Midlife Milk-crisis

I think I am currently faking a mid-life crisis, which at my age is rather scarey because despite my peevish teenage insistance that I would not live long, I would rather like to.

Poor Dani has a lot to contend with.

We woke, or rather, I woke this afternoon at about 3pm to the beautiful sound of moving furniture upstairs. I am convinced that the witches bought football-boots intentionally just to clomp around in, whilst one of them flicks incessantly through the TV channels, just to spite us. Occasionally we hear them, Darth-Vader-like, climbing the stairs. Poor auld Dani woke up to me staring at him with what he calls "THAT look", which as far as I can figure out is when I desperately want to tell him how messed up my head is right now but I don´t.

Of course, since I wouldn´t tell him what was wrong and nothinged my way out of it, he just went back to sleep, but kept waking to find me staring at him. I would probably be freaked out by my own behaviour but it doesn´t seem to faze him at all. He even laughed and called me a weirdo the third time he caught me at it. How nice - one less thing to worry about. Anyhow, eventually I booted him out of bed with a combination of sneezes, pokes and kisses, and yes, I even resorted to a cup of Cola Cao. I called our friend Darren and arranged to meet him down in the Milk bar in half an hour.

The Milk Bar is a new bar owned by an Irish couple just off Via Laietana, which is situated in an area of Barcelona called Barri Gotic, the medieval quarter of the city. Many buildings here are from the 12th century and the streets are mostly pedestrianised and flanked with tall stone buildings that keep the cool in during the heat of the day. Lots of the city´s clothes markets are located here, along with a fair amount of the new designer shops that seem to be infesting the place of late. There are oodles of mad boho cafes and bars, and every so often you turn a corner to find a lovely little terrace on which you can sit and have a beer or cava.

A beautifully decorated place, the Milk bar is probably the type of place I would avoid in Dublin due to it´s cool crowd, but the atmosphere here is really relaxed. The bar is low-lit emerald green, the seats are brown and red soft 60s style stools and sofas, and one wall is covered with a lovely white and blue patterned wallpaper, with parrots and flowers, old-style. There is a mosaic on the floor reminicent of Arabian tiles in bright colours. The toilets are scrupiously clean and you could spend hours reading the comic book collage that covers the walls. The staff chat with everyone, and best of all the cocktails are delicious and reasonably priced (3.50 during Happy Hour), and the food is delicious. Definately worth the visit.

We sat drinking our Mojitos and White Russians and Daquiris until Dani had to go off to work in that kip in Port Olympico. Then I proceeded to whinge a bit about what the hell am I doing type things until I had to go to work. Darren invited us to his place this weekend to play some music, and maybe even do some recording (in the long run). I can´t wait. I think a large part of my problem at the moment has to do with my work-sleep-work lifestyle, and that I am partly projecting this onto Dani, who has been nothing but sweet about my behaviour of late.

But now, with 4 hours to go of the night-shift at work, I will cease my rambling, and resume my reading of the papers. Dani gets a laugh out of my daily news reports, which cover anything from sports through to the caffeine percentages of various drinks I don´t want before bedtime. I must remember to buy some more milk, or Leche De Toro, as Dani would have it. Being an avid milk-connoiseur, he insists that the milk here is from bulls because the taste is so bad...

Devilishly quick...

I got this deadly little lighter which is lovely and red, and has a little light on the end which is red and scares the crap out of babies. It´s great. And refillable. And bulb-replaceable. Fantastic. I believe the bauld Dani had to crawl through the city´s red-light district to get it, and nearly got mugged on his way back by a group of Ladies of the Naiiiight.

Speaking of which, the boyfriend was on his way home from Port Olympico there the other day when he was stopped by a young Moroccan who desperately wanted to discuss football at 6am. The bright young lad justly guessed he was about to be pickpocketed and started gesticulating wildly back at the Moroccan. "Ronaldinho, Morientes, Pasportio?"he uttered in his best Spanish (I kid you not). And then "Ronaldinho, Ronaldinho?," as he deftly stuck his fingers into the young Moroccan´s pocket and lifted his wallet. The man was gobsmacked. And his felonious friends wet themselves laughing when they heard. What a friendly place this Barcelona is.

Actually, it´s starting to grow on me a bit finally. I went to a Scottish bar and and Irish bar tonight and got free drinks from both houses. Lovely. Strawberry Daiquiri or however the hell you spell it is a fine drink to have before an all-night-graveyard shift in a city-centre office. One which had just been evacutated after a bomb-threat half an hour earlier. Bee-oot-ifull!

Speaking of lighters and bomb-threats, on the edge of Barcelona there is a fantastic piece of pop-art, in an area called Montbau. It is a giant sculpture of a book of matches, and even has discarded matches littered around it!

