Wharriye Lookinah?

This last week I have mostly be working the night shift. This means I fanny-about looking for stuff to do before going into work. Honest! I never thought I would be the type who waits around to go into work, but there is a kind of twightlight zone in Barcelona between 9 and 12 at night.

So last night I decided I should really get out of the house, and armed with my last 50euro note which has to do me til October 7th, and a one euro coin, I marched off the phone box to call Dani. It was great, cos I found a phone card in the box worth 6euro, and I was able to call my beau and chat for a wee while. And I retained my euro!

Stuck now for something to do, I decided to walk around Barcelona centre, at my leisure. I walked past the cathedral walls with the execution bulletholes in them. I went through the snake-like streets of El Born and crossed the Ramblas through to Ravel. I passed the prostitutes on the street corners and the men searching through the rubbish. You know, in Barcelona it is illegal to search through rubbish? They have done this to deter the Moroccan beer-sellers from storing their beer there, they say, but I don´t really believe it, as I see homeless folk for the most part going through the stuff.

There is a homeless guy who lives on the streets somewhere behind Santa Maria del Mar. He looks like a Friday character, with a long beard, sun-browned skin, and the type of clothes that were once trousers and a jacket but have disintegrated to rags. He doesn´t even have shoes. When you see him close up you realise he is only in his twenties. He spends his days rambling the backstreets, stopping and counting steps, and he seems to get very upset if his pattern is disturbed. He says hello to me though. John from the Clansman pub says at the beginning he was approachable and just unlucky, but that they have watched him get worse and worse. It seems that homelessness is a trap in Barcelona as in Dublin, into which vulnerable people fall. This man needs psychiatric help, not just a place to stay. Dani gave me an old jumper of his to give to Friday but I have not seen him since. Besides I have grown rather attached to the hoodie.

But enough of this rambing of my mind, and back to the rambling of the Ramblas...

Eventually I sat down in Portal del Angel to read my book (actually, I was stuffing my face with sandwiches I had brought to lunch and pretending to read), and then I noticed that there were an awful lot of street cleaners about. One of them sat on the bench beside me and just stared. It´s a national past-time here, and now I only get annoyed when physically restrained or plain auld grumpy. A juicy-lipped girl of about 15 came up and asked me for change, and then apparently convinced by my old clothes, left with her banana-yellow-colour-coded mate, sending withering glances to the binmen around.

After about 20 minutes I could no longer pretend to be interested in my book or unphased so I went off to sit somewhere else. The binman trailed behind me til the top of the street, and I took the first side streets off the Ramblas that I could, for a little privacy. I went to a little square to get a drink, but whilst everyone around me managed to get one, by the time I caught the waitress´s attention she had decided that they were closed. I returned instead to the Rambla, and took up residence on a bench with an American reading his paper. As usual, the beersellers came up one by one offering their wares. I know for certain that many of them know me by sight now, but they still come over always. They kindly point out to me the fact that I am white (despite the fact that this is a tan for me), and say nice things like "Guapo", which is meant for a man, not a woman. But it can´t be easy being illegal in a country that despises foreigners as much as this one.

I don´t think I will ever get used to the staring though. Not only do they stare, but if you say anything or stare back, you often get a look of utter disgust and despising(the older women), blatant leering (the older men), or sneering nonchalance(the youths), a hard one to pull off at the best of times. I think I will invest in a brownpaper bag.

What I want to know is...

Is someone updating/editing my blog? I mean, I know I curse loads but they´ve been removed, and some put a-correct-way-backward (and yes that is a word) accent on Montpellier...
I also want to know how to make a living with out having to make money, for those of you who want to help...

"Have MERCY,"as Muddy Waters would say...

This last weekend was the Festival of Le Mercé in Barcelona, a festival, apparently in honour of our Lady of Mercy who freed the city from a plague of locusts in the 1600s, but only after the entire town prayed to her. Very apt really, as it is a non-stop party for 3 days and nights, and the whole world decends on Barcelona rather like a plague of locusts.

Luckily for me, I was off this weekend. So the first night I managed to more or less avoid the festival as I went for a meal in a friend´s house (into which I will be moving, come October) . But at about 12 we went out into the madness and made our way up to the club off Rambla Catalunya called "City Hall". We got in for free as the lads knew someone inside, which is just as well as I am flat broke. For those of you in the know, "City Hall" is rather like the club "Spirit" in Dublin. I think it even used to be an old cinema, and is now a raving madhouse (like my pun?) for some several hundred local and international nutters. It has a lovely wee terrace out the back where the barman gives a smoldering look of incomprehension to every lady there and people squash into benches and knock drinks over whilst moving plastic chairs betweens the vines and trellis. It´s a great place if you want to get picked up...

