Bryan in Barcelona - Home

A palo and a street corner encounter
- 6 Nov 2011
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The signals sounded, warning passengers of the closing seconds before the metro doors would shut and the train would leave the station at Plaça Espanya. Standing amongst a few strangers on the L3 Green Line, I slid my right hand into the pocket of my jeans and gripped my wallet tightly. It was the same pocket that had once been trespassed 6 months ago on my birthday weekend at the Arc de Triomf station. Four skin-headed Romanians had surrounded me when I was about to get on. The metro signals sounded and they shoved me into the train. Without even feeling it, I knew they had just swiped my wallet. I confronted one of them, asking where my wallet was, and he proceeded to play dumb to the situation and even played the racism card. Two taps on my shoulder interrupted our argument. I turned to answer the taps and found myself eye-level to the chest of a huge man who, with a smirk, pointed to the ground where my wallet was inconspicuously lying. I didn't even look in it. I knew all the cash I had in there was gone; all of my birthday money, in fact.

The metro signal is an auditory reminder to not let my guard down, as Barcelona has been dubbed the current pickpocket capital of the world. Since then, I have become very aware of my surroundings since I got mugged, often catching glimpses of pickpockets working the metro, and, on a few occasions, stopping thefts myself. This particular ride, however, felt different. There was no tension in the air, no signs of thieves lurking around unsuspecting bystanders. There was a calm and a stillness rarely experienced in this vibrant and loud city. The silence was but a breath. Just as I settled into the moment, clapping ensued. A rhythm was building. I peered down the train to find a guy in his mid-twenties sitting with full concentration beaming from his intense eyes as his hands vigorously yet precisely clapped "palmas," the backbone of a flamenco song that gave it its "compás" or time signature. A girl of roughly the same age sitting next to him, the "cante", released her voice with power and emotion, doing justice to the story her "palo" was telling as if it were her very own. What struck me most about this song was not the atmosphere in which it was performed or the fact that the other passengers on the metro seemed unfazed by the small spectacle, but that this pair was not performing for money nor were they professionals. This was part of their being and they performed that song when they did because they simply had a need to. It didn't matter that flamenco is from the southern region of Spain in Andalusia and not Catalonia. Most people absorb music when they need it, but they were diffusing it. As they finished their song, the metro doors opened, they stood up, and without even a pause to seek acknowledgement, they walked out and were gone.

~ ~ ~

There he was again, with his endearing swagger, making his way down Gran Via de les Corts Catalanes. He stands at around 5'10" (1.77m) tall at the bald crown of his head, his long, grey hair, which is pulled back in a ponytail just long enough to wrap around your first two fingers, speaks to his carefree way of being. The crows feet at the edges of his eyes bracket the classic, thick solid black rims of his glasses. His white beard is full and long enough to give it a good tug. He was wearing the same jeans he always wears accompanied by a belt that is not only used to keep them in place but to carry whatever it is that he secures in the small of his back, whether it be a handkerchief, a magazine, or a sack. This time it was a newspaper. He likes to have his hands free to point, wave, and greet those that he passes in the neighborhood, and his Chuck Taylors are always ready to handle the jump in his step. The first time I saw this man was a sunny afternoon on my way home from the grocery store. We were both crossing the street on either side of a street corner, headed right for each other. Once face to face and at the moment that I acknowledged him, he quickly hopped, crossed his legs, planted the balls of his feet, and spun and did a 360 degree turn. When he whipped back around, another hopped ensued, this time followed by an outward leg plant resembling the base of a jumping jack. The move caught me so off-guard that I was unable to follow the mini footwork storm that ensued. When he was done, he looked at me to see what I was going to do about it. I had nothing... all I could do was smile, speechless. I mustered up a "bien hecho" ("well-done") and then we exchanged "adéu"'s and we parted ways. I didn't know if I was going to cross paths with him again, even though I had caught a glimpse of him from afar at a later time. This time around I wanted to see if he was as energetic as he showed himself to be that sunny afternoon we met, and he was just the same, pollenating the neighborhood with positivity. I hope that we meet again, and when we do, I will challenge him to a dance-off that deep down I know he wanted.
Barcelona, I'm back
- 18 Oct 2011
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The hour had just struck 7am. I spooned out the last of my yogurt, savored it, and with the spoon depressed downward against my tongue, I peered out the window in anticipation of Barcelona's coastline welcoming me back. The sun had not yet decided to wake up the city yet, so, for the first time, I saw a skyline view of Barcelona in the dark. La Sagrada Familia emerged halfway between the coast and the hills, lit up like a beacon gracing my return. The cloudiness I felt from my sleepless overnight flight across 6 time zones morphed into excitement. This city that has changed me and has become a part of me is not done with me yet. I have 3 months left with her.
So, so much has happened since the last time I wrote to share my reflections and adventures about my moments here in Barcelona. It was really unfortunate to not have been able to keep up with telling the story of my life here, so to briefly seam together where I had last left off to this point in time, I will touch on some highlights since my 5th month to now, about a year and 4 months later:

In June of last year, I started my venture into the world of teaching. I began a University of Cambridge moderated CELTA course at International House to get certified to teach English. My teaching practice group was composed of 16 teachers-to-be: 5 English, 1 Irish, 1 Portuguese, 1 Brazilian, 1 Dutch, 1 Basque, 4 Americans (myself included), 1 Argentinian, and 1 Belgian. The students we taught were diverse, not only Catalan; they were from Argentina, Russia, Senegal, Japan, Peru, Brazil, and other areas of Spain, to name a few of the countries. Teaching well was and has been challenging but very rewarding and oftentimes very surprising. One of my students told me that the reason he wanted to learn English was so that he could understand the lyrics to Rolling Stones songs. How cool is that? Most awkward teaching moment: trying to communicate the meaning of the word "us."

