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!
Showing posts with label Spain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spain. Show all posts
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Monday, 14 June 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.
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.
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?!
Saturday, 12 June 2010
In praise of difference, (in)tolerance, the fine art of being (un-)PC, and the mysteries of a foreign language
Sometimes those who consider themselves the most open-minded and tolerant people are in fact the most intolerant ones. Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) did well in writing political pamphlets for both the Whigs and the Tories back in his day - at the end of the day, politics is a full circle where the extreme left meets the extreme right and they are exactly the same thing, exactly as good or bad as each other, with very similar political agendas.
And the same goes for tolerance and intolerance, "religion" and non-"religion" (the word "religion" in inverted commas because it is a word and concept widely ill-defined and misunderstood). What I witness time and time again is self-proclaimed tolerant people expressing intolerant ideas in the most audacious manner. By tolerance I refer to something like not interfering with or judging a person or an idea without careful consideration and respect.
Let me give you an example: a weed-smoking, apparently left-leaning woman in her late 20's with a rock n roll attitude and a passion for international relations and social justice goes on about how open-minded she is, then proceeds to slag off a small group of practicing Catholics standing in the other corner of the room. A second example: An association of self-proclaimed neo-hippies (or hippies with credit cards, a friend of mine so aptly once put it), set up a cafe where people can come and go as they please, paint, play music, sleep on the battered sofas and bring their own lunch if they want. But alas, should a person who does not fit the stereotypical hippie and who may decide to have an un-hippie bite to eat in the cafe, (s)he is asked to leave. An allegedly open-minded young professional struggling to tolerate a new acquaintance who to him/her seems completely intolerant due to his/her faith and belief system.
I recognise my own false tolerance in similar situations. To tolerate someone you think is more intolerant than you can be intolerable, but often highly necessary. I can understand intolerance. Some things simply cannot be tolerated (and by this I mean very serious things). But acceptance of and respect for even the more conservative, allegedly more intolerant people is vital. How can one be open-minded and think that their open-minded way is the only way?
Nobody wants to recognise their own intolerance.
Now, a second, related, matter that I find intriguing is political correctness. I enjoy being un-PC in certain company. You cannot make un-PC jokes around most people. I find that despite enjoying making un-PC jokes, I find it difficult to understand and - here it comes again - tolerate authentically un-PC people.
The Spanish language is full of un-PCness. It is quite refreshing. You can call your chubby friend "Fattie", your anorexic friend "Skinny", your dark friend "Blackie" and your hairy friend - well, "Hairy", or, even better, with a little twist of irony, "Baldy" (the last one I keep getting confused with as the word for hairy, peludo, and the colloquial term for bald, pelado, are different by only one vowel). And best of all, they are actually considered terms of endearment.
Now, there are elements of this example of un-PCness which I don't really appreciate. Most of it has to do with ethnic minority naming within the community. Some rather racist or at best segretationist expressions are accepted as funny expressions that form part of the language and the culture (at least in Spain).
And so now we come to the difficult part - my intolerance. I have written about the importance of tolerance. But I am actually very intolerant of some un-PC expressions and attitudes. I am intolerant of intolerance. My problem is that I struggle to tolerate intolerant behaviour, in myself and in others.
One of the things I struggle tolerating, and now we come to the culture/language part again, is a possessive, diminutive term of endearment in Spanish (to my knowledge more common in Latin American Spanish than in Spanish Spanish). For example, calling someone "my dear so-and-so" when quite clearly the person is not theirs, and possibly not that dear to them either (or vice-versa). I have had many a discussion about this topic with a very dear (and now I use the word in what I consider the true sense of the word) anthropologist I know. I can understand close friends and family calling each other "dear". Even "my" goes. I have learned to use and appreciate the "my dear so-and-so" expression to an extent, and the diminutive, "my dear little so-and-so" as well. But I don't understand why everyone calls everyone else "my dear little so-and-so". Surely if "my dear little so-and-so" applies to everyone, it applies to no-one at all! If everyone is your dear, who truly is your dear? Then again, I understand and appreciate these terms of endearment. I even know that just because someone calls another "my dear so-and-so" it often simply means that you care about the person, or that you are being patronising towards them, or, from what I have gathered (and correct me if I'm wrong), most commonly, it means absolutely nothing. But it is this what I interpret as indifference towards the spoken word that I struggle to tolerate, even though to an extent I feel I understand it as well as I possibly can as a non-native speaker. And what I struggle to tolerate is the fact that I still struggle to tolerate this. Why do I still struggle to accept the fact that ahora can mean anything from "now" to "never"? Why is it that, even if you appreciate a different way of thinking and being, do the best you can to adopt it and know that you may never truly understand, it is still so hard to tolerate such difference?
Then again, maybe I am being tolerant in this matter. After all, I want to understand. Or, better yet, I want to not care about not understanding this aspect that I get hung up on time and time again.
Perhaps I am being too hard on myself and on other tolerant wannabes out there. Perhaps I am being too hard on those who don't even want to be tolerant.
Perhaps tolerance is simply a matter of will, understanding and time combined.
Perhaps tolerance isn't the word I'm looking for.
And the same goes for tolerance and intolerance, "religion" and non-"religion" (the word "religion" in inverted commas because it is a word and concept widely ill-defined and misunderstood). What I witness time and time again is self-proclaimed tolerant people expressing intolerant ideas in the most audacious manner. By tolerance I refer to something like not interfering with or judging a person or an idea without careful consideration and respect.