On Saturday night I went to experience the full force of the festival. I went on the hunt for some cheap alcohol (78 cent a bottle m´dears) and came across a rather spectacular set of street drummers who were throwing fireworks around in the middle of the crowd. It is all the more amazing that no-one gets hurt, but fireworks in your face seem to be part of the norm here....anyway, soon afterwards I met with my friend Darren and we went down to Rambla de Ravel and watched a fantastic Senegalese band, followed by some good but not as good band. The only criticism I have of Le Mercé is the lack of programmes floating about: I saw several great acts and have no clue who they were!

We then decended into a tiny club on Ravel called Zentraus. This is one of my favourites despite the fact I´ve probably misspelled it, and is a free-in club which is usually empty before midnight and goes on til about half three. The music ranges from dance to techno, but they mix in the maddest stuff, like metal, jazz, and random samples such as manical laughter. After a drink we decided to make the trek down to Forum, which is slightly outside the city centre along the beach, to the northeast or east. The metro ride was unforgettable. I usually hate crowds, but it was like being on a school-bus, with people shouting songs at the top of their lungs, and thumping the metal roof of the train in time to their hoarse singing. I´d great craic.

Forum was a spectacular riot of lights as a fairground streched its way in front of me. Somehow it all looked more exciting in the black night, with the thumping of various stages in the background. Candyfloss was doing a brisk trade, as were those strange topsy turvy upside rides, of which I had to have a go. I was worried I might get sick as I had drunk quite a bit by then, but instead I dissolved into laughter as I was thrown about and had fountains shot into my face by quite possibly the most fun ride ever...

The music was amazing also. The first two stages were a bit rubbish, although I´d great fun hopping around and taking the piss out of stage number two, with the hip-hop band saying things like: "Hello Ba-Ce-Loona! Yo, whaddup! I oughta slaughta yo´daughta´ wid wate´..." and that kind of cack. But the last stage was great, with my personal favourite, Cycle, doing an amazing show that left everyone talking about them, and also Rhinoceros, from Montpèllier, who were pretty good too. We met our metro-carraige-mates again and had a great reintroduction, and generally hopped around like lunatics til we had to go home.

I highly recommend this festival to everyone, as it has everything from waltzes, to raves, egyptian music, samba, african music, fireworks (I missed the pyrotechnics festival on Sunday due to the rain, alas), and all-night metros. It is incredible how many people there are around, but somehow it´s not so bad when you know it´s not locusts...

The Phantom

I came home last night after a 40 minute walk in a thunderstorm of enormous preportions. It is strange when you unlock the door to a place which used to contain two and find only the slightly musty smell of your own damp clothes mixed with the eerie light of being alone.
I started to clear up the remains of my life and a little yellow post-it caught my eye. It was a crude picture with the words "THE PHANTOM" scrawled beneath. I had to laugh.
"THE PHANTOM" started life in a working class school in Dublin´s south-east.One day in the canteen, one of the teachers lifted a cup, only to discover a tiny picture of a penis drawn with tippex, with the words "THE PHANTOM" next to it. From these humble beginnings, the phenominon exploded. Teachers would pull down screens only to see a giant phantom, walls were covered in phantoms, and he even got inside of books and on photos.
I phoned Dani today to tell him I had found 7/8 little phantoms in the flat. "Huh, that all?"he snorted. He has apparently left about 30. Hehe. I can´t wait to go home and find them all...

The sky is crying

The weather in Barcelona is beautiful. Either the sun is splitting the rocks, or the rain beats down complete with massive thunder and lightening storms.
Dani went home yesterday. We went out the night before, and he drank himself stupid. He was to meet me in a local pub, but he ended up missing his train, and for a horrible half an hour I had no clue where he was or if I´d ever see him again, as my phone was completely dead.
I joined him down in Port Olympico where he proceeded to skive free drinks off everyone and we danced and it was lovely. I dragged him home at 6am and we woke up late for his flight, but not too late.
"Dani, get up! You´ll miss your flight!". No,hehehe. He lay in bed giggling and refusing to move and laughing like a bold child. When I finally got him into the taxi he kept telling the driver how drunk I was and threatening to get sick. He made everyone in the airport laugh as they tutted in disgust at me for supposedly being drunk...
When I came home I discovered millions of notes from Dani and "Jake", which they had hidden all over the place. It reminds me of the time I put notes in a certain someone´s socks...it is really funny though finding them, and I have been too busy to really feel sorry for myself yet.
I also heard from my best friend who is alive and well in Brazil, which is great. Today seems to be the day that many people are hearing from good friends finally...
I´m off to try find the festival in Poblesec but the only problem is it was scorching when I came in and now it is lashing down...