Burreh, it turns out the young fella wants to return to Ireland for a month or three. Now, at 6.20 a.m. in the morning after a nightful of rolling about worrying about what the hell I am doing with my life, I don´t trust myself to due the subject justice, because:

a) I´ve no clue what I am up to in general
b) I have an abandonment complex, whilst being scared of having someone too close. Don´t try this at home folks!
c) I´ve had too many strawberry whatchamacallems to be makin´any sense any more.

So I will leave you with an auld proverb I learnt recently:
May you reach heaven half an hour before the devil realises you´re dead
(And after having learnt it off a Spaniard it turns out to be an Irish proverb!!Madness!)

Australia, Barcelona, ARSEnium!

There is a pub in Port Olympico, they call it Australiaaaaa...

I went down to find the bar where Dani works, and there, amid all the Art Nouveau and tiny parrot-carrying bars of Catalunya, I found a strip of madness. Apparently for the Olympics, Barcelona decided to build a line of bars on the port where at a mere 9 euro per Guinness tourists can get gee-eyed and be liberated from their money. In Dani´s bar, they have semi-naked men/women jiggling on podiums (or is it podia?) and lots of men swarming round goggle-eyed and amazed. And the odd woman too. But it is kind of amusing in a porn-star sort of manner. Why do I always end up in places like this? Like the time I was in Chile and walked into a bar with black and white checked floor, black velvet walls, sailors in white UV-lit uniforms, and grown women dressed as bunny-rabbits. I was so tired it took me about 10 minutes to realise that there was anything odd about the place even!

But the staff there all love Dani, partly cos when he walks into stuff he shouts "B*STARD!" and they think it´s hilarious. So free drinks ensued and I had a lie-down by the marina and a stomping session in the fountain, followed by breakfast in the Barri Gothic. It was great.

Life is weird though at the moment what with trying to see each other given the shifts we have. He works from 9pm til 6am, 6 days a week. I work either 8am til 4, 4pm til 12, or 12 til 8am. I like working 4 til 12 best, but if I do that I hardly see the fella cos he´s asleep til 4 and gone to work when I return. But when he comes home at 7am I often get up to have a drink and a game of battleships with him. We also have a game where we watch the Catalan version of MTV which is called FlaixTV and guess what the next song is. We´re getting really good at it.

Ah lads, have you heard of a group called, aptly, "Arsenium". They are utter shite. They are hilarious. I suggest you look up the video for an entertaining rubbish Russian Richboy impression and a giggle. Tis our favourite curse at the moment - stub your toe..."ARSEnium!"

Flat-ulence and O-poo-lence

I think I promised I would fill you in on my flat fiasco. So:

When I came to Barcelona I found a flat reasonably quickly, through my dad´s friend. The rent was reasonable, and even though quite far outside the centre, it was just on the metro and handy enough. Everything was fine until my boyfriend came over. Then the trouble started.

One day I received a phone call telling me that I would have to pay double rent if my boyfriend was staying. I had asked before he came to see would everything be okay, and had offered to pay the bills. No mention was made at the time of extra rent. So naturally I refused on the basis that I was still only using one room (with a single bed for Christ´s sake) and politely said I would move out at the end of the month. Not five minutes later dpassed afore I received a call, where I was shouted at and told to leave the flat the following morning at 1.30. When I asked why, I was told I had not paid any rent or deposit and the place was like a "casa de puta" or a whore-house. That´s a pretty strong thing for them to say. I was shocked, but stood my ground pointing out that I had paid. Eventually the man on the phone admitted I had paid rent and deposit and reluctantly agreed I could stay til the end of July. I made a point of adding that I would not leave until I had my deposit back either.

Well, I was a bit rattled by the entire episode, and this so-called-friend of my father phoned me a few times to make sure I was properly shaken. By the time I reached home I was anxious to see how much of a mess the place had been in cos we had left in a hurry that morning. On opening the door it was clear that they had searched through the entire house. Not only that, but all our bags and clothes too, and they had made no effort to hide it. It took us a while to realise that they had also taken money. Aside from the mess they left in our room, the kitchen had 3 dirty plates in the sink and a few empty cups on the table. Not my idea of a Casa de Puta. Feeling scared of what they might do, I went to the police and reported it(or rather tried to-that´s another story).

Several days later, we were sitting in having a drink and playing music. I was not properly dressed because it was my day off and I´d just gotten up. Then, without any warning, the landlady barged in with her daughter in tow and a new flatmate from Morocco for us. I felt very embarrassed, not least because it occurred to me that he might find it offensive to see a half-dressed woman in his new sitting-room. But in fairness to him, he managed, and the next day moved in.

