Viv's
Diary - Barcelona
Caught the bus from Farmborough to
Bristol by the skin of my teeth*; bought
my ticket, boarded the London Rapide Express and it departed immediately.
Arrived in London at around 5pm, went to Dalston by bus to visit Ian, where I was expecting to stay. It turned out that
he'd moved after a fight with one of the occupants (Deja
Vu), so I went back to the 'Crown and Castle'. Played the landlord at
pool and won twice, then got the tubes / buses to South Woodford. It took
me 1¾ hours to travel about 15 miles; I emerged from the Woodford tube at full
pelt*1 and was past 'The Bell' (pub) when I heard a whistle,
turned to find Mal
in the pub doorway.
* Idiom
*1 - 3rd entry down - noun entry 2
Bought a Travelcard, visited International House (London), found
addresses of language schools and some job telephone numbers, then bought the
return ticket to Girona,
leaving Saturday morning. Returned to Woodford in time to cook Mal. a sausage
risotto, then we headed by tube to Holborn and went to a pub 'The
Princess Louise'. Very good beer there and a beautiful Kiwi
barmaid. I was feeling quite perky on the tube back and was talking with
a girl from Southend.
Quite a laid
back day. Made up some flash cards and did the dinner, after which
Tony, whose party I'd crashed 1½ weeks before, called round and drove us to Wanstead Snooker Club. It was
a posh club; I played Mal first and won then,
while I was losing to Tony, Joe arrived. I resigned and we played 3 games of
doubles - first two, Joe & I v Mal & Tony, last, I partnered Tony. I
was on the winning side throughout, potting*
the final pink that Tony and I needed to win. Left Wanstead after midnight.
* V.tr entry 7
Another quiet day. Did some errands
in Woodford then, at ten to four Mal rang and told me to meet him at the
Railway Bell at 5.30pm. Couple of pints there then Mal bought us chicken 'n'
chips. Returned to the flat to wolf
it down then tube to Holborn again. I nearly gave myself a heart
attack trying to run up the escalator that wasn't moving. Quick visit to the
'Louise' (Kiwi wasn't there) then tube to Highbury and Islington. Arrived at
the 'Hare and Hounds' just after 9pm, at 20 past the Balham Alligators
started playing - a great mixture of Skiffle, Cajun and R & B. Danced like
crazy during their second set. They came off at 11pm; Mal and I were finishing
our beers when an obnoxious gay bloke came over and started questioning us.
After a few minutes of insulting him, he seemed to be enjoying it and sat in
someone's place opposite. I told him if the bloke whose seat he'd taken didn't shift
him, I would (said with just a hint of force) - he moved.
On the tube back to Woodford I
chatted with an interesting character - Mal didn't find him that interesting
'cos he fell asleep and fell off his seat!!
Did some washing, met Mal at the
'Bell' at 5.30 then got the tube to Bromley by Bow and
walked to the block of Janet's
residence. She and Maggie had cooked a scrumptious dinner. Stayed in for the
first evening all week; didn't get to sleep till 3am partly due to a party swinging
away upstairs.
Janet gave me a call at 20 to 5am
(1hr 40 mins. later!). She was kind enough to give me a lift to Victoria Coach
Station and my bus fare to Gatwick.
Got my ticket and checked in, then at 7am I made my way to the Eurocar desk
just as Vicky arrived - it was great to see her again. I got us coffees and we
chatted till ¼ to 8. I boarded the Dan Air flight as the last call was being
made and 2 hours later we arrived in Girona. Bag was searched by customs
for the first time in my life! Then walked out of the airport with another Brit.
Went to the toll
booths on a motorway and tried hitching but there was very little traffic.
I asked the bloke manning it about buses and he said he'd ring a taxi for me.
Waited for the taxi and a car stopped to give me a lift - they were going to Barcelona! I
refused and the 10 min. taxi journey set me back a grand*
in Pesetas. Caught the bus to Barcelona for ½ that amount after ringing Arantza, and after some linguistic difficulties,
finding she was off skiing the next day for a week. I wandered around Barcelona
for a while then got the metro out of town a way. Stopped at a bar and met some
friendly people - including a bloke who showed me his photos of the Pyrenees.
Then went to the hostel that one of the camareros*2 had recommended
- 'Hostel Conde Güell'.
Booked in, then metroed down to the docks, walked up a seedy
street called 'The
Rambla'; while there I heard some music coming from behind the door of a
bar and entered a heavy metal/punk music bar. It was quite rowdy
with glasses being smashed; chatted briefly with a girl sat next to me then
headed for a metro back - came across an amazing
square en route.
* Noun (slang)
*2 'barmen' in Spanish.