From June to July of 2010, the Spanish national team were on their way to their first FIFA World Cup Final appearance. Even though many Catalans do not consider themselves Spanish or are actually anti-Spain, the excitement around the world's most popular sport, and being that 8 members of the Spanish squad were FC Barcelona players, kept all the TVs in the city tuned in to the matches. Spain's opponent in the final was The Netherlands, a team that is always competitive and consistently highly ranked but just hasn't been able to lift the cup. The final was momentous: 2 teams representing huge futból cultures, neither of which had won a world cup. For the occasion, the city held a game-watching event in Plaça Espanya where I, The Flemings, and 70,000 others watched Barcelona's own Andrés Iniesta score the goal in the 116th minute to give Spain their first World Cup title. The elation in the city was uncontainable. Partying ensued, all night, throughout the city. Absolutely unforgettable, and what a blessing to be here when it happened.

In September of last year, I began my Masters in Research in Business, Finance, and Insurance at the University of Barcelona. The first day was pretty awkward, as expected, first and foremost because my classmates didn't realize I was foreign. They just thought I was the guy that didn't talk. Everyone spoke Catalan, which I didn't really understand, so I just hung out with them trying not to seem utterly and completely strange. When they realized I was American, the Catalan dialogue changed to Spanish, with some English on occasion and I was in. Doing a masters in my second language was definitely a challenge, and if I told you that there weren't days where I left an hour and a half class completely clueless to what had just gone on, I'd be lying. Luckily, I met some incredible friends (particularly Dani and Adriana) who helped me through it. I seriously could not have done it without them. The professors were gracious when I had to give presentations in Spanish, and when I messed up and couldn't get the words out, at least it was entertaining for us all. Now I can talk about business theories in Spanish, but I can't tell you how to say kitchen sink. Ridiculous. Anyway, my final project was on the Management of Creativity in Creative Industries.

In January of this year, I made a trip with Sergi to the hospital upon seeing that my urine had a disturbing resemblance to Coca-Cola. I was not excited about that at all, but I was actually looking forward to seeing firsthand how a universal healthcare system worked. Because I had residency here in Barcelona, I had access to free healthcare. The 6mm kidney stone that I previously knew I had had doubled in size to 12mm, and I had no choice but to take action. After ultrasounds, x-rays, a CT scan, and 6 months later, it was decided that my only issue was the stone and that I was going to have to undergo lithotripsy to blast that rock so I could pass it in pieces. More than 30 pieces, to be exact. After the lithotripsy, I thought I was in the clear, but little did I know that after an hour I was going to experience the worst pain of my life. I had to rush to the ER to get sedatives for the pain. There wasn't space for me because the ER was full of people, so the doctors set me up in a chair in their office hooked me up to a drip, and it took 3 hours for the drugs to work and for me to calm down. I passed the time answering questions about Texas and flirting with the nurse. A week and a half of constant pain ensued, with Dirk by my side at the hospital and at home. Sergi's family were incredibly kind and thoughtful. They cooked and brought me food while I was at home making it through it. Man, no kidding, I hope I don't have to go through that again.

For the first half of 2011, Sergi and Susan were in Denmark while Sergi did an Erasmus exchange program in Aarhus. When it was time for them to come home, Dirk and I flew out to Holland to meet them on their way back. We roadtripped from Germany all the way to Barcelona, stopping in Stuttgart, Munich, Lake Constance, Frauenfeld, Zurich, Flims, Lake Como, Milan, Monaco, and Nice. The trip was incredible and there is no way to sum it all up in just a few words. Biggest realization: Italians drive like maniacs. Biggest confirmation: Monaco is a swanky as it seems. It's like being in a completely different world, a world only James Bond could live in.

Just before I came back to Austin this summer, my friend Dani who is from Pamplona invited me to come and stay at his house for a couple of days during San Fermines, the annual festival of the running of the bulls. No joke, the basque people party far, far harder than anything I've ever seen. San Fermines is 9 straight days of partying of which the first 24 hours is non-stop, literally. I had to tap-out at hour 19 because I couldn't hang anymore (so sorry Dani!). The following morning and each morning thereafter begins with a running of the bulls. No one in their right mind would run, so I didn't, but the action was amazing to watch. Truly a cultural experience.

Among this past year and a half, I've been blessed to have so many visitors. It was special to have both my sisters come as well as my brother-in-law Tate, the Flemings, Chris and Kelsey, Andy, Kelly, Elizabeth, Romina and Anu. Each visit was fun and unique, and I couldn't have been happier to have had you guys here.

So here we are...
We are now 7 in the apartment: Sergi, Susan, Dirk, Cecy, who lived with us before and is back, and Daniel and Ricardo, doctors from El Salvador. Oh, and we also have a little white Persian cat named Neu ("snow" in Catalan). With my attention now back on Barcelona, I hope to tell some of her stories to you once again.

"Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God’s handwriting." — Ralph Waldo Emerson
Week 18
- 12 Oct 2010
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I hadn't heard the song since I was 5 years old and on bended knee, wearing a blue vest over a short-sleeved, white button-down shirt and red bowtie, one arm tucked behind the small of my back and the other stretched upwards, holding her little hand in mine as I looked up at her. "I'll be down to get you in a taxi, honey. You better be ready 'bout half past eight. Now dearie, don't be late. I want to be there when the band starts playing." I nervously sang the lyrics of "Darktown Stutters' Ball," serenading Crystal, my little preschool crush in front of the parents at Happy Time Preschool. It probably was the first time I was exposed to jazz, and at the time I had no idea what it was or of its significance. The only important thing was that it was my excuse to make contact with the girl I always chased around the playground. Who would have thought that 24 years later I would hear the song again, this time filling the Sunday afternoon air in Plaça Virreina in Gracia. I was sipping my cortado and plucking a bite off of my chocolate, glazed croissant when the notes floated into the cafe and found my ears, stirring up a strange and unexpected nostalgia within me, and then a vision of that moment in my childhood flashed in my consciousness like a photograph. Quickly, I downed what was left of my coffee and carried my croissant with me out into the plaza to see what was happening. Plaça Virreina was host to the monthly Sunday Swing Dance, an event where hundreds of swing lovers from all over the city convene to dance in the sunshine to a dj spinning jazz songs which span decades. My friend Kerstin who is into the swing dance scene told me about the event, so I came out to see what it was all about. Dancers young and old, beginner and experienced, moved in pairs to the rhythm of the music. Bouncing, kicking, sliding, spinning, and shimmying, the dancers with their quick footwork made their Chuck Taylor All-Stars in shades of red, blue, turquoise, black and green look like colorful blurs whirling below them. More striking than their moves were the expressions on their faces. The joy shining from their eyes and smiles lit up the afternoon to rival the sunshine, and it was contagious. I never would have expected to see this here. To think how much swing could be loved by so many, generations later and in places far from its origins... it was really cool to think that this music and dance style which originated in the United States had connected to the souls of people brought up in such a different culture. Most of the time when I hear American music in restaurants, bars, and clubs here, I downplay its presence by reason of it being a mere tourist pleaser. But the more I experience moments like these I realize how great America's musical tradition is and how incredibly impactful music is on such a grand scale. These dancers weren't just enjoying the music and dance, they were identifying with it, like it represented something about them. It gave more expression to their moves, and watching them dance was like seeing a side of them that could only be seen in this way. After the dance had ended and the music faded, the crowd slowly dissipated but no doubt did the vibe last. I had a little more hop to my step on the way back home that afternoon.

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Week 17
- 8 Oct 2010
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One of these toes is not like the other...

40 x 20 meters (about 130 x 65 ft) are the limits that contain a hardwood futból sala pitch. Within it, 2 teams, each consisting of five players and a goalie, battle it out not just for the victory but for bragging rights. To win is great, but to win with style and finesse is greater. Like indoor soccer in America, futból sala is fast-paced, but unlike indoor soccer, without walls, skill, ball control and touch are far more necessary. On a futból sala pitch you are just as likely to hear the "ooh's" and "ahh's" of on-lookers right after a guy makes his opponent look silly as you are to hear cheers when goals are scored. For my team of guiris, it was all about winning and representing without being the ones looking silly. Hailing from Holland, England, Ireland, Wales, The United States, and with our honorary Catalan guiri, Sergi, we stepped up to our challenge: to take on the local Catalans. The odds were against us, not only in home field advantage, and dare I say skill, but also in numbers, as their team had twice as many subs on the bench as we did. No matter, we were here to show "Los Pitufos" (Spanish for "The Smurfs," a nickname referring to the stereotype of the Catalans for their lack of height) what we could do. We lined up, did a pathetic excuse of a warmup, and it was on. "Ticky-Tacka, Ticky-Tacka." The style of Barça's quick two-touch play, as it is referred to, was our aspiration of playing style. In this game, a touch more than 3 or 4 assured that the ball was taken from you. We sprinted all over the pitch, the sound of the rubber soles of our shoes squeaking at each cutback, trying to get open and give each other a pass to penetrate Los Pitufos' defense and score. But, we were getting worked, and we were sucking wind. Before we knew it, we were down 5-1. Frustration had fully set in, and we were going to have to stop them from having their way with us if we were going to have any chance at winning. One of their players came sprinting down the middle of the pitch on a counter attack and I was the last line of defense to stop him. A mis-touch and the ball gained enough speed to just get away from him, so I bit on it. I stepped up for the tackle and laid into the ball with my left foot just as he caught up with it, and in response our feet exploded back off the ball in the direction in which they came. It was a great 50-50 tackle, one of those ones where the sound of two feet colliding simultaneously produces a deep and hollow boom that fills and reverberates the air. I won the tackle, but my toe lost. My second toe was broken. The blood flowing through it felt like liquid fire. Had the circumstances been different, I probably would have went ahead and called it a day, but this was not the time for wussing out. Pride was on the line, and I was not coming out of the game. With newfound confidence, our team found a rhythm and the tables turned. 5-2, 5-3, 5-4, we climbed back. The Catalans responded, exchanging goals and flip-flopping the lead as the goal tally kept rising. With Dirk abruptly leaving the game early, we were at a definite disadvantage, but we weren't to be denied. We surged 4 goals ahead to make it 8-12 as an hour expired. Los Pitufos couldn't accept defeat, so they challenged us to play another 30 minutes, which we agreed to without hesitation. Drained and hanging on by the skin of the blisters we all had on our feet, we won 12-13, broken toe and all. It might not have been "Ticky-Tacka," but it felt like a bit of "boom shak-a-laka."

The anticipation had grown wild like the bamboo forests where it all began. LOST, the epic television show, was finally coming to an end. I arrived in Barcelona just before the 6th and final season of the series got underway thinking that I was going to be the only fanatic scheduling his time around it on a weekly basis as I had the last 6 years. I had no idea how I was going to be able to watch it week in and week out until I found out that someone else in my apartment needed to know what those numbers 4 8 15 16 23 42 meant. Sergi had already been searching for the solution before I came, unknowing that I would be just excited as him to know we could stream the show through a website the day after it aired in The States. Each Wednesday, we sat glued to the computer, keen to every last detail that was seen or heard as we stuffed our faces with galleta María after galleta María covered in nutella. We theorized and researched as the season went along, charting out all connections of information we could come up with, careless to how geeky we had become about it all. When the finale had finally arrived, the only accept way of watching it was by making it an event. The finale was being aired live on tv in Spain at the same time as it was in The States, meaning we were going to be watching it during the wee hours of the morning. We had two options: watch it at home, or at an official viewing party. Barcelona is home to the only LOST themed bar in the world called Bharma, and they were hosting a massive party for the finale. It was so hyped up that they had an online lottery system for the die-hard fans to win the right to buy tickets to the event, which of course Sergi and I signed-up for. Unfortunately, fate was not on our side as we didn't get tickets. On to Plan B: we stayed home and were comforted by spicy wings to get us through the night as we stayed up all night watching all the recap of the season leading up to the finale. We pulled the all-nighter without fail and enjoyed every second of it. Without getting into a ridiculous conversation about what it all meant, I'll just say that the ending was beautiful, poetic, and satisfying. I couldn't believe it was over. It was like ending a 6-year relationship. I wasn't ready to be done with the island.

