Visc a Barcelona!

I flew back to Barcelona yesterday night. It has been a soft landing so far.
On the plane, in the row behind me, sat three extremely conversational elderly Catalans who immediately made me practise my Catalan skills as I eavesdropped on their conversation and reminded me of my students as their practised their English phrases.
Spain´s football World Cup quarter finals game against Germany took place while I was in the clouds somewhere between Gatwick and El Prat , but as soon as we landed, the stewardess told us the news of Spain's 1-0 victory. The passengers cheered and dug into their pockets for their mobile phones even faster than usual to check the score for themselves, chattering away happily on their way out into the terminal building.
I was met at the airpot by the Anthropologist, who made it very clear that he was happy that I had come to stay indefinitely. He joked about me looking scared and worried on my way out of the baggage claim, which I denied with a laugh. Then it occurred to me that he had thought the same of me when I first moved into the flat where we met, so although I don´t think his observation was exactly true (or maybe a little), it can't be a bad start to this new phase in our lives.
We took the airport bus to Plaza Catalunya, which, along with Plaza Espanya, was closed because of World Cup celebrations. The traffic was embellished by Spanish and Catalan flags (the goal scorer Carles Puyol being Catalan) and plenty of honking and joyous shouting filled the streets and squares. It was't as crazy as it must have been in Madrid, as the Anthropologist pointed out, what with the anti-Spanish sentiment and separationist politics in Catalonia, but there was clearly an atmosphere of festivity and happiness in the streets.
It was then that I was reminded again of the beauty of the summer nights in Barcelona: warm, humid air mixed with nauseating smells of sewage, people wandering idly on their own or in noisy groups, sitting in the squares drinking cheap beer and eating ice-cream until the wee hours of the morning.
About a year ago I left Barcelona and its filthy alleys and romantic squares, ready to try something different for a while. I am sure I will face moments where I long for the tranquility, peace and the fresh air of somewhere a bit further north again, but I'm now in Barcelona, ready to embrace it in all its frustrating, endearing quirkiness, ready to live my life here and live it as fully as possible. I am ready to dive into the deep end of Barcelona.
And Spain winning the World Cup on Sunday would just make this start even better!

In reaction to the new burka prohibitions "for security reasons" in Barcelona

What a daft way to stop your spaniel eating the milkman

As we know, one man once got on one plane in a pair of exploding hiking boots and as a result everyone else in the entire world is now forced to strip naked at airports and hand over their toiletries to a man in a high-visibility jacket.

In other words, the behaviour of one man has skewed the concept of everyday life for everyone else. And we are seeing this all the time.

Last month a Birmingham couple pleaded guilty to starving their supposedly home-schooled daughter to death. Now, of course, there are calls for parents who choose to educate their children at home to be monitored on an hourly basis by people from the “care” industry, and possibly to have their toiletries confiscated.

Then we have calls to ban sexually provocative pop videos from the television until 9pm and put Loaded magazine on the top shelf. Will this prevent teenage boys from seeing girls’ breasts? Well, whoever thinks it will has plainly never heard of the internet.

We see the same sort of overreaction to paedophilia. Just because one man in your town likes to watch schoolgirls playing netball, you must apply for a licence if you wish to take a friend’s kids to school in the morning. And I now run the risk of having my camera impounded by the police if I take pictures of my children playing on the beach.

Likewise, if I decide to take a picture of St Paul’s Cathedral I will be hurled to the ground by anti-terrorist officers and possibly shot six times in the back of the head — just because one person in Bradford once made a speech about the infidel.

We seem to have lost sight of the fact that throughout history 90% of people have behaved quite normally 90% of the time. Agatha Christie, for instance, was home-schooled and at no point was she forced to eat breadcrumbs from her neighbour’s bird table.

Of course, at the extremes, you have 5% who are goodie-goodies and who become vicars, and 5% who build exploding hiking shoes and starve their children to death.

It’s this oddball 5% that is targeted by the tidal wave of legislation. But making it more difficult to teach your children at home will not stop kids being mistreated.

It just changes the pattern of everyday life for everyone else. This is what drives me mad.