What being Irish is about...

I watched the Ireland France match in a pub called MacCarthy´s on Via Laeitana. Somehow we were in the midst of the French fans, and you can imagine my despair when, after a perfectly promising start, France scored against us. I really felt we deserved more, but that´s football.

Then suddenly, in the middle of a quiet spell of play, a banner popped up at the bottom of the screen, announcing that Northern Ireland were winning 1-0 against England. The entire pub errupted, with all the Irish launching their fists into the air screaming and jumping in delight. The poor French lads stared on in utter incomprehension. That´s what being Irish is about...

My Bathroom

Let me take you on a trip to my bathroom:

You enter the door on Calle Brosoli (or Broccoli, as we like to call it) and climb the terracotta stairs. The door after the red gloss barred window is mine, and you turn the key anticlockwise to unlock it. As you stoop under the lintel to enter, you see what looks like a frosted glass window on your right. Open the rubber-sealed window to a sea of fruit flies, and discover a step leading into the world´s smallest bathroom.

The bathroom is concrete with a toilet in the centre, and a strip of pink waterproof wallpaper on the right wall. You cannot stand in this room, but instead perch on the toilet and look to the shower fixture next to you to see how it works. From your throne, you can perform your ablusions, but beware, as getting out is tricky when you are wet and bent over and having to jump down a step.

Today I went to the bathroom to discover a note on the front of it saying something like:
DO NOT ENTER
Closed due to murder investigation.
No unauthorised personnel.
By order of Jake.

Jake is Dani´s, for want of a better word, alter-ego. I opened the door. Four yellow post-its marked the wall.

Name: Marty McFly
Cause of Death: Giant flipflop
Foul Play Suspected.

Name: Barney Blue-bottle
Cause of Death: Suicide
Do not move

....and so on.

The Shadow of the Wind

Carlos Ruiz Zafon wrote this beautiful story about Barcelona which was recommended to me by my mother. It is the story of a boy called Daniel and the Cemetary of Forgotten Books.

I have no books to read anymore, so Dani went out and decided to buy me one. Entrigued by his namesake on the cover, he bought me "The Shadow of the Wind". I had been planning to buy it as I only read it once and loved it, but he was upset I´d already bought it and tried to get me to return it. But I like it especially because he bought me it. I wandered around Barcelona anew, searching for the paths of the characters and remembering some of the history as I passed old churches and buildings.

Sometimes when I come home, I say to Dani "Would you like me to tell you what you did today?" and then I recount the tale of the shadow of the wind...

La Tomatina

There is a village near Valencia called Bunol, where on the last Wednesday in August the locals celebrate by throwing a tomato festival. Somehow, this fruit fight celebrates the Virgin Mary, perhaps the origin of the Bloody Mary drink? In any case, if there is one thing that you do in your lifetime, try and do this.

It took us about 4 hours to drive from Barcelona to Bunol, along the main highways. Every 15 minutes is tolled in Catalunya, but once you enter Spain the tolls stop. The final extraction is 18 euro for the pleasure of being stopped by the border police. None of us were carrying passports of course, but the policeman was not interested in interrogating a mixed bag of Irish, Dutch, Catalan and Taiwanese citizens. I felt like asking for my money back.

We were staying in the village of Yatoba just down the road from Bunol. The village is one of tiny one-car streets and carts loaded with carob. The one shop there seemed to be located across from our luxurious B&B. I am still in awe of places with seperate towels for your body and your hair. It was here I discovered we were actually staying a few days, and having failed to tell my work, I promptly phoned and grovelled and begged and sorted it out.

Dani discovered that what sounds like "sin yellow" in Spanish actually means without ice. Apparently he has been going mad with customers in the bar asking for drinks "sin yellow" and pointing at the yellow ice bucket. The poor lad didn´t know what to do when he put the ice from the yellow bucket into the drink only to have the customers get even more frantic. He finally resorted to shouting "Yes I know it´s yellow! My t-shirt is red, and this is blue!" Having found out that it has an actual meaning, he proceeded to order all our food "sin yellow", confusing the humourless and reducing the others to writhing masses of tears and laughter. I think he likes his status of crazy man.

