Street Party - Barcelona

It’s the time of year in Barcelona where you can find a clown on every corner and some kind of musician, acrobat or magic show literally everyday. La Mercè, a weeklong celebration commemorating Mare del Deu de la Mercè (Barcelona’s patron saint), is the weeklong street party of 1.6 million Catalonians who call it home and thousands of who come to visit.

The Plaça de Catalunya is one of the nerve centers of the city. The Mercè scene really comes alive in the evening and night, when the nocturnal Spanish festivities are in full swing. Be sure to watch your pockets and purses. The human traffic can be as bad as New York City rush hour but exhibitions are well worth it. Saturday’s shows consisted of Uruguayan cumbia bands, African drum ensembles and acrobatic theatre each taking place in a circle of white tents, each promoting some kind of charitable organization from Amnesty International to Catalonians with muscular dystrophy.

Saturday brought one of the most notable exhibitions of Catalonian culture, the castells, a human castle-building exhibition dating back to the eighteenth century. The feat traditionally happens only a few times a year and is a must-see for the Mercè tourist. It involves a troupe of trained civilians climbing on top each other’s shoulders and heads to form different structures. A set of burly men making up the base and children as young as 5 years old top off the structure which can get as high as nine people.

Stay for a bit longer in the city’s barrio gótico (Gothic Quarter) and you might just get sprayed by firework-spewing devils and dragons during the correfoc (fire dance) where “devils” draped in black and red capes armed with sparkler-spewing pitchforks and firecrackers parade the streets. These demons don’t fear the gawking tourist in their way and spray anything in their path. Long-sleeved shirts and protective glasses are advised. If you fear fire consider watching from a distance.

If your night’s not over yet consider heading to the picturesque Castell de Montjüic, a castle built in 1640 on a looming hill just above the port of Barcelona, one of the most important ports in the Mediterranean. The location, once used to hold prisoners of the Franco era, was the scene of big bands and carnival rides from morning till nearly midnight. If you need a break take in the scenic overlook of the city atop the castle walls.

Sunday’s celebration comes to a close with a bang above Barceloneta beach –literally. Nearly a half-hour’s worth of fireworks shoot off with the back drop of the Mediterranean Sea while tourists and locals gather to watch.

The Mercè celebration ends on Wednesday, when the Spanish observe a city-wide holiday so this party is far from over.

God Just Outside My Door

At any time of day God’s not too far away for me, especially considering the 600 year-old Gothic building sitting literally right outside my door. The Iglesia de Pi is a “small” Spanish cathedral built in 1398 in what used to be the center of Barcelona, the Gothic Quarter. The building is a somber, sacred place smack in the middle of the constant Barcelona tourist chaos. Stepping into the chapel is like stepping into another level of enlightenment. Like you’re stepping into a religious center of 14th century Spain.
Most used the cathedral to fill their travel albums with pictures of the antiquity of Barcelona, but a there were a few who used the church for what it was what it was intended. Faithful Spaniards, circled the altars, drew imaginary crosses over their bodies and mumbled prayers to each one of the saints as they lit candles to honor them. I’m not Catholic, but I felt the same homage they paid.
Outside was the incessant roar of touristy mobs and a beggar jingling change in a used Starbucks cup and chanting “hola” to everyone who passed. A few other of his beggar friends sat outside asking for alms in front of the church without shame.
Inside the silence was like warm honey save for the obnoxious cameras of tourists. The walls were lined with 12 altars for saints I’d never even heard of with 18 stained-glass windows with more colors than a rainbow.
The altars were locked behind iron bars making the idols look more unreachable than ever. Not just anybody could touch them, or even light a candle in their shrines. The saints appeared as glorified as God himself. Some with mini-golden temples and cherub posies with them. Many had their own aura of candles glowing red, green or blue.
There is an overwhelming sense of being overwhelmed when you’re in this place. Like seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time, or realizing just how minute we are in the scheme of life. It was like a constant feast for the eyes; a column here, a mosaic of stained glass there, the paganistic- looking altars of dead saints. The faint smell of burning wax circled the room like second-hand smoke.
For the first time since I’d been in Barça I felt absolute peace. Something that the saturation of my senses could not bring. Something that traveling miles to live in another world would never bring. A peace you only get when you step away from the tired quick-fix prescriptions for peace. Finally, I’d found it… and then I fell asleep on the pew where I was sitting.

Absorbing the Shock

Anyone who’s traveled internationally has experienced it. Feeling like you’re the only one that speaks your language wears your clothes or looks like you. Since my journey here spans across months, there are a few different stages I am prepared to handle. Scarcely into my first week of Barcelona life and I’m already able to arrange my thoughts as some form of culture shock or other and brace for what’s ahead.

Culture shock strikes people in many different ways and forms but there are four distinctive phases we all go through. The first stage, wonderlust, begins the moment you breathe in the air of your new country. Much like children with new toys, you want to spend every moment exploring every crevice and function of the place you are to call “home.” Throw in a heavy dose of jet lag and this makes for very exhausting first week, trust me. Guadi, tapas and Gothic churches had me salivating to see more of this amazing place called Spain. I was intrigued by the curious lisp of the Spanish and linguistic enchantment of Catalan, Barcelona’s official language and couldn’t blink an eye.