Got up late after a much needed kip
then started exploring on foot. Walked down into the town centre noting a few
language schools. On the way I came across the church that is
featured in 'The shock
of the new'. I stood admiring it for a while then decided to take a narrow
passage beside it.* There was a bloke with
longish black hair stood near the entrance and, as I walked down it, I noted he
had followed. I stopped to let him pass and he asked me if he could have a
smoke. I agreed and we went a bit further down the alley and sat down while he
rolled one. He 'seemed' ok in spite of talking about 'banditos' and gesturing a
throat being cut! Anyway, things started turning a bit nasty when he asked me
for 1000 pesetas. I said there was no way I could afford to give him a grand,
at which point he pulled a knife and slashed
it about 5 inches from my throat then demanded my wallet (he knew which pocket
it was in, too!). Now, considering that my wallet contained everything that I'd
got cash wise, I was somewhat reluctant to part with it. For 15 secs or so the
heat was on, with him performing trial runs on cutting my thigh
to ribbons while I contemplated which would be
worse: lose my life - or at least a leg - or every peseta & dollar I'd got.
I decided to go for broke (not literally thankfully),
shouted for the police and got to my feet. The bluff
worked, he retreated saying it was alright, I obviously didn't have much money,
while I headed off in the opposite direction - contemplating whether to push
the advantage and beat ten bells of shit out of him. The police were about 25
yards away, by the front of the church. I explained what had happened, with the
help of my dictionary, and left the area - the moral of this story, religion
can damage your mental health!
From there I walked down to the dock front and caught a bus back to the
hostel. Went out in the evening to see what the Sunday nightlife was like - and
check my bearings; ended up doing a bar
crawl. Arrived back at base at around ¼ to 1.
Got up late, washed, donned
my best trousers, shirt and tie and set off in search of work. Stopped for a
couple of coffees at my 'local' - not bad having a 'local' after only 2½ days*, chatted for a while with the barman and another,
then headed up the Avinguda de Madrid, first language
school was shut so I went to a bar at the Plaça del Centro. There was an array
of tasty looking grub and one dish of snails!
Decided that I would add another experience to the collection and next thing a
bowl of the creatures was being heated up in the microwave. It was quite novel
sucking or picking the things out of their shells - nice sauce that they were
cooked in, too. From the plaça, I made
tracks to the second language school on my list. I was let in by a
rather nice receptionist who showed me into a classroom where the principal was
sat. He was friendly enough, but didn't seem to hold out much hope for the job
prospects. We went back to the reception and bingo,
the girl remembered someone who needed
a teacher. Talked to her and have an interview tomorrow! Went to the cinema in
the evening and saw two not very inspiring films.
* The Bar Santilari - it was the first bar I
went into in Spain. Bar Restaurant Santilari Arizala, 19 Les
Corts 124 (I don't know if it's still there).
Rang Anne*
in the morning and arranged to go for an interview at 5, then went into town
and did some shopping - surprising a petrol
pump attendant somewhat by asking for 1 litre of petrol**. Got dressed up and arrived for the 'interview' -
after spending an hour in a local bar knocking back the anise. The interview was a
brief introduction followed by the fact that I would start teaching at 6pm - a
class of 8 seven and eight-year olds! I taught them about the weather for an
hour, then had a conversation class with one student for 2 hours. Left the
school happy in the knowledge that my first real teaching had been completed without any hitches. When I returned, a
quick beer in my local then to a bar I was in last Sunday for a kebab and a couple
of beers.
*Anne Powers - the owner of a small language
school in Esplugues
de Llobregat.
**I had a small petrol stove with me, which I
used for cooking in an emergency.
Up and out for a coffee, then did
some homework. Was just off to phone Anne, when she phoned to say I'd be
working that night. Arrived in Esplugues in time for a swift
visit to the bar. First class was 18 nine and ten-year olds who learnt about
'very big, tall, fat, thin things'. Then a class of 8 teenagers for
conversation - life histories and F.C. Barcelona, and lastly 9 adults -
elementary (kitchens, bathrooms and dinners) a fun dialogue, too! I think I got
the balance right; heavy correction in production, none in conversation.
Lots has happened since my last
entry. Things look hopeful at EDIEPE*, an
exceedingly interesting language school off the Diagonal. I met the head of the English
Dept. in Plaça de Centre this morning. I taught every day bar*
Friday last week, including a woman called Canny at her sumptuous
apartment.
Last Wednesday I went into a bar
just down the road from my hostel, called 'La Pitomini'. My lighter had run
out of flints, so I asked an attractive girl for a
light a couple of times; she asked me for a ciggy
later on. Next night we chatted at the bar for most of the night with her
friend, Anna, - her name's Monse. They both teach Spanish to kids and Monse
speaks French well, so we can communicate across two languages (French &
Spanish). I went to the Pitomini on Friday after a lot of hassle
phoning Mum - took Pink Floyd and a compilation tape, sat at the bar alone,
until Anna asked me to join a crowd - including Monse. We chatted - I had some
aggravation from a pissed Spaniard who got thrown
out by the camareros** - asked Monse
if she'd accompany me to the Güell Park without
success.