La Tomatina starts off with an all-night music festival. We wander down determined to enjoy the night before the fight, and within seconds I realise I am the only one dressed in shitty rags, as everyone else obviously intends to get changed in the morning. Oh well. I stuff a kebab into me and some surprisingly drinkable malibu and coke, and we explore the cobbled streets of Bunol. Everywhere there are temporary booze tent club things set up, with a funfair and guys selling goggles and clothes in anticipation of the revelry ahead. Some locals behind pig masks honk and snort furiously as they watch us pass and others bring out the kids for the night. At the end of the village we find an open air concert which is supposed to go on til 10am. They serve breakfast at 9 for all the visitors. We dance and I discover a set of swings just the right height for me and spend a good hour playing on it until some Italians come along and frighten me off by speaking to me in German.

The music´s good and we´re having the craic, but we start tiring eventually and Luis suggests going back to the car for a kip. Himself and Vivian manage to stretch out okay in the front seats but neither Dani nor myself are particularly short, so after realising that we can´t even fit into the car, we decide to find a nice bit of mountain under the fig and orange trees where we can sleep.

Sleep is predictably short especially when Dani realises he´s on the menu for a particularly ugly cross-eyed fly that he catches tucking into his arm. With a yell of alarm we are up and walking along the backroads just looking at the area. The mountains rise and fall on either side and the orange clay reflects the dim light of a hesitant dawn. At 9 we reluctantly return to the car to wake Vivian and Luis and head into the Tomatina.

The streets are packed and we end up in what turns out to be the main square of the event. I don´t feel so raggidy as now everyone is wearing old t-shirts and clothes. In the main square we find a telegraph pole has been erected with a leg of ham tied to the top of it. All the locals are attempting to climb it but it´s proving difficult due to the lack of grip from the grease-covered pole. Dani and Luis decide to try and I content myself with taking snapshots of my boyfriend being killed as he gets a boot in the nose, cheek and shoulders. Bunol is also treated to a long look at his lilywhite arse as one scoundral clings to his tracksuit bottoms. Eventually he returns, grimy, stinking, greasy, grinning. The locals are furious because an outsider eventually wins the ham despite all the underhand tactics employed by their teams of allied families.

At eleven o clock, the square is becoming frantic. The water that the locals have been throwing down from their apartments at us increases in volume, and suddenly I find my clothes are being torn and hurled at the cameramen. Shouts of "Tomatoes, tomatoes.." start filling the air and the next thing I know I am being squashed to the side of the square as a huge lorry of tomatoes pulls up and dumps its entire loads at my feet. First in is the bauld Dani, as I hang onto the bars of a window in desperation. But I get pushed down, and someone falls on top of me. Convinced I am going to sufficate, I bite him as hard as I can in the bum, and he gets up, quick smart. What the hell am I doing here, I think to myself. Five minutes later, I am laughing like a maniac and pelting tomatoes at the world like everyone else.

I cannot describe the sheer mayhem of a tiny town filled with 40,000 people killing each other with 130,000 kilos of tomatoes (that´s 6 lorries). Within one minute everyone is covered in tomato, as are the streets. The place is so jammed that you are hit with tomatoes non-stop pretty much from start to finish. Any poor guy who is taller than average or wearing a baseballcap or carrying a camera automatically becomes a main target. I lose my shoes within the first minute, and Dani runs over to tell me he had 100 quid in his sock but he´s lost it. I know he´s upset so I tell him to worry later and send him off again. He is a great shot and hits many of the cameras up on the balconies. I laugh uncontrollably all the way through, and realise I am having a great time. Where we are has 2 feet of mushed tomato, and I wade around on my knees looking for the unsquashed ones that have sunk to the bottom. I miraculously find one of Vivian´s flipflops. Then I decide to dump Dani into the mess, realising too late that he´ll mince me. Sure enough, I get thrown in, pausing on the solid surface for a minute before eventually sinking into the gloop.

Eventually fireworks signal the end of the fight. But we seem to be in the thick of it, and it goes on for half an hour or so more, before people lie back and swim or row through the mess. Dani gallops over with a smile the size of a mountain. He picked up some gloop to hurl at someone, and found 100 euro! And it is a different 100 euro note than the one he lost! I stare at the rivers of tomato being hosed into the sewers in despair. Still, at least we got our money back!

Trudging through town we stop only to have our photo taken by a woman safe up high in her apartment as her husband stands below dejected in his tomato trousers. Most of the street is already clean, and we have missed the showers. So we head up to the river and jump in, before heading back to the car and Yakoba.

Our clothes are absolutely destroyed and Einstein and me have to go get more in the store across the street. A shower reveals a body covered in spots from the acidic tomatoes, with the surprising news that someone (Luis) managed to put 6 whole tomatoes down my trousers, that my ears are still full with tomatoes, and that my hair will never be the same again.

Our first meal, and I kid you not, is spaghetti with a sauce that can only be made from collected tomato mush from the streets of Bunol...