We now think it’s normal behaviour to take off our clothes at an airport. But it isn’t. Nor is it normal to stand outside in the rain to have a cigarette or to do 30mph on a dual carriageway when it’s the middle of the night and everyone else is in bed. It’s stupid.

And last week the stupidity made yet another lunge into the fabric of society with the news that government ministers were considering new laws that would force everyone to take a test before they were allowed to keep a dog.

No, really. Because one dog once ate one child, some hopeless little twerp from the department of dogs had to think of something sincere to say on the steps of the coroner’s court. Inevitably, they will have argued that the current law is “not fit for purpose”, whatever that means, and that “steps must be taken to ensure this never happens again”.

The steps being considered mean that every dog owner in the land will have to fit their pet with a microchip so that its whereabouts can be determined from dog-spotting spy-in-the-sky drones, and that before being allowed to take delivery of a puppy, people will have to sit an exam similar to the driving theory test. The cost could reach £60, and on top of this you will need compulsory third-party insurance in case your spaniel eats the milkman.

So to ensure that someone in the north called Mick doesn’t shove his pit bull into a primary school playground to calm it down, I will now have to computerise my labradoodle and answer a lot of damn fool questions about when my dog should be on a lead.

In other words, the normality of dog ownership will be skewed. Instead of spending your free time with your pooches, throwing balls or tickling them under the chin, you will be forced to provide tea and biscuits for someone from the department of dogs while he inspects your cupboard under the stairs for evidence that they’ve eaten the cleaning lady.

This will achieve nothing good. It will ruin the enjoyment of dog ownership for millions, it will result in thousands of abandoned dogs, as people realise they can’t afford the insurance, and yet it will make no difference to men in the north called Mick, who will continue to tattoo their dogs with gothic symbols of hate.

What good did all the airport legislation achieve? None. It simply means that you and I now must get to the airport six years before the plane is due to leave and arrive at the other end with yellow teeth, smelly armpits and no nail file. Did it prevent a chap from getting on board with exploding underpants? No, it did not.

Happily, however, I have a solution to the problem, a way that normal human behaviour can be preserved. It’s simple. We must start to accept that 5% of the population at any given time is bonkers. There are no steps to be taken to stamp this out and no lessons to be learnt when a man with a beard boards a plane with an exploding dog.

Government officials who are questioned on the steps of coroner’s courts must be reminded of this before they speak. So that instead of saying the current law is “not fit for purpose” and that something must be done, they familiarise themselves with an expression that sums up the situation rather better: “Shit happens.”

-Jeremy Clarkson

The Sunday Times 07.03.2010

An afterthought on 12.6.2010

Despite having lived in 6 different countries during my life, I still have so much to learn about culture, identity and respect. It's humbling to realise that. I read over my post from two days ago and realised I wrote it feeling somewhat frustrated and a bit angry, and I feel that my intolerance came through perhaps a bit too much, especially in the part about culture and language. It can be difficult to embrace difference while juggling the many differences that fluctuate within your own identity.

I think that, as I am thinking more and more about belonging, establishing some kind of sense of community and having a network of friends and family to give their support which will be particularly important if I am blessed with a family one day, I am more and more conscious of the way I construct my identity. To some extent my identity is a case of pick and mix (although I can assure you I am by no means an extreme case), which makes for a lot of thinking as to what aspects of culture and society, and of what culture and society, you want to take on as your own and pass on to the next generation. I feel like I have spent at least 10 years mulling over this matter and only now am I starting to see myself a bit more clearly. Or so I thought.

Yesterday I was speaking with my dear anthropologist about the fact that, while I am keen to try and do something new and "settle down" a little bit more when I move back to Spain, how silly I feel about getting involved in a community that isn't mine (Gracia, Barcelona, Catalonia, Spain), and about my interest in being involved in a project to do with Latin America because, as I already pointed out, I am not from that continent. He astutely asked me why I was so keen to be involved in something to do with Latin America, and why did I think I had to get involved in working with e.g. a support group for Latin American women. Was there not something else I could do that wouldn't make me constantly question my involvement and my own identity?