We got on very well with him from the start despite my nakedness and the language barrier (he´d no english and we´d little spanish), and the mess he made of the bathroom, and we shared meals with him and his friends and discussed all manner of things. But the end of the month was drawing near and so we organised to go stay in a friend´s flat while she stayed with her boyfriend for August. She needed the money and we needed a flat so it worked out perfectly. In anycase, on my last day I cleaned up and then took the keys with me.

Unsurprisingly, I received several manic calls from the landlord asking why I had brought the keys (to make sure I got my deposit back of course) and asking where I was going. I couldn´t really understand him that well as he was very excited, so my friend offered to speak with him. He proceeded to warn her against us, and said that we had left the place in a mess, not paid, and that the new flatmate complained about us because we were so dirty that he refused to eat in the house. My friend, thank god, told him where to go, and explained that she trusted us. She arranged with him a time that we would meet to get the deposit back.

But I was a bit hurt by our flatmate´s complaints against us. Surely if he had any problems with us he could have told us. Then it dawned on me that the landlord might be lying. Sure enough, at the house the next day the landlord was again nowhere to be seen, and our flatmate was nice and chatty. Eventually the landlady appeared, daughter in tow again, and did a minute scrutiny of the entire house. Our flatmate ran after her repeating "The whole place it clean. Everything is clean". Now we knew the landlord was being a bastard. Reluctantly she admitted it was all clean, and said she had to go to the bank. But first she tried to insist that we needed to pay extra for my boyfriend. I was so angry I couldn´t trust myself to talk, and just stared/glared. Luckily, my boyfriend made it clear politely that we would not leave without the measly deposit. She left. Five minutes later her friendly 11-year-old daughter returned with the money. On leaving the flat we noticed the landlady skulking round the corner by the bushes with her sunglasses on in the rain in case we saw her. She knew full-well that she was in the wrong.

We are now living in the city centre in a small flat with witches upstairs and more shops than you could shake a wallet at, 20 minutes walk from my work, on the mainline to my boyfriend´s work, and completely on our own. It´s great, but I will have to start flat-hunting again soon unfortunately.

And I thought a mullet was a fish...

Maybe Ireland is more conservative than I ever thought. Or maybe the people of Catalunya are just stark raving bonkers. Either way, there is no accounting for tastes, as a quick glance at Barcelona youths will show you.

There seems to be two types of haircuts. 1. The Mullet, which consists of long top and back, and short sides. 2.The Mop, which seems to consist of ratty dreadlocks with a completely shaved front of head with the stubble dyed some ludicrusty colour. These haircuts and various combinations of them are popular with both sexes. Now, I have nothing against dreadlocks, even with pencils and coins in tow, but somehow this lot seem to make them look like dirty old rags, usually bound in an auld cut-off sleeve of a T-shirt. Imagine when informed of the trendy young things in Barcelona who "dress so stylishly", suddenly discovering these heathen heads! The little hairdresser inside all of us would be devistated, as mine so rightly was!

However I have put it all behind me, and single-handedly revived the coiffeur hopes of Barcelona by dying my hair orange.

What is Barcelona like?

Well, I am aware of the fact that since I have been in Barcelona (since May 23rd to be exact) that I have only sent a few measly postcards and stingy texts. This is because when I arrived in Barcelona I immediately hated it. I am pretty sure it had little to do with the city, and a large amount to do with my heavy bag, lack of direction, and the general unfriendliness of the city´s inhabitants. Anyone coming from Dublin cannot fail to be impressed by the sheer scale of Barcelona which is supposed to have the same amount of citizens as Dublin but has beautiful buildings rather than the straight-forward grey sky grey building grey earth of Dublin city. Of course the fine weather can only help.

I refuse to start on a bad note though. Barcelona lies on the north-eastern coast of Spain in an area called Catalunya. The locals seem to be slightly divided on the issue, but generally your best bet is to call everyone "Catalan" and refer to the spanish language as "Castillian". To do otherwise usually incurs a mad session of head-tossing, chest-puffing, ´pah´s and ´bah´s, whiplash, and general bad humour. If you arrive by train from the city´s main airport, the first place you will see is the main square called ´Placa de Catalunya´. To add to your confusion, all signs are written in both Castillian and Catalan. This means if you are given an address in Catalan, you are bound to only see Castillian signs in that area, and vice versa.