After exchanging my dollars for depressing amounts of Euros and using my garbled Español to make my way around town I foresaw another stage of culture shock looming on the horizon- frustration. Here’s the toughest part about being abroad I tell you. You begin to compare things as they were back home, which can make you depressed or even angry and leave you tallying the days until your return flight. It can be aggravating to get used to a culture that lives with nearly zero personal space. Everyday is an adjustment from hearing your neighbor’s toilet flush, to smelling their paella cooking and watching their underwear flop around on the clothesline – for some it can be a daunting process.

In time, or with a changing of worldviews, you can gradually accept this as your way of life. In the few month’s I’m abroad I know I will never refer to myself as a Spaniard, but I know that my accent will change, my eating and sleeping habits will accommodate the nocturnal Spanish life, passive European-paced lifestyle and scrumptious Mediterranean cooking.

I love it such that in the final stage of culture shock, returning home probably will come by surprise. In the absence of all I’ve come to accept as real-life I’ll suddenly back in the American rat-race of fast-food, diesel trucks and Wal-Marts, most of which probably won’t fill the absence of the love affair I’m forming with this country.

In the end, I know that to experience everything a culture has to offer one must learn to leave their cultural baggage at home. One must realize that just because something is different doesn’t mean it’s not normal; it’s just not normal for you. There’s no magic prescription to cure culture shock, but like any adventure it must be lived and appreciated for everything it brings, the laughs, the jeers and ultimately, new pathways of thought.

- Published in Texas State University Star 9/17/08

Sitges Beaches - empty the stresses and fill the senses

My travels today brought me to a beach in a small touristy beach town called Sitges, where old men wear Speedos and young women swim topless. Food peddlers and immigrants trying to make a euro off incessant tourism flock to the beaches like seagulls to stale bread.

Back home I know the last thing people want to see is more water, but here I am basking in the sun and listening to the lull of the Mediterranean while my fellow Houstonians retreat from fire-ant infested sewage.

Gay men gather on the shoreline like washed up starfish, but all is the better because there’s less of a reason to be worried about weird Europeans trying to be flirtatious.

My roommate has choosen to go topless (a feat I have yet the courage to attempt) and bounce around in the salty waves. The water is frigid at first and reminds me much of the spring-fed San Marcos river.

Strangely, here there are no seagulls so the only sounds are the singing of the ocean, the sing-song conversations of the Spaniards and the soft hawking of immigrants. The calm here is much what you’d find elsewhere in España – a relaxed, quiet space to empty your stresses and flood the senses.

My mind continues to revert back to our conversation with Anna last night. In case I haven’t explained (which I’m sure I haven’t yet), Anna is our host mom, a short, curly-haired, delicate artist of a woman who creates and sells lamp fixtures out of her store called Fingerprints. Her face is a crisscross of very gentle laugh lines surrounded by a bush of brownish gray poodle-like curls. Her eyes are the color of black coffee but light up with every smile, kiss and laugh. She has a smile like the sun, laughs with every breath and sees the beauty of everything in life. But back to the discussion. We conversed in Spanish for nearly three hours about the existence of God, evil and destiny. I didn’t agree with too much that was said, but continued to nod my head and grin to show that I understood.

Intermixed with the philosophy Anna exposed some of the innermost levels of her thinking. She mentioned much of an artists life is “sola,” always trying to be different. But that still made me think that in some way, everything is an art and life is nothing but a canvas.

The Tapa Mystery Explained (no it doesn't mean "lid")

So, for all of you Texicans who don’t know what a Spanish tapa is you don’t understand you are missing experiencing one of the greatest things about being Spanish/of Spanish decent.

Tapas are small but flavor-packed Spanish mini-meals usually eaten between main meals to power the Spaniard through the day and nocturnal lifestyle. Even just three of them can be enough to constitute a fourth meal. This is acceptable, since the Spanish are known for their mini-meal mania. Breakfast is a mini-meal, followed by fruit mini-meals and tapa sittings until lunch around 2 p.m. or dinner at 10 p.m.

Tapas come in as many shapes and sizes as their literal meaning – lids. All come with a tiny slice of baguette-style bread at the bottom of a tiny tower of food kept together by a tiny wooden stake. Included you’ll find anything from freshly-sliced tomatoes, chunks of swiss cheese, bacon, shrimp or even pineapple served cold and always fresh.

While they might be very nice to behold atop a counter or behind a display glass, on your plate the pretty little thing can very quickly become a mess. Without the wooden pick to hold it in place the food heap slips or squishes off the bread and waits for you to retrieve it with a finger or bread crust. But Tapas are much like Reeses, there’s no wrong way to eat them.

Airport Goodbyes

Saying goodbye to my parents was like stretching blood vessels out of my heart. I could feel the snap, pull and breakage of the life lines, of saying goodbye to the two people who have sustained and supported me for the past 21 years.