I was a bit taken aback by his question. It made me realise that not only had I limited myself to a certain idea of Latin America and of being involved in some kind of community development project, I had undermined my own identity. I was trying to come up with a way of fitting a mould that I was never going to fit instead of creating a space for myself. That is not to say that I could or should never be involved in something that purely corresponds with who I am (if it were the case I don't think I'd ever find anything!). It simply made me realise that I sometimes compromise myself for no reason and seek ways of being me which maybe aren't who I am at all.

When a Colombian friend of mine said to me a while back that I was "practically Colombian", I took it as a wonderful compliment and a sign of friendship and acceptance from someone who takes pride in her country and her heritage, but also as a sign of perhaps having something of an insight to life and culture in her country. Now that the football World Cup is on, I join my Mexican friends in the pub, wear my Pumas t-shirt and support the Mexican team in some kind of desperate attempt to identify with these people who I have learned to love, but at the cost of what? At the cost of my Finnish and "other" heritage? Why do I sometimes not feel so strongly about those heritages?

For the past two months or so I have been reading and learning a lot about Colombian political systems due to the presidential elections in Colombia that have their final voting round on the 20th of June. I am also reasonably knowledgeable on Colombian education policy because of it is an integral part of the dissertation I'm working on. What frustrates me is that I probably know more about Colombian politics and education policy than about their Finnish equivalents. And occasionally I take this frustration out on my dear anthropologist, who, while taking an interest in Finland and its culture, is by no means as interested in it than he is in his own culture. And there is no reason why he should be. Having a strong interest for Latin America and having many friends and a significant other from that geo-cultural region, I sometimes I forget - as funny as it may sound- that in fact I in am NOT Latin American, never will be and should never even strive to be. Although I have learned to embrace my uprooted Finn-identity, I sometimes think that my identity is an obstacle. It of course, is NOT an obstacle. I just sometimes make it into one. I sometimes exaggerate the importance of other cultures and belittle "my" culture. And sometimes vice versa - being annoyed at people who think the Finnish language is "weird", or praising the Finnish social security system and every other possible system to high heaven.

Why is it that after all these years I still have such a love-hate relationship with my Finnish heritage? Or, better yet, why do I still struggle to find the right balance of my "other " heritage, all the many heritages and cultures that I love and can identify with due to my uprootedness? Why the imbalance?

All those cliches about getting to know yourself and finding yourself are true. It takes time to get to know yourself. It takes courage to live your life the way you want to. A dear friend of mine recently said that she was more afraid of succeeding than of failing, and I felt that at least to some extent I could identify with her feelings.

It's madness!

Why are we so afraid of ourselves?!

1492 and everything after

A confused, chaotic city, fighting back the flood of unwelcome immigrants, embracing its ugly-beautiful modernist style and its newly-found status of European tourist mecca, Barcelona reeks of history.

The Mediterranean has washed onto its Catalan shore a number of freakish figures of importance as far as "Western" history written by men is concerned. One of these figures, in all his ambiguity, depicts the hodgepodge character of Barcelona rather accurately.

Cristóbal Colón, of debatable origin, has a statue erected at the end of one of the most touristy streets in the celebrated, foul-smelling capital of Catalonia. Tourists swarm around him, capturing his image to add to their collection of uninteresting musts and soon forgotten souvenirs.

Why is he there in the middle of Barcelona, circled by cars, pickpockets and fat people with cameras?

His anglicised self, Christopher Columbus, "sailed the ocean blue" in 1492 and, according to the legend, "discovered" what is now known by some as "America". He became something of a celebrity and was received by the royals in Barcelona. Hundreds of years later, his name butchered and translated into numerous languages that claim him as their own, he remains at the top of the list of the obligatory colonisers whose names and life stories elementary school children have to memorise. That may be reason enough to be standing on top of a pole for everyone to see.

But between his travels, how did Colón feel being in Barcelona, a famous stranger walking around the piss-infected streets in his purple robes and heavy hat? Faded by the Atlantic winds, did he have the strength to go and climb up the steps of the royal court to greet the King and Queen? Did he sneak out to fuck the prostitutes in the shadows of El Raval, just to get a breath of fresh air from the stuffy alleys within the city walls? Did he drink fermented sugarcane juice from his own little bottle in a bar with an Arabic name? Did he, bleary from his voyage, want to just curl up into a ball and drown himself in the caresses of the rum-coloured woman he had left behind?