But I digress. Placa de Catalunta is a square surrounded by bushes, trees, pigeons, fountains and drug-dealers who look like they have just stepped out of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air". They are generally friendly enough, maybe because if spotted by the police they are set upon with great force, and are thus in need of white people to prtect them. This hatred of Moroccans and North Africans seems to be a national sport here, along with battering of elderly old homeless types, and the like. The square is flanked by El Corte Ingles, which translates as "the english cut" and is popular in the same way as Brown Thomas in Dublin. The Hard Rock Cafe and Cafe Zurich also line the square, along with the place I work. This means that if I go for a cigarrette break I can stare down into the street at everyone below and shout abuse at them and then hide. Just joking. But working the midnight shift on weekends is hilarious cos you see some awful idiocy and mullet-headedness going on.

Off Placa de Catalunya is a street, or rather several streets tacked together, called The Ramblas. If you follow these to the end you will reach Barcelonetta beach, which is busy most of the time due to its proximity to the city. It is literally a 15 minute stroll down the Ramblas. The Ramblas themselves are tree-lined and full of performers: mostly mime-artists and statues, but also the odd flamenco dancer, and especially towards the end, artists and clowns. My favourite statues at the moment are two old silver men on bikes with skeletons next to them who pedal and squeak furiously waving fists at each other whenever given money. There is also a man dressed as a clock, angels in copper who give out lucky charms to passers-by, indians, mermaids, and Che Guevara and his cronies along with some dodgy looking bird who thinks she resembles Cleopatra. There is a lovely fruit market about half-way down the Rambla where you can take pictures and buy lovely but expensive produce. I hear the farmers are handing out free fruit all over Spain at the moment because of how little they get from shops of the asking price - a basket of cherries costs me 2 euro, yet the farmer only receives 17 cent of this. Sound familiar?

The buildings in Barcelona are mainly old colonial style buildings, and most of the streets are fairly wide, with the exception of the Barri Gothic which is full of medieval winding streets which keep you cool in the summer heat. Some of the buildings have been designed by Gaudi and his contemporaries, and are astonishingly unusual. There is one known as Casa Batllo which looks as though it has a dragon on the roof. Many of the buildings have lovely Art Deco plasterwork and designs, and it is a pleasant city to walk around. There are plenty of parks and churches to see as well.

However, finding a pub is a bit of a mission. During the day it is easy, as the chairs on the terraces indicating bars and restaurants are easy to see. To eat on the terrace is always more expensive, especially round the Ramblas, but after a while you learn where to go (a tip is to secretly follow some locals). I spent my first night out trawling the city for a bar that was open. Barcelona has the reputation of being a party city, with some bars open til 7 or 8am, but what you are not told is that most bars are hidden from plain view, and though open to everyone, it is perfectly normal to find yourself decending upon some tiny dodgy looking street where a dirty doorbell is pressed, and then suddenly you find yourself up 6 flights of stairs in a hopping modern bar. These Catalans are crazy.

Irish pubs are a big favourite and are found all over the town, proudly proclaiming "established in 1986" and the like, and generally full of english-speakers. Here you can pay the standard Irish price for a pint, which in Barcelona is ridiculous, although the beer is at least drinkable. Word of warning: Estrella Damm, which is the standard beer in Barcelona, is disgusting. Drink San Miguel at least! Other drinks to try are Mojitos, or any cocktails, a Claro, which is half-beer and half lime, or Sangria which is a type of wine fruit-punch.

Finding your way around Barcelona, even when full of alcohol, is very easy, although pickpockets and dodgy areas should be avoided, as in most cities. There are tourist offices all over the place where you can get a free map and directions from helpful staff. Catalans on the whole are not very good at directions, believing, like the irish, that is better to sound helpful than to admit ignorance. If you get a map, use it, because all the streets will be marked on it. As for shopping, especially at this time of rebaixas everything is very cheap, topped off by the fact that there are markets galore in the Barri Gothic to your left as you head down the Ramblas toward the sea. Barcelona is in general an expensive city when you consider that the average monthly wage is about 700/800 euro, but for an Irish person it seems good value. Once you travel anywhere outside the city centre, even just along the metro lines, everything ends up remarkably cheaper. Alcohol is, of course, the business. A bottle of Jameson costs only 6 euro compared to whatever the heart-attack enducing equivalent in Ireland is, and you can get a good bottle of wine for about 1.50. Cider, which I wouldn´t touch in Ireland, is also very delicious and cheap, averaging at 1.80 a bottle.

So off I go to Port Olympico, the mad nightclub strip near the beach built during the last Olympics, to visit my boyfriend who is working a nightclub called Australia. It is possibly the most expensive bar in the whole country, TO BE AVOIDED, but I suppose semi-naked ladies kind of make up for its seediness, although I think 9 euro for a Guinness is ridiculous....

Fear not! I will return soon and fill you in on the situation with my life in Barcelona, and my flat farce. Yes FARCE, you heard me! Oh, and the mullet problem of the Catalan people....very sad story actually....