I've visited the Sagrada Familia -
by far my favourite church in the world, Peerless Palace and monastery,
and yesterday climbed ¾ of the way up one of the mountains north of Barcelona.
The view was tremendous.
I've rung Arantza***.
She said she can come and visit the weekend after next - brilliant news - and
to cap it all - Saturday, I was called to the phone and a voice said
"Hello. Guess who this is?" It was Anna from International House,
Hastings. I went to meet her and friend last night - they treated me to beer
and pizza, and took me to a rather weird
bar - transvestites, gays, junkies etc. Skinned up there, and finally got home
at 3am. So apart from a dodgy financial situation things are
looking quite hunky-dory at the moment.
* Preposition
* French based language school, also offering
English and German classes.
** Barmen in Spanish. I felt honoured when this
happened; being a foreigner in a new city.
*** See 1st April.
The 9th of Feb. was an exceptional
night - Carnival! It's a tradition to wear fancy
dress (for non-fachistas - Franco banned the Carnival), so I went
out with a plastic bag (with a grin and a red nose) on my head - the bag was
from 'El Corte Inglés' (English style supermarket), and my jeans & coat
inside out. First to a bar on the Rierra Blanca, where I was told by
non-verbal communication that I wasn't wanted there - uncomprehending I went to
the Santilari, the atmosphere there was heavy - Barça were at home. Miguel
directed me to the Plaça de Sants. I caught the metro
there in my 'getup' and followed other weirdly dressed
people to a hall where everyone was dressed crazily - bands playing, inc. the
Barcoloneta Orchestra - returned to Pitomini at 1am where the Carnival there
was in full swing, met my friends and returned to the hostel at 8am (so I'm
told!). I remember seeing the sun as I went to bed.
Right. Now to continue the update.
On Thursday 13 February I returned to the hostel to find that a bank had rung
to tell me that 31,000pts had been transferred from Britain (Mum), it came as
very good news because I'd got into dept to the hostel and had spent the last of my wages from
Esplugues. I went straight to the bank (the wrong one!) but it was closed so I
returned to the hostel to wait until the morning came. Got up bright and early,
returned to the wrong bank, after ½hr wait was directed to the right one and
was told that if I wasn't willing to open an account with them they would only
give me the money in cash. Then came a hair-raising journey, probably due to
lack of sleep I felt very conspicuous and very vulnerable carrying the 30
grand, so I didn't want to use the metro (another reason was that someone had
been killed on the previous day!). I got on the wrong bus and had to walk from
the new university back to Sants, it was raining and I somehow
lost my way and started walking the wrong side of Nou Camp (the wrong way up a
one-way street, too). Three taxis passed me with green (free) lights, which I
doggedly ignored, then, to my right was an asphalt football pitch and from
there I heard some very aggressive things said (I felt threatened by them). I
carried on walking, feeling more and more lost, when another taxi approached; I
flagged him down and he took me to the Santilari.*
I had a beer there then opened an
account with the Caixa de
Barcelona bank. Now, as is the usual thing with me, the 30,000pts
disappeared far faster than I would have liked. 4½ grand went to the hostel,
and 6 grand I lent to Anna, who'd had her bag with passport, money and cheque
book snatched. But I was still determined to find a flat if possible - another
minor reason was that the hostel had turned into a 'pension' (for my own good**). Anyway, on the Saturday (15th Feb.) I went to the
Parrot Bar in the morning and told Gloria, the owner's wife, that I had to move
out of the hostel and did she know of any flats - she introduced me to a short,
stout
man who wrote down figures amounting to 50,000pts per month and scribbled his
name (Bernardo). On the Monday, after some very tiresome
nights in the pension, I met him again and he brought me to number 40 Calle
Occidente, a flat with one furnished room (a bedroom) and all the other rooms
dirty - especially the kitchen - no water and 2 light bulbs! I paid Bernardo
5,000 for the week - he gave me the keys and told me I could move in that night
if I wanted. He also said that he played flamenco guitar in a
disco just around the corner - which I either didn't believe at the time or
thought I had misunderstood his Spanish. Anyway, I returned to the hostel, gave
them my notice and spent a last (and peaceful) night there. Next day I moved
into flat 2, second floor, no. 40 West Road, White Hill.*** Following a hint from the people in the Parrot Bar, who became
very cleanliness conscious all of a sudden, I set to cleaning the place up. It
was quite a noisy flat, but the balcony caught the sun for most of the day.
