group of students walked into any building on campus with sleeping bags, posters, megaphones, and other staples of a grassroots rebellion, they would be shut down immediately. And yet today, scrambling to move from UNESCO to regionalism, our professor started lecturing at a mile a minute, just in case the occupiers kicked us out of her classroom. I'm still in favor of the Bologna process. 

I guess that a lot of my gripes with Barcelona are starting to lose steam, and I'm beginning to feel a lot more settled. In the 3 months that I've been here, though, I feel like I understand Catalan culture less and less. The experience of living here is akin to mastering a tongue-twister: it takes a lot of practice to get the hang of it, and most of the time you end up sounding kind of stupid. Still, riding the Ferrocarrils home from class, the Beta Band streaming out of my earbuds, it felt pretty good to be here. 

I picked up this free newspaper at the Autònoma, recognizing it because a guy I met here told me that he wrote for it. (He stopped answering my emails, and I in turn drifted further toward female chauvinism.) I read something in it that I thought was eerily fitting:

"Whether it's a rich, uptight businessperson on the prowl, or your newfound kinship with a tubercular street rat, we're all rubbing elbows. A friendship between a Joe and a Ratso might not be that likely anywhere, but in a city, our forced interactions make it more so. In learning how to share space, we are given a crash course in who we are, how to tolerate differences, and the infinite possibilities offered by the world." 

And that's Barcelona in a nutshell.