Some things of interest:

1. The drinking age in Spain is 16 years old, as long as the alcohol being consumed is below 23% alcohol.

2. Most guys in Spain drink either cocktails or wine. Beer is considered a low-class drink.

3. Coitus Inturruptus - Spanish slang for "cock-block"
Ibiza Pics, Continued
- 27 Sep 2010
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Week 16
- 27 Sep 2010
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50€ is a beautiful thing. An unexpected email appeared in Susan's inbox as we were enjoying some customary post-dinner couch surfing. As soon as she opened it, her jaw dropped to the floor, and, naturally, we rushed to see what was going on. Me, Sergi, Susan, Dirk, and Jasmine all huddled around the Macbook with the blue glow of the screen illuminating our pearly-white grins at the sight of the glorious news. Vueling airlines was offering roundtrip tickets to several European destinations for 50€, while seats were still available, and on the list was Ibiza, one of the Baleric islands off the coast of Spain. We knew we didn't have a moment to lose. We all looked at each other and with complete disregard for any notion of a potential conflict of responsibility, we asked each other, "Are you in??" All for one and one for all, we were not missing this chance. We called up Sergi's sister to make it 6 of us, and with a click of a button we were off for a 4 days, 4 nights trip to bask in the sun and be amongst the biggest club scene in the world.

Sergi scoured hotel websites to find a place for us to lay our heads at night (any sleeping during the day would obviously be done on the beach), and we were excited that the bargains didn´t end with the flight. Being that we were in the middle of low-season, we found a place that was a 5-minute walk to the beach with breakfast and dinner included for 30€ per person for all 4 nights. No you didn´t read that wrong. Not 30€ a night. 30€ TOTAL. I guess this is the only time that Spain's economic crisis could be a good thing.

The morning we arrived, I was surprised at how glassy and beautiful the deep blue water was and that I was having to admire it while wearing a hoodie. It never crossed my mind that Ibiza would be chilly in the morning, but it made for some good times as Dirk and I threw on our hoods and made the walk to the beach blasting LL Cool J´s "Mama Said Knock You Out" through our iPod. The crispness of the air made laying out in the sun seem like hanging out in a refrigerator with the light on, but it didn´t stop us from enjoying the beach, as we opted for some paddleball competition to keep warm. Beach day #2 was sunny, warm, and far better being that we decided to take a trip across the island to San Antonio to see what some people have said are the best beaches and views of the sunset in Ibiza. With flip-flops off, we made our way down the beach, passing some carvings of faces in some huge rocks that were sitting at the edge of the tide as we looked for the perfect spot to claim as our own. Just as the coastline started ascending towards a lighthouse, we spotted a small cove with a sandy beach nestled down below two walls of rock and stone, and we made our way down towards the water. With towels down and beers anchored in the sand at the water's edge as a makeshift cooler, we ventured out chest-deep into the sea. Little did we realize that we weren't the only ones who knew about this cove. A couple of women had gotten into the water in their wetsuits and leisurely disrobed for a swim, and at the moment, I didn't think anything of it as this was not abnormal in Europe. But, after making my way back to my towel, the scene quickly changed. People kept arriving, and something odd was happening. As soon as I realized what was going on, I unfortunately looked behind me to find a guy laid out on his back completely naked with his junk on display, with it looking like a glistening, squeezed balloon sculpture about to pop. Jolted, I snapped my head back towards the water, then looked over at the others to confirm that we had unknowingly infiltrated a nudist beach. Sergi asked a guy next to us if we should leave as to not disrespect everyone, and the man said that since it was off season, no one was going to take offense at us being there. The cove was such an amazing spot, we decided to stay and keep our eyes on each other and the sea.

A trip to Ibiza would not be complete without hitting up one of it's famous night clubs. We opted for Pacha, which had a 30€ cover, about half the price of what it usually is during peak season. With the cover and being that the drinks were 20€ a piece, there was no way we weren't going to make the most of our night! None of us were feeling the House DJ, so we went throwback 70's/80's/90's on it, and all of us got on the stage to dance until either the sun came up or we collapsed. We did it up right, and we beat the sun to it.

The surprise gem of Ibiza was D'alt Vila ("High Town"), which is a small town perched high up on a hill amongst a 14th century cathedral and 16th century castle. Walking up the steps to get there was taxing, and I can't imagine how people do that everyday being that there is no form of transportation up into the town by car or bus. The town was beautiful and tranquil and truly was set apart from the commotion of the city, which could be seen atop the hill with a 360 degree view. This was a special, still place. We walked the narrow cobblestone passages between the white walls of the houses to find front doors wide open, laundry hanging and drying on twine in the afternoon sunshine and breeze, and an occasional old unchained bike leaning up against the wall. There was absolute peace here. The place was so captivating that we wanted to come back to see it at night. The sky was clear and the moon bright when we returned. Restaurants lined the main avenue of the little town with their outdoor tables, and the laughter and conversation of the people filled the night. The whitest linens I had ever seen draped down from the tables topped with place settings that were impressively sophisticated and elegant and accompanied by large wine glasses filled with red wine. The flicker of candlelight illuminated everything and the food looked like art. Through it all, the scene managed to maintain a sense of humbleness. It was unforgettable and romantic with the kind of ambiance that you would wish to enjoy with the person that meant the most to you in the world. We continued on to take a look at the craft stores that were open. We passed an antique shop whose shopkeeper was tending to his book and his vintage bike made from a wooden frame and wicker seat. The most amazing shop we saw was the scarf shop. The store's internal space occupied part of the mountain, and the ceiling was formed by exposed stone supported with wooden beams. The hundreds of scarves in the store were all handmade and every single scarf was unique. None of us could afford a scarf, but we nonetheless appreciated the craftsmanship and style. Just like the scarves, D'alt Vila was one-of-a-kind.

