A bit more than puppy love

It is fall in December and the wind is pushing in anger while the branches are fighting their fate and the leaves are swirling in confusion and the sun is ducking to hide from it all.

And then there are the clouds.

Each evening I ascend from Alfons X and politely say hello to them, should they choose to stick around until I come home. But today, I look up and see that they aren't their usual pale white. Today, the are aglow with a slight rose. Perhaps they don't know. Well, of course they don't know - they're clouds. But I can see them and how they have changed from down here. I see their flushed cheeks, despite their radiant crush slinking further into the distance still. But they don't care. They are fluffy, smitten clouds who are retaining their lover's warmth, no matter how fast he may try to run from them. They continue on, a little bit different than they were yesterday, and all the other days I have known them - using the fingers of each ray to keep an eternally tickled pink.

A writer's criteria.

To be lying on the sidewalk of Passeig de Gracia (the equivalent of Saks 5^th) in pajamas and ripped boots, with nothing but a plastic bag full of apple juice and a cigarette you don’t know how to smoke.

To go out with a pair of heels, and come home with one, the only clue of its whereabouts being sand in your purse.

To be broke for 3 out of the 4 months in a strange country, and to resort to begging for metro rides from sometimes merciful strangers who shoot you the “Stupid American” look.

To not shaving your legs for days and exposing them to the world, only to notice a cute guy staring at them in horror. Twice.

To use your intermediate knowledge of a language and attempt to conduct an entire visit to the dentist (which you were promised would be in English), in Spanish. Only to find out your wisdom tooth is growing in infected, and to therefore be on 3 drugs for 8 days - 2 days before you fly out of Barcelona. To fly into the new city, to have no choice but to then mix this medicine with other substances and to…

To somehow fall asleep when you are no more than 30 seconds away from your bus stop, and walk backwards to get home.

To turn the 3-second rule to the 20-second rule, or sometimes to the finders-keepers-I’m-eating-it-anyway rule.

To be groped by an old man when you are trying to read a book in the park, and to sprint up the mountain to get home and away, thanking yourself for whipping out your go-to outfit of sneakers and gym shorts that morning. To sticking true to yourself and your style.

To be lost in translation one night, and accidentally tell your host mother you are sexually aroused instead of regularly excited. And to subsequently never hear the end of it.

To faceplant on the daily trek you thought you had by now mastered, breaking your favorite ring and creating feminine-looking gashes in your legs and arms.

To try and pour the water out of the top of your yogurt, and end up dropping the whole lump in the trash. To realize that was your food for the next 6 hours.

To know that these happenings are beneficial – no – necessary, to your life abroad. For if each bruise came without a story, you would never be an interesting enough character for one.

Still my favorite poem.

One Art

BY ELIZABETH BISHOP

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Dwindling...

Each day I freak out a little more about leaving this place I've learned to call home. I was stressed about this feeling the minute I booked my ticket to Spain, and I (as I always do) tried to run away from it for as long as I could. But now, as the countdown hits the low 30's, I have to snarl at my departure with gritted teeth.

But. What lets me stop the fight I put up with my eyelids each night (not wanting to miss another minute of this city), is thinking back on all that I've seen. What's interesting though, is that I am more smitten by the spontaneity of each little day-to-day pleasure, than by the grandeur and touristy attractions.

I hadn't realized that until today. After what felt like a wasted Saturday followed by amplified antsy-ness of not having many more nights to waste, I was taken back to my first few weeks in Barcelona. I stumbled on a plaza I hadn't yet seen, talked to an old couple that made my heart as warm as the Starbucks holiday drink in my hand, made perfect time to sit in on a mass, somehow found a SICK break-dancing show, ran into a friend on the streets, and stuffed my face with arguably the best waffle I've ever had.

It's things like this, that they don't show you in the pamphlets and the guided tours and the websites, that make Spain what it is. An open-armed hidden gem with a funky air that's just a little bit lighter than what you breathe back home.

Please, don't make me cut the umbilical cord.

A weak (wo -)man's crime.