Things looked hunky dory until Monday 24th Feb. At about 7pm the door bell rang
and it was the woman from upstairs - a relation of Bernardo's who I had met
first on my 1st or 2nd night there when she asked me for Bernardo's full name -
the surname that he'd given me was Matero (killer), the same night,
incidentally, I met Jemma, who helped me to communicate with the matriarch
upstairs! Anyway, with Jemma's help it was explained to me that the next day
(Tuesday 25th), I'd have to move out as the door was being barred
because Bernardo hadn't paid the rent or electricity - I felt as if the bottom
had fallen out of my comfy world. I showed my disappointment and Jemma's mother
and father came out onto the landing and her father, who I now know as Mario,
gave me the address of the owners - an agency, and he said he'd ring them to
let them know that I'd be calling to see them the next day. My Spanish was
still a bit shaky, so I asked Anna if she'd come with me to the agency (it was
quite close to her flat). We asked a few people at the Plaça de Universitat where number 5
was, and finally someone pointed across the road to a huge, imposing building
with Finclas Forcadell written on it. We entered and met Pedro, who could speak
English well enough to make Anna's presence unnecessary, apart from moral
support. Pedro explained that I had been living illegally in no. 2, 2nd floor
(Bernardo's flat), and that if I wanted it there was a flat free on the
entrosuelo (first floor) of the same building - he also explained that the cost
of the contracts, advances & commission would be close to 70 grand! We
arranged for me to get the keys and take a look later that pm. I was impressed
by the flat, but the price was daunting. Anyway, that night, in the Parrot Bar,
I met Bernardo and he played Flamenco guitar - with skill and power, despite
being the worse for drink - then he returned the keys to me and said that I
could stay there that night providing I dropped the keys into the Parrot Bar
next day - he also gave me 5 complementary tickets to the Discothèque Flamingo,
where he played guitar on Thursdays and Fridays. And as a footnote I hope - if
someone can lend me the money, to use the complementary tickets on Saturday
night when it seems that a family of flamenco guitar players be there!
* Due to extreme poverty, at this time Viv
hardly ever took taxis in Barcelona. Every Peseta was dedicated to bus/metro
fares to classes outside the city, food, beer and cigarettes (more or less in
that order).
** The rate for long-term guests (pension) was
considerably cheaper than the tourist rate.
*** This is the literal translation of
Entrosuelo, Calle Occidente, Coll Blanc in Catalan.
Another crucial day in my stay in
Barc. was Wed. 26 Feb. It would cost me £300 to rent the flat legally! It
looked good, but I was skint and Mum had already loaned
me £150 on the Wed. Anna had said I could stay at her place if I had nowhere
else. I tried to contact them several times with no reply, I'd moved my things
to the Parrot Bar* and at 10pm I had 50 pesetas
and 2 metro runs left - I felt that I HAD to get out of Barcelona, so I
collected my rucksack, got on the metro and went to the
end of the green line, outside the city - a place called Montbau in the mountains north
of Barc. After some hassle with a cat I found an ideal place to doss
the night, an enclosed doorway. The place was humming
with animals - a dogs' chorus and a cats' theatre - thriller!
After a lot of thought about my life
and where it was going, I fell asleep. I awoke with a start at 2am, turned
round and became aware of 2 uniformed men stood over me - they were police (Urban Guards**), they questioned me (interrogated, not
questioned), told me to open up my sleeping bag to find my passport - they both
held their guns ready for action while I undid
the zip! I explained as best as I could why I was sleeping in a doorway and
told them that I would return to Barc. at first light the next day. Ended up
with me shaking hands with them and they left. Did more thinking and watched
the prowling
street cats, then fell asleep again. I awoke a second time at 6am - daybreak -
with another man stood over me (not in uniform this time). He asked me where I
was from - A: "Barcelona". Then he asked me where I was going - A:
"Barcelona". Then he unlocked the door that I'd been sleeping in
front of, left me for a minute or so, then returned and gave me 200 pesetas and
told me how to get back to the metro! I packed my things and realised that I'd
chosen a church doorway as sanctuary to sleep the night!
Returned to Barc. and the Santilari,
withdrew 700 pesetas from my account (leaving 130 pts in there), got in touch
with Anna and moved into the Compte d'Urgell that night - next day I
rang Mum and she agreed to send me the money I needed to rent the flat. Saw
Finclas - and over the weeks got to know them well, stayed a week with the 2
girls, then on 6 March I signed contracts with the owner (for 30 months), paid
the money over, collected the keys, and moved home at 8pm. I was at a low ebb -
the vegetarian diet hadn't agreed with me - nor the 120 steps to climb to
Anna's flat! And to cap it all, the night I moved house Barça were playing
Juventus in the semi-final of the European Cup - the
metro trains were chock-a-block, so it was a struggle
getting all my gear*2 to Coll blanc.