I left with an emotion as raw as a punctured vein, all the while knowing I was doing the right thing. But was I ready? No, not at all. But I will see them in three months.

Here I am, waiting; listening to the pitter-patter of carry-on luggage wheels as they carry tiny capsules of people’s lives into the bellies of aircraft that will carry them to all corners of the earth.

I saw a girl at the top of the escalators, just before the boarding gate with a face crinkled into a hundred tiny wrinkles. Tears flooded her face and soaked into the plush ears of a giant stuffed bear she clutched with a grip of death. In her left hand she pinched a checkered handkerchief used intermittently with the bear to wipe away snot and tears. I felt a throb in the middle of my chest that told me I was that exact little girl, just ten years older. I was that same little girl inside, standing at the top of the escalator wiping away sad, hot tears.

- Written Sept. 9, 2008 at IAH waiting to board BA194 for Barcelona Spain

Texican vs. Why Don't You Know Spanish?

When people ask I usually tell them I speak it. I pronounce my last name with strong "o's" and and flip of my tongue for the "r" but no matter how many novellas I can watch and understand or how many Juanes songs I know the words to, nothing can replace the fact that my speaking Spanish speaking ability is hugely defective.
I've spent the last few days pouring over Spanish textbooks, grammar books and dictionaries in a frantic effort to perfect a language that my grandparents speak, my parents speak and is often the code for telling secrets around non-speakers. Kitchen language is what I sometimes call it because it's the language that splurts out of our Texican mouths at almost any family dinner, birthday or holiday with lots of eating involved. Even though the language holds a dear place in my heart, unfortunately it only has a small place in my brain.
Growing up biculturally has distinct advantages, but growing up monolingual when typical Americans expect someone with my last name to speak Spanish can be a difficult burden. Hispanics who expect all Hispanics to speak Spanish, can often deliver the worst verbal blows to our cultural self-esteem. "Why don't you speak Spanish?" "Didn't your parents ever teach you?" "Aren't your parents from Mexico?" "You're not a real Mexican if you don't know Spanish." "You don't have an identity without a language."
To all of you Hispanic who have heard these arguments time and time again, I feel for your annoyance. I'm usually armed with any number of responses: first, no, my parents aren't from Mexico (in fact you'd have to go back three generations for any record of border crossing); secondly, my parents rarely speak to me in Spanish; and third I've tried to learn the language.
I think more so what those Hispanics fear is not your language ability, but your acculturation. They feel that if you're not with them, well then you must be against them trying to acculturate the entire Hispanic-American population with your limited Spanish proficiency and it's a shame that you are the way you are. What they fail to understand is that cultural identity takes on so many different shapes, sounds and colors, especially from a Tejano perspective. It's made up of a dense tapestry of shared experiences, history and location. Take a lot of Mexico, mix in some ranchero/cowboy, Indian and throw in a handful of Americanisms and the official Spanglish language and you've got Tejano culture - a sweet fusion of experiences.
While my Spanish impairments might hinder me from getting a job, I'm at no risk of an impaired identity. Would it be fair to say a mute person is less American because they can't speak? Where I do agree that language is a significant part of one's identity, I believe that one's knowledge of cultural traditions, history and shared experiences make up a greater part of that identity. When you don't have those, only then are you at risk of losing yourself.

Answering the Why Question

Most people are wondering if I'm ready. Most people question if I'll get homesick. But the looming question on everybody's minds is why? Why Spain and why for so long?
First off, I've dreamed of going to Spain since I first learned that I had Spanish blood in my ancestry. I used to write reports about Spain and even tried Spanish cooking when I was 10.
I have a very biased opinion that Spanish is God's language, but unfortunately for me, I grew up on a strange dialect of Tex-Mex Spanglish. So, I'm taking this trip abroad to immerse myself in a very natural second language.
Perhaps more than anything though I hope that this trip abroad will help me to learn more about myself. Studying abroad is as much a study of academics as it is of oneself. Even the smallest journey is like a crash course on learning how to react in different situations, in different languages in under different cultural constraints. There's something to be said about removing yourself from everything you've ever known to be familiar and landing splat into the unknown. After living in Washington D.C., traveling to New York, Mexico and New Zealand it's almost become like a addiction - like a frenzy to see, hear and taste even the tiniest corner of the globe. I've been bitten by the travel bug and the reactions are hard to shake.
I pity the person who's never had the desire to move past the smallest levels of familiarity to explore something unknown. I pity the person who's never so much as ventured into the pages of a travel magazine or wanted to expand their mind to anything beyond typical Americanisms. Our world is constantly shrinking becoming more and more connected. In seconds we can connect to India, London and Zaire all the same time using nothing but our fingertips. To have an edge in any job market you almost have to have familiarity with different worldviews.
I believe this experience is the opportunity of lifetime, the kind of adventure that everyone wishes they had when they look back on their college lives. I've got no kids, financial troubles or mortgages to pay. My family has long since delivered me into God's hands and let me make my decisions as the wind carries me. So my answer to the why question is that it's now, right now, because if not now, then who knows when?