Guy and guy on guy. He was jamming, enjoying Barca's notorious nightlife, when things suddenly took a turn. He walked outside the club to find his friends, excited to up the evening's ante. Within the 10-minute door-to-door time span from beach to club, two seemingly friendly guys came up to teach the crew how to "salsa." One was loud, the other was smooth. Soon enough, but not realizing soon enough, his wallet was gone.

Girl and girl on girl. She tried enjoying some Starbucks when alleged petitioners waltzed in and begged for a signature. One screamed to look at the paper, the other put her paper down over the iPhone. Soon enough, her iPhone was (almost) gone. She noticed immediately, and caught up to them as they cowardly threw it to the ground and kept running. Upon her return, patrons were clapping as her adrenaline slowly retreated from her flushed face.

Guy on girl. She bid her friend farewell in the metro, and casually took the 5 steps onto the moving walkway, about to play a song on her iPod. As soon as she stopped moving, a man walked past her mumbling. She felt compelled to look behind her, immediately seeing another man's hand pull away from her backpack. Quickly checking, she notices the zipper has been opened. Whipping back around, she catches the first man exchanging glances with the one behind her. After a dirty and knowing look, a sigh of relief ensued when she sees that they didn't anticipate a zipper within a zipper. Relief replaced by repulsion when she looks back to see the two step off the walkway, only to get back on another walkway headed in the opposite direction. Chills. This was their cyclical sick career.

A stolen glance? Yes.
A stolen heart? Yes.

ROBBERY, no.

Put that much thought and creativity into the job hunt, and you just might be a sliver of a human being, instead of the disgusting animal you have made yourself into.

Barca, I love you. But if this is going to work, we're really going to have to work on the whole pickpocketing scene.

Update, long overdue.

Traveling for 3 weekends in a row really takes it out of you! (Read: abroad problems)

Valencia. I'd say it's my second favorite city in Spain to Barcelona. Just like my current hood, it has such a varied ambiance. There's a city center that is clean and regal, a charming old area filled with history, serene parks, and a symbolic bridge that crosses over to what might be the coolest looking futuristic town I've ever seen. You know a city is truly magnificent when, even through a day of rain, its beauty shines through. The most surprising part of the trip was the new bonding with old friends, that taught me things I never knew about myself, both good and bad. That's the best kind of knowledge though, isn't it? When it's imparted unintentionally, and catches you completely off guard. Weaving through our pasts, I had a sudden thought that I blurted out before even digesting it - a thousand "what ifs" will never add up to "what is." I couldn't tell you how I pulled that out of my butt (sorry, too many endocrine system references), but it's something I'd like to live by.

Portugal was so different than any of my trips thusfar. First of all, I've never felt such strong emotions towards a language. I didn't understand how people loved the way a language sounded, until I heard Portuguese. To me, it is literally the perfect combination between Spanish and French. What makes it even sexier is how it transforms from what's written on the page to what is spoken - like a beautiful mystery you have to decode.

We were able to navigate ourselves around Lagos within a day (which is saying a lot for my directionally-challenged self) but it was too stunning to get bored of. Climbing through the beach caves and marveling at the city's point was my favorite. I went from being amazed at manmade, totally funky buildings in Valencia to being reminded of the most skilled architect of all - Mother Nature. How these rocks formed with so many colors and such a striking appearance is beyond me. Knowing nothing about this area of science, I found myself jealous of those who were acquainted with such a marvelous process. In cases like this, Ross is right - Geology Rocks!

Lisbon made me feel comfortable. Like a livable, lovable city that hugged me as I walked around. I couldn't place my finger on how I was feeling or why, which was a new sensation for me, but I just let it happen. I realized one of things I will miss the most about these travels is not having a plan. Just spontaneously plopping myself into a place, getting lost, stumbling on something beautiful, and feeling it. No schedules, no goals, no explanations. For me, it's where being a tourist ends and being a resident (albeit a temporary resident), begins.

El sueño de la razón produce monstruos

"The price to be paid for this artistic genius, therefore, could be high indeed; in times of war, civic strife, or emotional distress, it could include madness. In the "Sleep of Reason," Goya announces that he is prepared to pay this price. Imagination, he claims, is wed to Nightmare; Science, he fears, resurrects Ignorance; Reason itself engenders Monsters."