Still, I made it - got the offer of a bed for the night from Bernardo's
relation - then set off for the Santilari to watch the match. Police
outnumbered people by 6 - 1 and there was a helicopter overhead - saw the 1st
half in the bar, where apart from Michael and Mr. S. (Snr Santilari, the owner
of the bar) + some youths, all the rest in the bar were Urban Guards! Decided
to return home at ½ time (I'd got to go to St. Just to meet 2 German ladies for
9.30am next day***). I decided to kip on the
floor rather than hassle my new 'vecinos' (neighbours) - and at ¼ to eleven a
roar erupted, there were explosions, and I chuckled
and said to myself "Ahh... looks like Barcelona have just scored." -
they had.
The catching up on the last month
continues. The day after moving into number 40 I went out to meet "the
nice German ladies" as arranged. They were nice too, and for the next
month the one session per week that I had with them kept me alive - I was
surviving on around 1200 pts per week (£6), plus the odd red cross funds from
home and a loan from Anna.
*1 2nd entry - Verb def. 2
*2 Noun def. 3b
* See 13th Feb.
** There are several police forces in Spain -
National, Federal, State and City police, the 'Guarda
Urbana' are the local city police force.
***This was a private class in a small
district on the outskirts of the city.
I started my last entry with "a
lot has happened since....". This would be far too much of an
understatement for my next entry. Over three weeks have elapsed, I finished, or
was finished, at the school in Esplugues, after teaching virtually every class
there, including the workers and managing director + executives at Seco, a
branch of a multi-national. Before I left A.P's House, she asked me to tell her
if I knew how the law was circumvented to allow teachers already in Spain to
get contracts. It looked as if I would be going straight from Esplugues to
either a school in St. Cugat, or Interlingua on the Rambla de Catalunya. I had
a very promising interview at St. C, and took a trial class at Interlingua -
which didn't go at all badly.
Next day I tried to contact Pilar,
the woman who'd interviewed me, but she had a cold, then at 11am both schools
were due to ring me. I was feeling a bit down though because of love lost to
Monse, and at 12 I left the hostel in a very bad and depressed mood - feeling
that both schools had let me down.
I went to the Santilari, had a stiff
drink*, then rang Anne and told her how the Spanish
employment laws could be broken by schools - mentioning Pilar by name, and the
school. At 5 I rang St. C and they told me "No go" (keeping the line
open to tell me to keep on trying). Then I went to Interlingua to be told that
I had been turned down there. That was a kick in the teeth, but there was worse
to come. On future visits to the Santilari I heard 'clicks'
after picking up the receiver, and once got a hint that
something was amiss by Miguel shouting "Hola" down an extension just
after I'd picked up the phone and frowned on hearing a 'click'. Now this may
sound bizarre, paranoid, deranged etc, but from the Wednesday onwards I was
trailed wherever I went outside the hostel. In the Santilari I was approached
by a man with exceedingly good English, who said that he was German and worked
in textiles; he was a bit too interested in my teaching and said that he took
his kids to a school in Esplugues on the Diagonal (Esplugues is nowhere near
the Diagonal, and myself being naive as I am, nearly told him the name of the
school I'd been working - illegally - at). I also noticed that as soon as I
started talking to him all the young Spaniards moved away. Miguel simply
explained things next day by saying that he was a 'Fachista'. I kept trying San
Cugat, and became more and more frantic at shaking off the people following me
- without much success. The whole bizarre story hit me in the stomach on Monday
17th. I had worked out*2 the night before -
finally - that the phone in the Santilari had been bugged by the police - and
they had heard me betray Pilar's confidence to Anne (strangely, the wire
joining the handset had become detached too - I think as a further hint from my
good friends in the Santilari). I was up at 6.30 and out at 7. I went to the
'Santi' and picked up the phone - heard the 'click' and without dialling,
screamed into the mouthpiece. Geordi (the barman) winced
visibly - which he would have had no need to do unless something was amiss
- the bar was empty and I hadn't dialled. A bit later on, Michael, a friend and
good man I'd met earlier, joined me - he looked sad and tired: he said quietly
to me "I don't know how much longer you can keep fighting". The bar
filled with people I didn't like and I decided to make a dash for St.C in a
last attempt to work there. Taking Michael's words to heart, I decided to shake
off the police, my route twisted + turned - inc. a taxi, I went round St.Cug
twice, got to the school and met a teacher. I was told that Pilar still had a
'cold' (for 2 weeks!) and that I wouldn't be working there. The look on the
receptionist's face as I left was so sad - she had tears in her eyes - I went
to a small worker's bar that I had visited when I'd gone for my first interview.
The atmosphere was freezing - and my knowledge of Spanish was good enough to
recognise the men there discussing "who would hit him first". Then,
and only then, the whole confusing jigsaw puzzle fitted into place - my
betrayal of Pilar - who I believe had at worst been sacked, at best had to go
into the background for a while - I think the former. I felt crumpled.