Some things of interest:

1. When you get a fresh haircut in Barcelona, it's customary for people to slap you in the back of the head in recognition.

2. When you wear a fresh pair of new shoes in Barcelona, it's customary for people to stomp on your feet to dirty them up.

3. It's considered good luck to see a pile of dog poo in the street that has been stepped on, because at least you know it wasn't you who stepped in it.

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Week 15
- 3 Sep 2010
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"Doubt is a pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother." - Kahlil Gibran
If there is any reality in this, than the way that I'm feeling right now must be akin to being separated from my twin at birth. And I'm talking about my good twin. I came to Barcelona following a call I believe God put in my heart, but for exactly what, I wasn't sure. It's been a little over 3 months now and the picture that I am developing here has yet to come into focus. A strange sense of urgency is overtaking me as I am soaking in the unfamiliarity of it all and what I was doing. I felt purposeless. "You know that 3 months is such a short amount of time in terms of living somewhere" is what I kept telling myself in my head, but this rationale had checked out. I sat in my bedroom, staring at the faded, light green walls that I could feel swelling around me. I had to escape and be with God because my own thoughts were not good company. I didn't care where I was going. I just needed to go, call out, and listen for Him. Just before midnight, I stepped out into the Barcelona air and let my feet just take me, one foot after another. Before I knew it, I was walking through Raval in the middle of the night in what were probably some of the shadiest if not dangerous streets in Barcelona. In the moment I didn't care a single bit because it was just me and God, and I kept walking. When I reached Port Vell, I found a park bench to stop at and be still. As I sat in silence I thought deeply about how I was grasping for an explanation for my calling here, feeling a need to be connected to it for assurance in the midst of the gravity of the risk I had taken coming here. But now is not the time for me to understand. Rainer Maria Rilke said that we are to "live the questions," and in this, for sure, I needed to do so. A man once had a prophetic vision for me of a ship whose ropes that were binding it to land had loosened and it set sail, letting the wind take it. Maybe this vision was me coming to Barcelona. I accepted the notion that I didn't have to have it all figured out right now, and as I rested in this, I continued to pray and started my walk back home 3 hours from when I had begun. Then God had something to say to me. He told me that the journey was about choosing Him every day. He is on every street, He is behind every corner, He is in every face, and He is in every moment. He draws me nearer, but I have to choose to follow. What unfolds here and all of its possibilities teeter on my pursuit. So each day I will open my sail to the one who guides me. I will not fear, but trust.

"For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all." - 2 Corinthians 4:17
"My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life." - Psalm 119:50
Week 14
- 16 Aug 2010
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Deep crimson colored metal, rusted from the salty air, holds dirty panes of glass which damper the brilliance of the puffy white clouds passing behind them in the distance. My toes dug deeper into the sand where I stood as I looked up through them, wondering what was behind the mystery I was feeling from the sculpture they were a part of. The structure resembled a stack of shanties thrown on top of each other like moving boxes. The feeling of 'La Estrella Herida' (The Wounded Star) by Rebecca Horn is one of melancholy and beauty, and this structure, leaning out toward the Mediterranean Sea as if reaching out for something, tells a story of La Barceloneta, this place where I stand. It is rumored that 'La Estrella Herida' is a homage to the sailors and fishermen who used to inhabit the area before their neighborhood was displaced. Its four stacked cubes, remnants of sailors' abandoned homes, represent a lighthouse which sadly no longer needs to lead sailors home from the sea. On this beautiful and sunny day, the story told by these cubes of Barceloneta's past is but a whisper drowned out by all the activity going on down the beach. I follow the commotion towards the strip of beach that intersects Passeig de Joan de Borbó, the vein that leads the flood of people decked out in swimsuits, shades, and flip-flops from the metro out to the open sea. I post-up next to the closest chiringuito (beach bar) and let my senses paint my perception of the scene. Barceloneta is a beach that is more defined by the sounds that fill its atmosphere than the people basking on its sands. Traversing the crowd of sunbathers are an assortment of people out to offer you anything from fruit to drugs, and their soliciting becomes like a song. I close my eyes and catch the rhythm of the monotoned "Cola! Agua! Cerveza! Beer! Beer! Water! Coke!" A man chimes in... "Po-po-lay! Po-po-lay! Po-po-lay!" I open my eyes to see where this was coming from, curious of the meaning of this unknown word. The man behind the voice comes into view, and as he passes with a basket, I call out to him and ask what it means. He moves the basket towards me to reveal chopped up, dripping coconuts and says, "Its what 'coconut' is called in Urdu." I politely decline to buy some, and the man walks off a bit disappointed. Within seconds a woman approaches and offers me "Masaje? Masaje?" Not feeling like I want a 5 euro massage from a random woman, "No, gracias" was my response. Vendor after vendor passed, and it was like the voices were on repeat all afternoon. I quickly learned that if I didn't want to be bothered by this about every 5 minutes, I had to just ignore it. All afternoon, different people, same words. Luckily, a group of guys came out from the chiringuito with instruments in hand to break up the vendors dominance of the airwaves by injecting some live music into the air. Wielding flamenco guitars, percussion, an upright bass, and a saxophone, the band 'Made in Barcelona' set the groove and sang and danced as they strolled through the crowd and built up a following of dancers along the way. I stayed tuned in to this beach soundtrack all the way until it faded into the distance. Just as I shifted back into my own world, the sound of a triangle invaded it. It was Bambolino, a Barceloneta icon, and he came to entertain. Playing a triangle and singing, all the while balancing a pyramid of donuts stacked on a wooden plank on his head, Bambolino worked his audience, charming them in exchange for their donut purchase. If this wasn't enough to get your attention, all he had to do was a quick sprint or two without dropping a single donut in the sand. If all vendors sold like Bambolino, it would be a welcome interruption.