Let me give you an example: a weed-smoking, apparently left-leaning woman in her late 20's with a rock n roll attitude and a passion for international relations and social justice goes on about how open-minded she is, then proceeds to slag off a small group of practicing Catholics standing in the other corner of the room. A second example: An association of self-proclaimed neo-hippies (or hippies with credit cards, a friend of mine so aptly once put it), set up a cafe where people can come and go as they please, paint, play music, sleep on the battered sofas and bring their own lunch if they want. But alas, should a person who does not fit the stereotypical hippie and who may decide to have an un-hippie bite to eat in the cafe, (s)he is asked to leave. An allegedly open-minded young professional struggling to tolerate a new acquaintance who to him/her seems completely intolerant due to his/her faith and belief system.
I recognise my own false tolerance in similar situations. To tolerate someone you think is more intolerant than you can be intolerable, but often highly necessary. I can understand intolerance. Some things simply cannot be tolerated (and by this I mean very serious things). But acceptance of and respect for even the more conservative, allegedly more intolerant people is vital. How can one be open-minded and think that their open-minded way is the only way?
Nobody wants to recognise their own intolerance.
Now, a second, related, matter that I find intriguing is political correctness. I enjoy being un-PC in certain company. You cannot make un-PC jokes around most people. I find that despite enjoying making un-PC jokes, I find it difficult to understand and - here it comes again - tolerate authentically un-PC people.
The Spanish language is full of un-PCness. It is quite refreshing. You can call your chubby friend "Fattie", your anorexic friend "Skinny", your dark friend "Blackie" and your hairy friend - well, "Hairy", or, even better, with a little twist of irony, "Baldy" (the last one I keep getting confused with as the word for hairy, peludo, and the colloquial term for bald, pelado, are different by only one vowel). And best of all, they are actually considered terms of endearment.
Now, there are elements of this example of un-PCness which I don't really appreciate. Most of it has to do with ethnic minority naming within the community. Some rather racist or at best segretationist expressions are accepted as funny expressions that form part of the language and the culture (at least in Spain).
And so now we come to the difficult part - my intolerance. I have written about the importance of tolerance. But I am actually very intolerant of some un-PC expressions and attitudes. I am intolerant of intolerance. My problem is that I struggle to tolerate intolerant behaviour, in myself and in others.
One of the things I struggle tolerating, and now we come to the culture/language part again, is a possessive, diminutive term of endearment in Spanish (to my knowledge more common in Latin American Spanish than in Spanish Spanish). For example, calling someone "my dear so-and-so" when quite clearly the person is not theirs, and possibly not that dear to them either (or vice-versa). I have had many a discussion about this topic with a very dear (and now I use the word in what I consider the true sense of the word) anthropologist I know. I can understand close friends and family calling each other "dear". Even "my" goes. I have learned to use and appreciate the "my dear so-and-so" expression to an extent, and the diminutive, "my dear little so-and-so" as well. But I don't understand why everyone calls everyone else "my dear little so-and-so". Surely if "my dear little so-and-so" applies to everyone, it applies to no-one at all! If everyone is your dear, who truly is your dear? Then again, I understand and appreciate these terms of endearment. I even know that just because someone calls another "my dear so-and-so" it often simply means that you care about the person, or that you are being patronising towards them, or, from what I have gathered (and correct me if I'm wrong), most commonly, it means absolutely nothing. But it is this what I interpret as indifference towards the spoken word that I struggle to tolerate, even though to an extent I feel I understand it as well as I possibly can as a non-native speaker. And what I struggle to tolerate is the fact that I still struggle to tolerate this. Why do I still struggle to accept the fact that ahora can mean anything from "now" to "never"? Why is it that, even if you appreciate a different way of thinking and being, do the best you can to adopt it and know that you may never truly understand, it is still so hard to tolerate such difference?
Then again, maybe I am being tolerant in this matter. After all, I want to understand. Or, better yet, I want to not care about not understanding this aspect that I get hung up on time and time again.
Perhaps I am being too hard on myself and on other tolerant wannabes out there. Perhaps I am being too hard on those who don't even want to be tolerant.
Perhaps tolerance is simply a matter of will, understanding and time combined.
Perhaps tolerance isn't the word I'm looking for.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Notes of a Delirious Woman - 21 of February 2009
Madrid.
Mental note: never go travelling alone while still recovering from tonsillitis.
Got to my incredulously luxurious hotel, had a shower, rested a little (very little) and decided to go and check out Saturday night in Sol.
Saw people dressed up as pirates, wheres waldos and other delightful creatures. Felt dizzy, failed to gobble down a hot dog and took the metro back to the hotel.
Disappointing.
Not disappointed, however, by the efficient metro system. The bigger the city, the narrower the trains.
Also not disappointed by people keeping the door open for the other person at the metro exit/entrance.
And most touched by the woman in the grocery store who would have chatted to me all evening about "breakfast biscuits" had I let her.
Ah, Madrid.
Mental note: never go travelling alone while still recovering from tonsillitis.
Got to my incredulously luxurious hotel, had a shower, rested a little (very little) and decided to go and check out Saturday night in Sol.
Saw people dressed up as pirates, wheres waldos and other delightful creatures. Felt dizzy, failed to gobble down a hot dog and took the metro back to the hotel.
Disappointing.
Not disappointed, however, by the efficient metro system. The bigger the city, the narrower the trains.
Also not disappointed by people keeping the door open for the other person at the metro exit/entrance.
And most touched by the woman in the grocery store who would have chatted to me all evening about "breakfast biscuits" had I let her.
Ah, Madrid.
Sunday, 11 March 2007
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.
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.
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