I knew Spain would be the right place to take my first art class.

No flash needed

Entering Southern Spain was like plopping myself into a Carlos Santana soundtrack. Walking down a narrow street, letting lacey guitar notes flutter into my ears while I marveled at 4x6 paintings of subtle scenery, I got the chills and thought, "This is exactly how I pictured Spain to be."

Don't get me wrong - I love Barcelona as a place to live, and I'm not sure that I would choose it over the northeastern part of Spain. But there's something to be said for this southern charm that exists in Seville and Cordoba. A gentle mood that is set by amber-lit buildings and a potent passion for flamenco and music. They were smaller cities, with shorter sentences (no literally - these people chop off the ends of words), and simpler happiness. The glitz of Las Ramblas was nowhere to be found here - no need for flash, camera or otherwise. The place spoke for itself.

We visited the 3rd largest cathedral in the world in Seville, which was of course breathtaking. But even more fabulous was the mosque of Cordoba, whose centermost part had been destroyed and turned into a cathedral. A brief history lesson so you know why to oogle - Initially, the king (having never seen the mosque) was chillsauce about transforming it and told the artesans to do whatever they wanted. After seeing it some time after, however, he regretted his decision and admitted to wishing he had told them to keep the beautiful structure as was. Ironically though, after the Christian reconquest, all 300 mosques of Cordoba were destroyed, save this one. Why? Due to the inner cathedral. Ironically, the destruction of a part resulted in salvation of the whole. Not to mention a pretty kickass building.

At night, I felt my heart ooze out of my eyeballs as my pupils tried to keep up with impossibly quick movements of flamenco dancers. Embarrassingly unable to hide my toothy grin and hairy goosebumps, I patted myself on the back for not yelling with emotion at their complete precision and engrossment in the form. These people entered a different world. I can't even call it performing, it was living. They were seeing, breathing, and feeling every movement with utmost joy (despite dramatic game faces that held strong), and that sincerity was what moved me the most. Not just the dancers - the guitarist's love for his music was in purest form in the way that his neck craned with the slower beats, eyelids lowered to let his heart rightfully replace his sense of sight. His fingers created rhythmic percussion with melodic interludes that had a trippy effect on me. While my mind was being sent step-per-note higher to the sky, all other senses were set firmly to the ground, feeling the constant bas(s/e). Passion has always been a pursuit and a weakness of mine, and this room was bubbling with so much of it that, call me crazy, but by the end it engaged the only other sense that had not been specifically targeted. I could taste the sweetness of being in the presence of people, doing what the truly love to do.

After digesting the richness of Cordoba's flavor, we replenished our pallate in the tiniest of nooks, to dine in a Roman bath house (Read: Yes, I casually slipped that in there. No, I still can't believe we could do that). An extremely classy restaurant with killer food and prices that were a steal, we giddy-ly sauntered back to enjoy tinto de verano and ab-workout-worthy laughs around a table that was too small, and for that reason, just the right size.

The Alcazar palace on Sunday was just something else entirely. Walking around, I began to imagine all the characters from Devdas fitting in perfectly no matter where I was. I lost myself in the palace, floating along the innumerable pathways and entrances.

Sometimes, absolutely nothing can be happening, and somehow, something inside you will change. And not within one part of your body, but rather a force that takes control of your insides in an almost nurturing way. You don't know what's happening, or why, or how to stop it, but there's something safe about it that lets you lose yourself in it, however scary its enigmatic nature is. It's a raw, intuitive sensation that is always potent, and always unanticipated. That's what happened to me in this palace. I felt as though the palace were mine for the taking, but realized the intense power it had over me. It was the epitome of surreal, and neither words nor pictures will do it justice. However reluctant to leave, I'm glad we did.