Finally, I experienced my first pickup game of soccer in Barcelona! A group of about 10 of us, give or take a few, got together for a 5-on-5 matchup at the top of the city. Soft astroturf made for a satisfying pitch for us to play on... a pitch butted up right next to Parc Güell! The field was closed to the public, but a hole in the fence fixed that situation. We slipped in, divvied up the teams, and got started on what was unknowingly going to be a four-hour day of fútbol. I hadn't done a lot of running in a long time, so I was a bit worried that I was going to quickly be gased, especially in the heat. I guess all the walking that I have been doing has put me in better shape than I thought, because I was able to hang all four hours. But, the blisters were wicked! Note to self: double-sock next time.

Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me to capture my beach day, but I did manage to find some old videos of both Bambolino doing his thing and jamming on his triangle with 'Made in Barcelona.'
Bambolino
Bambolino Dancing

Bambolino playing his triangle with 'Made in Barcelona'
Some things of interest:
1. When Andrés Iniesta scored the winning goal of the second leg of the Champions League against Chelsea last year, 9 months later the birth rate skyrocketed 25%. It would have done the same, if not risen, had Barcelona's second goal against Inter Milan, which was called back, had stood, putting Barca through to the Champions League final in the Bernabeu, the stadium of their bitter arch-rivals Real Madrid. To win the Champions League title in Real Madrid's stadium would have been an absolute fútbol fantasy for Barcelona.

2. In Spain it is considered very rude to yawn or stretch when in the company of others, like in a class or at someone's house. My Spanish teacher called someone out in class for yawning while she was teaching, and she was sitting in the back corner! Respect!

3. Sometimes the way you dress in an interview really does put you over the top. I got interviewed by a South African guy named Neil for a spot in the CELTA course at International House to get certified to teach English. I showed up in a button-down shirt and dress pants with a jacket. I guess I looked a little too professional, because he commented on my clothing and said, with a smile, that I must be serious about the course. After a short interview, I got a spot.
Week 13
- 12 Aug 2010
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It all began with a dragon, a princess, and a knight. Legend has it there once was a dragon who had a great hunger which could only be satisfied by eating virgin women. He terrorized village after village, until there were no virgins left except for just one, a princess. When the dragon arrived to her castle to feed, her people offered the dragon all the cows in the land in an attempt to spare her life. But, the dragon could not be bargained with, he would only have her. At the moment he swooped down towards the castle to eat the princess, a knight rode in, just in time. With a mighty slash of his sword, he decapitated the beast. A drop of blood dripped from the dragon's neck, and upon hitting the ground, a single red rose blossomed. And so began the legacy of St. George, the patron saint of Catalonia. The day of April 23rd, the traditionally accepted day of his death, was set apart in honor of the legend, and the holiday was named Día de Sant Jordi (Saint George's Day). Every year on Día de Sant Jordi, men give the women they love a single rose to show their affections and appreciation. Just one. To give more than one would be seen as arrogant, even desperate. The streets all over the city of Barcelona are filled with vendors selling roses of all colors, from the traditional red to multi-colored 'blaugrana' (the blue and deep red colors of Barcelona FC), all laced with ribbons with the red and yellow stripes of Catalonia. But what about the men? Is there no reward for their chivalry? Well, the 23rd of April just so happens to be the day that both Miguel de Cervantes, the author of Don Quixote, and William Shakespeare died. Tradition grew from the celebration of these literary heroes, and thus women return their affection for their men by giving them any book they please. Mixed in with the street stands full of roses are stands covered in books, both new and antique, in Catalan and in Spanish. My favorite street to walk through that captured the spirit of the day was Rambla de Catalunya (not to be confused with 'La Rambla'), where the sides of the streets, laced with trees, created a canopy which framed all the excitement. There were smiles on faces everywhere.

You would think that not having a lady to give a rose would exclude me from participating in Día de Sant Jordi, but, oh no, I wasn't about to miss out on a cultural experience! One more tradition of the holiday is a public reading of the entire book of Don Quixote. This was my chance to be a part of the action. On Avinguda del Portal L'Àngel, right in the middle of a huge shopping area, I stepped up to a podium with a copy of Don Quixote in front of me and a mic, and I proceeded to read an entire chapter. Yeah, that's right, an entire chapter of Don Quixote in front of tons of people. I had no idea what I sounded like out in the crowd, but it didn't matter. I was part of the day. After I made it through my chapter, the presenter of the reading asked me where I was from, proceeded to get the crowd to applaud for me, and then asked me this question: "Do you know the Texas police officer?" I stood there, in silence, with a blank expression and completely dumbstruck because I had no idea what in the world he was talking about. My mind raced through my experiences in Barcelona, searching for a clue to this mystery question, and then it hit me... he was talking about Chuck Norris. You see, 'Walker, Texas Ranger' is a very popular show that is always on television in Spain. I don't know why a guy perpetually doing roundhouse kicks in grape-smuggling wrangler jeans would be such an attraction, but it is. I didn't even know what to say. All I could do was laugh. It's a shame I didn't have my cowboy boots on that day. It would have been awesome.

