Esperando Verano

All the catalas, the barnas the giris (gringos) and everyone in this town (for whatever reason) is waiting for the sun to come. It's weird, you can feel the tension, the slight disbelief that although the weather is in English terms pleasant the sun has yet to bake down in that arrogant fashion that bodes the beginning of summer.

Nobody believes it, clement is not a word used this time of year, and a lot of the locals are bracing themselves to the wind and going to the beach anyway, a kind of weather denial.

I'm in a simmilar state. I'm partly settled here, I have a job a flat a few friends and a gym, but I'm also waiting for something to kick in. It's a weird sensation, I'm already yabbering in Spanish like a two year old fascinated by the sounds eminating from my mouth. I already hate tourists, they fill the streets when I'm in a hurry, bungle infront of me in queues trying to fathom the strange coin shapes in their hands. When I see them brandishing their wallets or cameras, I almost want to pickpocket them just to show them. But somehow I'm not here yet. I shouldn't hurry, it's only been two weeks. All the Spaniards rip the piss out of me for still being on London time and wanting everything now. Tranquilo Tranquilo

I'm a giri! (read that again, it doesn't say girl!) It means outsider and is used with no particular malice to refer to anyone not Spanish, and for the Catalas even Spaniards are included. It's actually quite fun. Almost everyone here is a giri, so much so that I don't know who exactly there is left to refer to us as such. My friends so far are English, Italian and Dutch, although I can still practice my spanish - their level is sufficiently higher to justify it.

Yesterday was saint George's day. I'm not sure where saint George was from , but he certainly can't have been english because the catalas hold him dear to their heart. Apparently he slaid a dragon and saved a princess (I love how easily catholicism and mysticism hang out together). To this end every St George's day (dia sant jordi) the men give their loved one a roses and the women return the favour with a book. The rose is because the pool of dragons blood legendarily sprouted them. The book is a later addition, it marks the deaths of shakespere and cervantes. It's a really sweet festival. The center is packed with wandering couples clutching books and flowers and meandering through the market stalls that spring out of nowhere. It was really weird seeing all the st George's cross flying without the accompanying strains of "Football's comin 'ome".

To celebrate there was a glastonbury style market in the park cuitadella the whole weekend, with the usual rash of shiatsu massage stalls, veggie organic fast food and trinkets. The Spanish hippie is an especially grungy version, more leather boots than spandex tights, and the place was awash with guitars and poi spinners and jugglers and a bunch of the ubiquitous beer can sellers that fill the Ramblas like pigeons. It was great fun, the sun was finally peeping out a bit and I got a break from the endless tortilla sandwhiches. I attracted some attention with my posh london poi balls, they're more into the cheapo plastiic with tails version than my gorgeous sleek velvet socks (if you have no idea what I'm talking about look up poi on google)

I cooked dinner for the English girls, my usual Ceaser salad and a newly updated risotto. All very civilised.

Last night was a different story. First a quiet drink with Alesandro, my italian philosopher friend who helped me stretch my castillano to the limits on sartre and oil politics. He's actually really cool, Hawkeye from mash with woody allen glasses and a italio-spanish accent. Then on to a party near the beach, which turned out to be an erasmus house birthday party. I had the best spanish there, but the worst costume (no-body told us it was prostitutes and pimps). Then dragged off to an extremely hippodrome style club with gratifyingly few giris where I danced the night away and tested my theory that I'm sexier when I try it on in Spanish (the juries out). I wandered home about 7am bedraggled and lost and trying to aviod the dissaproving glares of the locals who can't believe I'm giong home so early.

There's a hell of a lot of bars here, I know that's fairly obvious but it still takes getting used to. They fill up at 12 and empty after three and no-one seems to be aware of impending daylight. They must take it in turns to sleep here because I don't think I've ever seen it quiet!

Other than that life here is actually suprisingly normal. I go to work, I work, I come home, I eat (at an ungodly nine) sometimes I go out, sometimes I stay in. It's great. Apart from the ridiculous shop opening hours (I think the official timetable is any time I'm not there!), being woken up by organised tours every morning (no-one told me I was next to a roman column) and a really annoying problem with internet connections which is extremely dull, its all going hunky dory and to plan.

The summer isn't ready yet, but when it comes I'll be all set!

Love you all,

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Danny