I got the train back to Barc. stopping en route and walking into the forest
(but there was even a chainsaw working there). I gritted
my teeth and returned to the station. I went to the Santilari,
thought about Pilar - the bar was packed with a seemingly gloating
crowd - not the usual Catalonians, went into the bog*3 and cried for
a few minutes, then composed myself, finished my orange drink, then crossed the
road to buy 'Vanguardia' (newspaper), Josephine showed me the album cover to a Dire Straits' album with 'The
walk of life'. It was the 2nd time since my arrival in Spain that the music
of Dire Straits pulled me up when I was as blue*4
as it's possible for me to get. The other time was Saturday the 15th of Feb.
Arantza couldn't come (see 3rd Feb.) so I was hoping to meet Monse and
take her for a meal in the Santilari. There was no sign of Monse or Anna in the
Pitomini so I ate alone then headed for the centre; I wanted to see a jazz band
- Charles Bonanova - coincidentally I met Anna (Hastings) and her friend, Alex,
as got off the metro. We went for a drink together, then I saw the band -
really good. After that, at approx. 12.30am, I returned to the Pitomini and
there was still no sign of Monse - I was "in love",
"besotted", "OTT". I left the Pitomini and walked
into L'Hospitalet
in a very emotional state - cried again, and as I was passing the Pitomini on
my way back I encountered both girls with Carlos. I was as deflated as in the
Santilari and all I could say was "sorry, I'm out of gasolina" and
left them.
As I walked up the Conde Güell I heard Anna and Monse cackling
with laughter, I spun around, walked to the junction and imitated the
viciousness of their laughter. I got back to the hostel between 3 + 4 or 5am,
put on my radio and listened to Dire Straits at full blast - I needed to hear
that music and it gave me the energy I needed to continue.
A note (written at the time). The
excesses of emotion during this time were largely due to the pressure of
teaching without warning and often getting only 3 or 4 hours of sleep per
night.
* Adj def. 8
*2 Work out something
*3 Slang
*4 Adj. def. 5a
I have loads to write up having
neglected my diary for months. Another milestone passed in my love/hate
relationship with Barcelona, was 'the affair of the flight ticket'. During my
first month I put up adverts for the return portion of my flight, which
departed 56 nights after my arrival. I had forgotten about it until the weekend
before it left. That week I wrote out more ads (asking just £30) and put them
up in language schools + the British Institute. On Wednesday 12 March, I
arrived home in the afternoon to find a note pinned
to my door, from Anna, telling me that she'd met someone who wanted to buy it.
I went to see her but she wasn't in, so I went to the bar downstairs and spent
my last 50pts* on a beer. I called later, just
as a comfy
chair was being delivered by her landlord, so I waited in comfort at the top of
the stairs outside her door! Later, when Richard (the buyer) rang, we arranged
to meet at a bar where I'd met Anna first, in the heart of Barc. (I dropped my
asking price by a grand, too). Alex lent me 100pts and I walked to the
rendezvous, arriving at 10 past 8 - we'd arranged to meet at 8. I asked for a
beer and waited, and waited + waited, then, as the atmosphere seemed to be
getting more tense, I asked how much a beer was - 125pts - more than I'd got.
There were lots of comings and goings and the impression I got was that -
whether Richard actually reached our arranged bar depended on how I acted.
Finally, he obviously got the green light 'cos at 10pm (2 hrs late) he arrived
- he'd had to walk a distance that should have taken 5 mins! We made the
exchange then went to the Plaça Real - a
beautiful square just off the Rambla
des Flores. I heard live music from there en route. It was an anti-Nato (OTAN in Spanish) demo*1
with 2 really good bands - the last one the Barceloneta Orchestra that I'd seen
on Carnistoltes (Carnival in Catalan) night (see 9th Feb.); it was a vibrant atmosphere after
which we went to the Santilari and Pitomini for beers. I put him up in my spare
room because he said he couldn't afford a hostel - though he changed his mind
later - much to my annoyance - I cooked an amazing Spanish omelette on my noisy
petrol stove. Next day I woke at 7 (4 hours later) to go to meet the German
lady (see end of 26th Feb.), and later bought a quiet gas stove
with the flight money.