Plaza Espanya. What? Oh, let me casually build the sickest government building with unbelievable mosaic-inspired architecture, and throw in an array of renditions of all the major cities in Spain, pop in two bridges and a moat. Right, and a gondola. I can't even describe how in awe I was, especially after being what can only be described as emotionally roofied by the palace. Imagining what it would be like to work in a place like that hurt my heart a little, and I wondered if maybe Disney is telling the truth. That maybe there are ways to make dreams come true. I mean, there must be some people already living it, right? As I pondered that, I spotted a slab of gray spotted marble on the floor. Yes, I pocketed it. And yes, I now have a piece of Plaza Espanya (and the government?) sitting on my desk. A friendly, and heavy (metaphorically and literally), reminder of a potential dream.

We moseyed to the park, and stumbled upon more beautiful scenery, the most entertaining of which was a pond with 2 ducks insisting on diving ass-up into the shallow water as 5 toddlers squealed and jumped with joy. It was almost as if their laughter fueled the odd performance of the animals. I took a liking to one of these tots in particular, whose name was Carlos. He was a troublemaker, constantly edging closer to the strange substance allowing these ducks to float about, despite his mother's shouts. He inched, and he smirked, like he knew it was dangerous, but something in him couldn't be held back. The ducks were taunting him as they began to swim away. A nearby tree branch slowly dipped its finger-ly leaves into the water, calmly and carefully tracing the dusty top of his promised land as it made ripples in its path towards him. Carlos looked confused and concerned. I waited. Finally, he ran along the perimeter of the pond, away from the tree. And although he couldn't quite figure out how to get to the ducks, he was on the right track.

"We must give our children roots, so they never forget where they're from. And wings, so they have the ability to grow as individuals, even if they are far away from us." -Raj Patel

Quick shout-out to my parents, without whom none of these surreal experiences would be remotely possible. Though I've always loved you guys, distance continues to make the heart fonder, and I realize how much effort and time you have put into making my life a great one. From the picturesque lunches alongside the beach, to the ability to converse with a brown store vendor, you have both given me more than you even know. I love you unconditionally. Thank you.

"And my parents, they cared so heavily that sometimes I worried that in comparison, no one else would ever seem like they did."

Spontaneity does the body good

A day trip to the Dali Museum in Figueres turned into more than I'd thought it would be. Missing the bus resulted in a long wait at the train station with a book that had a cover to spark conversation with a stranger. Who, mind you, just happened to have been on a strikingly similar path that I'm on right now, but with an entirely different future. A half-Indian, previous philosophy major with a year's experience working for an attorney. Realizing the job was not the right fit, he ended up pursuing music in Seville for 2-3 years, after which deciding that bills needed to paid. Became a psychotherapist with 3 day weeks, 4 day weekends, living in Spain. He admits himself that he never thought he could build a life like this - a dream you'd never think could be realized. Needless to say I am getting some meditation lessons out of this, in exchange for some Indian Dance.

I arrive at the museum an hour late, grinning the entire 15 minute zig-zag walk over. Running around the nooks and crannies of Dali's masterpiece, I finally find my group (phoneless and moneyless, mind you) and revel in his works. The versality and ballsy-ness of his style got to me. Hands down the best museum I've been to thusfar. Granted, I know no more about art than the infant growing in my sister's womb (woop woop!), but this, I knew I liked. A lot. He took risks and didn't run - he sprinted with them. And most importantly? He didn't give a rat's butt what people thought of him. Rest in peace, you genius. It worked.

Later that day, the FCB game. Utterly amazing. The energy in the place was electric, and I could feel the blood of the fans and the sprinting players pumping through me somehow. I am not a sports person by any definition, but I've never felt so into a game. I guess that's part of the reason people watch - to feel like you're a part of something bigger, with the same end goal (or should I say GOL!!) in sight. Until of course the 5 year old in front of you shushes you for being an obnoxious American. Oops?

Impromptu day trip to Tarragona on Sunday was beautiful. I find it strange that I take absolutely no interest in learning about history or language until it's slapped down in front of my face. As soon as I laid my eyes on the ruins, I wanted to know when they were built, why in that specific location, what each compartment was. The same goes for Spanish, and even Gujarati and English. I want to learn more each day, despite the fact that I would have rather watched grass grow than sit through Spanish class in high school. It could be the country and the endless good weather, or it could be finally getting on a normal sleep cycle, but it's probably a combination.