Speaking of cowboy boots, on the way home from Rome the previous week, there was a Roman girl on my flight who was wearing a pair of cowboy boots with some colorful, bold designs on the shafts. I haven't seen anyone wearing cowboy boots in Europe, so they caught my attention, and I liked them. Naturally, I approached her and told her what I thought about her boots. She told me that she had gotten them in Columbia and a conversation about traveling and this and that ensued. We ended up riding together on the Aerobus from the airport into the center of town, and I found out that she had been living in Barcelona for 6 years and was coming back home from visiting her family. Apparently I missed out on a lot in Rome because I hadn't even heard of several of the places she asked whether I had visited, and I explored A LOT there in 6 days. Anyway, Chiara was her name and she was cool, so I got her number. I called her this week to see what she was up to and, to my surprise, she invited me to her friend's birthday party. Her friend, who was also from Rome, had just moved into his studio which he had set up in the Poble Sec neighborhood. He did some nice portrait photography of kids in Brazil, so I enjoyed combing through his work. The place was filled with Romans and Argentinians, all of whom, of course, I had never met. Just like with Chiara, everyone spoke in Spanish and there was some occasional Italian thrown around. I had to just put myself out there, but I was up for the challenge. Let me tell you, getting to know one person in your second language is far easier than getting to know a large group of people in your second language at a party. But, I hung in there, and it was fun, especially being that food was involved. The party revolved around the making of homemade ravioli, right down to the handmade pasta. Everyone got involved, conversing and drinking beer and wine while rolling out dough and filling ravioli trays with goat cheese and pear and prosciutto and homemade ricotta cheese. I salivated while waiting to taste the 3 sauces from scratch that were going to top this incredible gift I was about to eat. Everyone crowded around the makeshift island Chiara's friend had setup in his kitchen, and with plates spread all over it, heaps of ravioli were tossed onto them with sauces here and there, and everyone ate as it came. It was really cool to experience a meal like that, where everyone's hands were a part of it from start to finish. Not that I even needed to say it, but the ravioli was culinary booyah.

Some things of interest:

1. Only in Europe can you buy an oven pizza where the directions on how to prepare it are in all of the following languages: German, French, Dutch, English, Danish, Finnish, Norwegian, Swedish, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, and Russian.

2. People here do not make eye contact with each other for long. If you do, it's assumed that you want something from the other person.

3. Of the fast-food chains that exist here, most of them offer beer as a choice when you order a meal, although it's non-alcoholic.

4. Old women in Barcelona love to dye their hair bright colors and wear clothes that match the color. And when I say bright, I'm talking purple, blue, red, and pink. I guess age doesn't have to lead to being old-fashioned.

5. The government buildings in Barcelona are open to the public just a couple of times a year, one of those being Día de Sant Jordi. The walls are covered with murals from different artists depicting the history of Catalonia. It is amazing in there!
Week 12
- 8 Jun 2010
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When my Spanish teacher let us all know that she was going to be out of town for a conference, I found myself with 5 days off in a row. Not knowing when I was going to have this opportunity again, I decided to take advantage of the situation and take a look at flights to see if I could go on a spontaneous adventure. I narrowed my choices down to Marrakesh, Morocco and Rome, Italy. Being that I didn't know enough about Morocco and that I was 2 days out from hopefully flying to somewhere outside of Spain, I opted to leave Morocco for another time when I could do some planning. Rome it was. I managed to find a roundtrip ticket for direct flights of an hour and forty-five minutes between Barcelona and Rome for less than $200. After initially having some trouble finding a reasonably priced, centrally located place to stay, I came across a B&B in the area of Rome called Navona that looked great but was out of my price range. Not a problem when you have Sergi around, who I have now dubbed "The Catalan James Bond" for his uncanny ability to make things happen. We called up the B&B, and Sergi started negotiating in Italian. We named our price and asked the manager if she was willing to work with it or not. After all was said and done, it was a go and we had knocked $275 off the cost of the room over the duration of my stay.

As many of you knew, this trip happened to overlap my birthday. People thought that to willingly go on a trip alone on my birthday was a crazy idea, and I have to agree with them a bit. I'm pretty sure this was the first birthday I spent without someone to share it with, but it has never been my style to pass up an opportunity to experience something because I didn't have anyone to do it with me. I had never been to Italy before, and I was excited to make my Italian inauguration. The Eternal City seemed so epic to me, it had to be my first Italian destination. I spent 6 days exploring it, and I could have spent another 4 because there was so much to see. You can imagine how much history accumulates in a city that is about 2,670 years old! Before I left for Rome, I got an idea of the places I wanted to go, the things I wanted to see, and the general layout of the city, but I showed up without a map to see what I would come across while wandering the streets and finding my B&B. The streets of Rome are crazy, so, it took me over an hour to find my way to Navona from the Termini metro station. Not cool when you're rolling around a carry-on bag on cobblestone streets. After shaking off my tiredness with a nap, I ventured out into the streets once again. Something that I noticed right away about Rome was that there was some serious business going on. It seemed like around every secluded corner there was a man with a questionable agenda dressed in an expensive suit and sunglasses guarding someone or something, and I wasn't about to find out who or what it was. The ancient streets of the city were, in several areas, so small that two of my wingspans could cover their width. It's no wonder there were so many Smart cars everywhere. I loosely designated parts of my days to different areas of Rome, covering an area from Piazza del Popolo to the north, the Colosseum to the east, Trastevere to the south, and the Vatican to the west. At any point during peak hours of the day in the center of the city, I encountered hundreds of priests and nuns, a reminder that I was in the epicenter of the Roman Catholic church. For some reason, seeing them riding down the road on their bikes always amused me. Two staples were the basis of my daily supply of energy: pizza & gelato. The pizza was ri-di-cu-lously good and cheap. I found a place near my B&B where I could throw down 3 euros for a slice of thick-crust roasted tomato, mozzarella, green olive, and capers pizza that melted my face! I had heard about a place in Piazza Navona named Tre Scalini which supposedly was the birthplace of gelato, so I had to check it out. After trying theirs, without question I vowed to eat, at minimum, one gelato a day from there. I tried as many flavors as my wallet could handle, and spagniola and yogurt were my go-to flavors every time. However, the gelato of all gelatos was their famous Tartufo, which is a ball of rich chocolate ice cream imbedded with chunks of chocolate and a cherry in the middle. Worth every cent of the 5 euros it cost. My search for food each day was just as important as seeing the monuments. A daily farmer's market at Campo dè Fiori was a 5 minute walk from where I was staying, and a stroll through the market which was full of the freshest produce and herbs I had ever seen was accented with waffs of rosemary and lavender in the air. Small, quaint cafes were scattered all over the city, many serving as few as 4 tables. I could always count on the house wines to be amazing, so I'd order a 1/2 liter carafe to keep me company during my dinners. The best food I ate came from a random recommendation. I was wandering through a neighborhood the night of the derby between Roma and Lazio, the two soccer teams from Rome, and I heard cheering down a side street, so I followed it to a small bar where people were spilled out into the street watching Rome put the hurt on Lazio. A frenchman in the street told me to eat at Trattoria Luzzi, and I took his advice because a) he'd lived in Rome for 9 years, and b) the french know food. I'm glad I listened to him, because it was typical Roman food, and it was amazing. Next time, I hope to eat more in the Trastervere area, because I found some great spots on my last day just before I caught my plane home, go figure.