*1 3rd entry - Noun - def. 1
* Pesetas
The story continues, but first some
up-to-date news. Today I came as close to death as I've been for 12 years*. I set off at about 10am to walk to the market at Glories - a distance of
around 4 miles. The market was brilliant, the best one I've seen in my life -
loads of second-hand and new things, some great blues and jazz albums and a bounteous
opportunities for bargains - en route I visited a tourist info. office and was
given a brill. Gaudi poster of
Barcelona. After meandering around the market for 1hr, I set off to visit Anna
and Alex on my way home. I'd been walking for about 20mins and passed the bull
ring, when I crossed a road that appeared to be clear: IT WASN'T! A
car appeared in a flash (doing about 30-40mph) and I hit it, luckily side-on,
there was quite a bang and my poster was bent in half, by big toe had been
pinched by a tyre and both my hands had the skin taken off them! The car skidded
to a halt
and I gave the driver a wave to let him know that I was ok, and continued. A
bit later, on the same road, I tried to cross, again without paying attention,
and an oncoming taxi hooted at me - I retired to the pavement
and kicked a rubbish bin out of annoyance with myself. Only Alex, and Duncan
were at home, we sat in the sun and on leaving Alex lent me 100pts and gave me
a Cadbury's Cream Egg! I gave her a kiss in return. I then walked home, passing
through the Industrial
Park on the way (where I found a boating pool!), ate, then set off to visit
the Communist Unification of Spain Party (UCE) to ask for one of their
anti-OTAN posters for Duncan. En route I passed a van with national police** around it, one of them called me over and asked to
see my passport - he questioned me quite strongly and advised me to get an
identity card; as we parted he said "See you later"!! I then made my
way to the UCE or a bar next door with 'Kremlin' written on the door and arranged to call back there after Easter.
Then I thought I'd best go to the "extranjero's" department of the
police in Hospitalet. Called there and arranged to return next day. Walked
home, then walked the 4 miles to the 'Come In' bookshop to see the prices of
books for the kids, then home, meeting Monse on the way and visiting 'El
abuelo' in the hostel***. All in all I've walked approx. 30 miles today
(around 50km).
*See 'The end of life as we know it'
** See note ** for
the 26 Feb.
*** 'grandfather' in Spanish - this must have been the nickname I gave to the old man who sat at reception. I'd stayed at the hostel for 3 months and liked the people there so I kept in touch with the people there every so often.
Well, before I start recounting
stories that are still progressing i.e. vecinos (neighbours in Spanish), I
shall fill in some up-to-date news, starting last Thursday! The last two weeks
have been financially extremely difficult for me, and it looked as though the
Easter hols. would be the sharp end of the knife because it's a week without me
earning anything, yet having to live.
On Tuesday 25th March, I walked from
Coll Blanc to Plaça d'España because I didn't have the bus or tube fare. I
caught the free bus to work, then was given a lift to Plaça d'España again and
walked home (accompanied some of the way by Nogiera). Thursday I was broke
again, walked to work (via the Works' bus) and walked back (via Carlos' car to
P. de España) and was contemplating how the hell I was going to survive for 4
days with 15pts, little bread, ½ onion and a sack of potatoes. I'd had a chip
and onion butty to eat! and was writing up my lesson
observation at 10pm when the door buzzer
hooted
- "Who the hell's that?", I thought - went to the interphone*1
and a voice said "Hello Viv, it's Arantza ------ Can you open the door,
please?" (See 3rd Feb.) The ------- signifies a few seconds
while I was frantically trying to find the unlocking button (it was pitch
dark - still no elecky*2!). Written words can't describe
how surprised and happy I was to see Arantza. Next morning she lent me 5 grand
and I started to give her the Grand Tour. Friday morning was Good Friday! In
the mañana ('morning' in Spanish) we took the metro to P. de España (shut), we
went to the cable car and ascended Mont Juic - walked around the
top then walked down - tube*3 to Plaça de
Catalunya, walked up the Rambla de Cat.,
which was as quiet as a village street. I hoped that we could get something to
eat at La Tassa, but it was shut so instead we went to a patisserie and had
some beautiful food (I persuaded her not to go for a Kentucky Fried Chicken!).
From there walked back down the Rambla de Cat. and lay in the sun on the grass
by the fountain. When we settled there, there were quite a few people lying
around us - we talked and forgot about where we were, and next thing I felt
someone kick my foot. I turned around and an Urban Guard told me very abruptly
to get off the grass! Everyone else had abandoned us without warning. From
there, down the Rambla des Flores - Plaça Real - Barrio Gothic -
Cathedral - bar next to the Zeleste (where I saw Charles Bonanova - see 27
Feb.) and Barcoloneta
- bus back, Bar Llobregat for victuals, then Parrot Bar and Music Bar for
draughts
and Fox and Geese, then home to bed.
Saturday morning we took the metro
to Alfonso's Palace
(Plaça de España) and visited my bar there, then to Pueblo Español for a meander
round, walked from there to the Industrial Park (see
26th March), where I was planning on taking
Arantza on a boat ride - but she wouldn't have it, so after a quick visit to a
bar near Plaça de Sants we bussed back to Collblanc
and I cooked one of my speciality Spaghetti BologViv's. After this we went to
see if we could see a Flamenco band in the Discothèque Flamingo ( 13th February). We were told that the band would
play at 1am; we then had a few games of pool then I brought Arantza home as she
was tired, but I had a complementary ticket (½ price) that Bernardo had given
me so I returned. I had to put up with 2 hours of hellish
disco music - with only a glass of water + 4 ice cubes to drink! The beer was a
rip off and dread to think what the spirits cost. Finally at 3am (the clocks
had gone forward an hour that night, at 1am), the Tres Caireles played - I sat
with them while they tuned up. They were brilliant - playing with power and
dexterity - it was a night to remember and I claimed a poster on the way home -
at 5am*. Oh, I forgot to mention, as Arantza and
I were walking home we found a fire outside no. 40; someone had set fire to a
rubbish bag. Muttering that no-one was going to set fire to my street I stamped
out the flames.