I finished off the weekend with a great conversation over dinner with our senora. We talked about remembering how grateful we are to have these opportunities to travel, and to see so much of the world at so young. Our families, our health, our buena suerte. How she loves having these two crazy girls in her house, and sometimes just knowing we're there makes her feel happy.

From now on, weekends will be like this. Jam-packed and documented, so I won't forget the smaller details that make the bigger picture.

of Dance, of Death, of Av

I was out all night and felt more joy than I had in a while. The next day, wondering why, I suddenly realized it’s because I hadn’t danced so much in a week and a half. It wasn’t the club, and it wasn’t the company. It was literally the music and the movement that set fire to my soul.

To go cold turkey on anything inevitably produces the shakes. You know, randomly getting that pang to move gracefully again, or feeling the urge to put on kicks and smang it. But for something to have such a grand effect on you, that it can literally lift you up to a high like that, is terrifyingly powerful.

The terrifying part only occurred to me after reading about a (fictional) mother’s pain years after she stopped dancing. She kept a blue trunk with her unused costumes, accompanied by ornate jewelry, down to the last bell that embellished her ankle. She would occasionally slip into this secret portal to her past, smiling in the most upset of ways as the memories filled her head with a rhythmic tease.

It hit me – one day, that will be me. Not necessarily the whole mom ordeal, but one day, I will have to stop dancing. Realistically, and indefinitely – it will stop. It may be after next year, or if I’m lucky, after a couple more. Regardless, this outlet of passion that has become more a part of me than I had even realized will one day be tucked away in a treasure chest, only to be encountered when strolling down memory lane. How the hell am I ever going to cope with that?! That, and these:

The i-suddenly-need-to-pee sensation you get just before going on stage.

The reluctant performance at a function that is worth the pain after seeing how happy the entire family is to watch you dance.

The intangible euphoria that takes control of your body when you hear a "that's ma song!!" song on the dance floor. 

The feeling of finally going through an 8-count right.

The goosebumps that follow watching choreography come to life.

The comedic adventures of watching awkward performance videos from awkward years.

The instant nostalgia that couples hearing any song you’ve ever performed to.

How. How am I going to give all of that up? Something that legitimately has kept me alive, has an impending death. And I know I shouldn’t mourn just yet, but it’s hard to know the end is approaching, one catch-step faster than I’d like.

Where optimism meets slight cynism

Something worth reading

Tradition or Progression?

I took a very long walk today, and ended up sitting on a bench gazing at the Arc De Triumf, which is one of my favorite (albeit stereotypically favorite) structures in Barca. A white woman in a hijab caught my eye and got me wondering about culture, and due to the playground she was seated near - kids.

I understand the desire for parents of a certain race to have their children marry into that same race. Really, I get it. The ease of families meshing seamlessly due to cultural similarities, the instant comfort and connection you feel when encountered by one of your "kind." All that jazz. It makes sense to me.

I also understand the argument that if a child is born to a set of parents from different ethnicities, one of the cultures will suffer some degree of deterioration when passed on. Marriage means compromise, which means instilling some of your traditions in the kid, but also being cognizant of the fact that your other half gets a say too. Obviously, the child will be exposed to both, but not all, and therefore won't have 100% of each one.

What I'm not sure I quite understand, is if this is truly a bad thing.

On immediate reaction, I think - of course! That would suck! Unlike at home, where it's almost expected of an Indian girl, people here are amazed that I can speak Gujarati and understand a good amount of Hindi. Tack on the 2 types of Indian Classical Dance that I've learned and they lose it. Suppose I couldn't have all of that though. That, plus the myriad of other virtues my culture has bestowed upon me. If I could only choose half, which half would I choose? Is there a way to really know which parts of tradition are worth saving, and which aren't as important? And if there is a way of knowing, who decides - parent or child?