The tourists won´t leave him alone. He remains there on top of the pillar, a lonely creature longing to escape the circus, his stoney eyes looking across the waves, his accusing finger pointing at the sea.

Important dates and learning experiences

It´s been three years today since 11-M, the bomb attacks on the commuter trains in Madrid. It was all over the news today, obviously. They´ve also put up a monument para no olvidar. I probably would have forgotten all about it had I not bought the Sunday paper. But I do remember seeing it all over the news when it happened. I was still in Scotland and at that point toying with the possibility of going to Spain.
It was also International Women´s Day on Thursday. I completely forgot about it until the evening when my friend Katja reminded me.
Another less significant day on the grand scale of things was on Saturday - Barcelona and Real Madrid played in Camp Nou here in Barcelona. The last time they played was in the autumn sometime, and I went to see it at a little bar near Arc de Triomf with Leandro and Federico. This time Leandro, Valeria and I watched it on Leandro´s TV. 3-3. I´ve noticed myself becoming less of a Barcelona supporter living here. If you read the papers you´d think Barça and Madrid were the only two football teams in Spain. When I was still in school, I used to watch the Champions League with Kata and support both Barça and Madrid - the unthinkable, ignorant as I was. Now if I had to choose a team, I´d go for Villareal. Let´s face it - they have the best uniform. And they have some nice-looking players. If Raisa ever reads this she´ll roll her eyes and say that there´s more to football than the men. And she´s right. There´s the game. And the money. And the politics. And the money. And...did I mention money? Still, I enjoy watching a good game of football. In December I was lucky enough to get tickets to see Barça play. It was nice, and our seats were quite good. But the passion that I´d expected to feel and the chanting and singing crowds were almost non-existent. Silly me - we weren´t in England. Or in a Barça-Real Madrid game. Is that what it takes to heat up the crowds - an ancient rivalry? Of course there is the fact that Franco was a Real Madrid "supporter" while doing all sorts of horrible things to the Catalans. And the two biggest cities-rivalry is evident just about everywhere in the world.
I have been trying to educate myself in more than just Spanish football. I´ve been in Barcelona for a bit over six months now and it hasn´t been the easiest six months of my life. I don´t know why I thought it would be easier. After all, I´d lived in Spain before. Something that has helped me articulate my confusion and clarify a few things, as well as give me a better understanding of the history and culture of Spain is a book called The Ghosts of Spain: Travels Through a Country´s Hidden Past. It´s a book by a British journalist, Giles Tremlett, who has lived in Spain a good wee while. I´m usually a bit sceptical when it comes to books like that, "history made accessible and somewhat entertaining with personal anecdotes". I don´t know why. This book, though, I´ve enjoyed.
Maybe little by little I´m accepting some of the more infuriating things about Barcelona (and Catalonia, Spain, whatever suits your idea of being politically correct). There are a lot of things I like about Barcelona. The weather. The coffee and croissant you can get for under 2 euros. Reading El País outside (although I confess I´m not always very patient with myself when reading the paper in Spanish). There are various lovely, interesting parts in the city. There are lots of little boutiques for the times you´re feeling rich. The "Chinese shops" that sell everything are open till late. Actually, a lot of things are...but the Chinese shops have a special something. There are a great deal of other things that I appreciate about the city. But the things that drive me mad are people pushing, not queuing, shouting...maybe living in quieter places for too long has made me forget that it´s actually not a crime to sit next to a stranger at the metro stop when there´s plenty of room on the bench, but I´m still not used to it. Still, there are things that I´m learning to accept and appreciate little by little. And I quite like Julio Iglesias now, so that´s definitely something!
Back to learning - a couple of weeks ago Leandro and I had the opportunity to delve into European history when we visited Berlin. Well, we didn´t quite delve, but it was another learning experience even during the brief 4 days we spent there. The city has so much history it´s overwhelming. The Wall, The Holocaust Memorial...On a lighter note, though, another overwhelming fact was the tranquility of the city. After Barcelona, Berlin felt almost eery with it peaceful streets. It was refreshing. The sovietic feel of East Berlin still lingered, and I would have liked to have seen even more. Maybe I´ll go there again one day, but in the summer, as it´s bound to be even more interesting then.