The next day, Sunday, Arantza made
up a pack lunch with
Catalan bread and we set off for Mont San Pedro. The sun was beaming
down and the first stop was the gardens of Pederalbes
Palace. I sunbathed there while A. chatted with an old guy with a speech
impediment. Then to the Parc Orienetta via Pederalbes
Monastery. We ate our pack lunch half-way up and reached the summit at
about 4.30pm. We lay together and ate creme catalana and pears
(after I had chosen and ants' nest
to sit on!). Then we walked back, and bussed to the
Via Augusta. For the first time in many
a moon - since collecting Mum's £150 (13th Feb.) - I became totally disorientated. We
were trying to get to Fontana and I
was in an area that I knew quite well, but my lack of sleep the night before (
and before that - and before that) was beginning to tell. I asked the way from
some civil guards - Arantza took over talking to them and I sensed their
hostility**. They directed us in the opposite
direction to where we wanted and towards a fictitious metro station! I finally
asked the way from a man in an amusement arcade, and when I found
"Road of the Hero's of Britain",
which I knew at last, I kissed Arantza in jubilation at getting back to a road
I recognised. Then Fontana and the Verdi cinema to watch 'Dr Strangelove' with
Peter Sellers. It was my second viewing, but it's one of those films that are
enjoyable 2nd or 3rd time around. After the film we went to a bar in the Plaça
Catalunya and talked - then red line to Torrassa and
a gentle walk home.
Monday I walked to the motorway with
A. and saw her to a safe hitching post*4
then walked to a bar near Plaça de Centre that I went to in my first week (20th Jan.). On my way home I found an anti-OTAN poster in Sants and I removed
it from the wall then took it to Duncan at Anna's house - then took them to the
Industrial Park, but they wouldn't join me in a boat either!
I didn't realise it at the time, but
Arantza's arrival marked another one of those crucial 'make or break' periods -
like Mont Bau ( 26th Feb.), and Portbou, which I have yet to
recount. But first, so that I don't totally lose track of time, I shall enter
today's date and fill in today's events.
Today I did a two-hour stint
at Novalingua then to the Santilari, sunbathed on the roof, and tonight, at
5.30, I heard music coming Collblanc
Park. I walked down there and listened to the local orchestra while
schoolchildren and oldsters alike danced the Sardanya. Then metro to the Sagrada Familia where
there was dancing from different regions in Spain - Flamenco to start with, castanets and all! At
8.30-9pm a drum started beating and it was the "Diablos amb Foc" (Devils with fire).
There were about 20-30 people with horns and red costumes wielding sticks with fireworks
on the end - first the fireworks showered sparks,
then exploded. They did a circuit of the square staging
mock
battles with the crowd (I milled about in the thick of things!) then back to
Gaudi Plaça where there was one of, no THE most exciting displays
of fire I've seen yet. They pulled a boat full of exploding fireworks across
the lake while on shore they shot thousands of rounds of screeching
fireworks at it in an attempt to sink it. Thunderbolts
shot across the lake on strings and exploded, and a string of bangers
went off along the shore, about 6 feet away from me, which were of such force
that I could actually feel the shock waves.
After the show, I returned home, ate
there, and reclaimed two pairs of trainers that had been
thrown out (I think for me - but it's supposition). Both pairs of trainers are
in far better
nick*5 than my trainers, which now have more air holes
than sandals! A contenting day, I'm skint
again but I've got food and water, and pay day's in 4 days' time!
Author's note: this is the last surviving entry in Viv's Barcelona diary.
*1 Thesaurus entry
*2 Slang for 'electricity'. At this
time the only electricity I had in the flat was one cable thrown across from
the neighbours on the other side of the internal stairwell.
I paid them monthly for the electricity I used.
*3 Noun def. 6b
*4 Entry 2 Noun def. 4
*5 Entry 1 Noun exp. 'in good nick'
* It was one of the most powerful live
shows I've seen in my life. The raw power of the flamenco style, made me
classify it as 'classical punk rock', and the combination of strong voices, hammering
guitar, clattering feet dancing out a drum beat to
accompany the music, was something I will never forget.
** ETA, the Basque separatist group were active at this time, so many police officers would view someone with a Basque accent suspiciously, in the same way that Irish accents and Arab appearances were sometimes treated after terrorist action in London and New York.