Then, upon further examination, I wonder if maybe the assimilation is actually a good thing. What if you really can take the best of both worlds, and create a superhero of a kid that has multiple flavors at his/her disposal? It seems that this Cultural Version of survival of the fittest could turn into something pretty evolutionary. Of course things aren't always as they seem, but I'm not sure that a fear of losing antiquity should be a reason for us to write this possibility off, as risky as it may be. After all, where is the line between being well versed in multiple areas, and being spread too thin?

I am completely aware that this is just a bunch of questions, but I'm hoping with time and observation (or lack thereof), I'll reach some kind of answer.

For a day with only one morning class, it was pretty frickin mentally taxing.

PS - The only thing related to Barcelona in this post was the setting. Woops.

My Angel, Angels

Tidbits of things I’ve learned from my host mom:

-Mixed ethnicities are subjectively more beautiful, and genetically more advanced than homogenous races. Because evolution normally fixes problems with time, a combination of solutions results in complete prevention of certain issues that need not occur in order to be solved. (Science that I can actually keep up with, and that piques my interest? Thanks, PhD-certified madre!). Russell Peters was right – soon the world will be beige.

-On April 3rd, Catalans celebrate the enhanced equivalent of Valentine’s Day, Dia de San Jordi. On this day, the city is filled with roses and books. Authors come for signings, stores give discounts on novels and gift roses to customers, and everyone walks around giving or receiving flowers. The entire city is out and about, meeting up with loved ones and showing them with smiles and flowers that they are an important part of their lives. Unlike the American counterpart, you don't need a significant other to partake, or feel included. 

-Not only is it very normal for people to marry after age 30, but it’s also very normal that a couple has a child, with only a possible intention of later getting married. "Out of wedlock" doesn't exist with a negative connotation here, because on this side of the sea, it's the norm. Being single – male or female – is not anything to be bashful of, which depicts the importance Catalans place on independence and a life well lived, by whichever means suits the person. Despite the inferiority of women that Angels has suffered firsthand in the workplace, at the very least, las chicas are able to remain Dignified Derulos by flying solo.

-People are beautiful: somos iguales. When you look at a person, you don’t look at anything outside of the fact that they are another human being, and you love them for that. Stop trying to find love, and stop trying to classify – both will do equal harm, as both contain a dangerous motives. Concentrate on (and only on) knowing someone’s inner, despite all other identifying factors. After all – is there any other label as important as the one you yourself give?

-Give back, give back, give back. If you’re retired, you have time. Use that luxury to give others the necessities. Make connections with people who are in the same quagmire you once found yourself in, don't you wish someone had lent you a hand back then? Remember just how lucky you are before you complain. Of course if you're suffering, you cry. You sob the whole chunk out and don't be a closed off weirdo, but then you move on. Because if you don't, everyone else will move on without you.

It's almost as if CIEE knew I eat this philosophical talk up like candy. Kudos, organizers - I couldn't have asked for a better suited woman.

Inception

So. I finally understand the need some people feel to create a travel blog. Upon being asked, "HOW IS BARCELONA?!?!" I immediately feel excited, but frustrated. Because how on Earth are you supposed to sum up so many different facets of one city, in one sentence? You can't. Well, maybe you can - but I can't. Which is why I will attempt to give both anyone who reads this, and myself, as accurate a picture as I can paint of this absolutely breathtaking city, through this blog.

That being said, I am starting this a month into my travels, so I'm going to skip the part where I describe how infatuated I am with every nook and cranny of every street and valley. The juxtaposition of modernity and history, the open-armed friendly locals, the beautiful view I greet in the morning and say farewell to at night. I have to skip over all of that, but hopefully based on my subsequent stories and thoughts, you'll be able to gather just what type of place this is.

Don't get me wrong - this medium will contain both the good and the bad, but hopefully I'll encounter more positive things that will inspire me to write than negative ones. This may just end up being something that only I keep up with so that I can remember every emotion I was feeling during my time here. Call me Narcissus, but I am completely satisfied with that. If you are reading this, thanks! I'll try to make it worthwhile. If it's not, sorry? Slash stop reading? Anyway it's awkward to write as if you have an audience, so I'll stop now. Here's to BarceLOCA, and enjoying the crazy ride.