I met quite a few people during my trip, and oddly enough, most of them were Parisians. Somehow, without a map-in-hand, I looked Italian to a lot of people because I kept getting asked for directions in Italian. I guess somehow I blended in the with way I dressed or something, because I wasn't seeing a bunch of Italians with curly hair walking around. It was kind of fun to be mistaken for a local and not be pegged as a foreigner at the get-go. The first incident of mistaken identity was with Antoine, a cool guy from Paris who was part of the Couch Surfing community. He was going to the same place I was, so we ended up both walking there and had a good conversation. He said that France's perspective of the U.S. was a positive one, which was cool to hear. Believe it or not, after hanging out with Antoine for a bit, two days later we randomly bumped into each other in a totally different part of the city. Weird. Anyway, hopefully I can crash on his couch the next time I go to Paris. The second incident of mistaken Italian identity was with two Parisian girls who were trying to find Trastervere. When I asked them what their names were, their response was "Valentine" and "Ghetto," no lie. Coincidentally again, I was going to the same place, so we walked together. After searching a long time for a good bar, we finally settled at a decent one and had some drinks. I'll tell you, Parisians are cool in my book. I had a good time with all of them. Not one person I met, Parisian or anyone else for that matter, didn't love Barcelona. An Italian-born American ex-pat that I talked to said that she loved Barcelona because it is a city that is alive and progressive, whereas Rome still lives in the past. Well, I can say that I have a newfound desire to learn Roman history as well as a newfound appreciation for baroque art because Rome has preserved itself so well. I guess there is good to both sides.

I could talk a lot about all the things I saw, but I won't for the sake of this post being insanely long. Instead I will share some highlights:
Capitoline Museum was amazing. If you only had a weekend in Rome, you'd definitely should go there. It held some of the best paintings I've ever seen, and the pieces of the Colossus of Constantine statue on exhibit were really cool.

I had the special opportunity of taking a guided night tour of the Vatican Museum in a group of three. It was unbelievable to be there at night! I got to see the Sistine Chapel with just a handful of people. It was really special.

Villa Borghese might just be the most beautiful park I've been to. It's massive and full of Italian Cypress and pine trees which create a canopy stories above your head. Go there for sure if you've got a special someone.

A huge impact Rome had on me was getting a sense of how powerful it really was. It's one thing to read about it in history books, but it's another to see it and experience such epic things tangibly. I mean, think about the fact that the Trevi Fountain is more than 2000 years old and is still working and being used today. Thats unheard of. The Romans for sure were a powerful empire. It blows me away even more now, after seeing Rome for what it was, to know that Jesus, through who he was and what he did, was so pivotal that he turned a society as massive and powerful as Rome away from the things that they had believed in for centuries and towards his humble example. I can't even describe it.

There's a tradition that if you throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, you'll surely return to Rome. You better believe I threw a coin in there! Looking forward to all the stones left unturned...

Some things of interest:
1. There are public water fountains, like in the picture attached to this post, all over Rome that constantly flow water and that people drink from. The water is really clean and tastes good.

2. Approximately 250 cats live in the Area Sacra dell'Argentino, the place where Pompey's Theater once stood.
3. The name they use in the standardized English language courses taught in France is Bryan, so it was easy for the Parisians I met to remember my name.

4. The Vatican City State is the smallest sovereign nation in the world. It was founded in 1929 and covers a mere 0.44 square kilometers (roughly 100 acres) and has a population of citizens of approximately 800.

5. I was surprised to see a Titty Bingo sticker on a bus stop sign at Corso & SS Apostoli. Titty Bingo is a band that plastered their stickers all over Austin when I was in college. Probably the best band marketing I've ever seen, and I guess it went worldwide, haha.

6. It is true that 5 kg jars of Nutella exist, because I saw them in gelato shops. Whoever said you can have too much of a good thing doesn't know what they're talking about! Nutella makes everything better!

7. If anyone could pronounce it, "Eyjafjallajökull" should be a cuss word. I somehow was blessed enough to not have my flights affected by the Icelandic volcano that erupted and made complete chaos out of travel during the week of my trip, but I can't even tell you how pissed people were that were stranded all over Europe. The airport was unreal.

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