poco a poco

So I'm sat in a very nice pizza restaurant, tired after an unfeasibly long
day at work and enjoying a close approximation to a Fiorentina, and this
very annoying man starts trying to give me a flyer from a bunch he has in
his hand. I try to tell him I'm not interested, and the next thing I know
he's being manhandled by someone from the table opposite and my mobile phone
is wrenched out of his hand (the one hidden by the flyers) and given back to
me. It seems learning from your mistakes is an iterative process.

As is settling in. It comes in waves. My room is half mine now. Half my
pictures are up and there's still some bad furniture I have to ditch in one
of the side streets. The old town cobbled streets serve as many things,
unofficial second hand furniture markets, performance spaces, garbage
collection points everything really apart from useful means of
transportation. You don't really walk along them, and you certainly can't
cycle unless your one of those people who can stay on a bike while it's
stationary. The best you can hope for is to gently amble, which for a
tourist is fantastically rewarding and for a local is extremely frustrating.
I'm neither so I don't rightly mind.

I've found some lovely places to hang out and have started to make some
genuinely lovely friends. I've also completely failed to find anywhere I can
both afford to eat and like eating. Tapas is so exotic unitl you discover
that for a vegetarian it's basically mushroom omellete and chips, only on
three separate plates. The cycling is great, especially my ride home from
the office during which I basically roll down hill. The work routine is
fine, School days drag on when you have to stay working 'til at least nine
to make the hours up but it's a joy to work there. I'm the official DJ in my
office, and it seems my pathetic affection for indie is something of a bonus
here.

I've been vacillating over buying a guitar and playing in the street. I'd
love to busk, but it also feels like that would be just silly! This is my
home now and not a play thing. I do however have to buy a cajon! It's a box
with a hole in it, but in the hands of a flamenco percussionist it's a
rhythmic factory of beautiful sounds. I'm actually quite good at it, all
that irritating bongoing on demos and at glastonbury paid off. I was at a
party with a bunch of Bascos and Andalucians, and Jobi had brought along the
one he'd spent a month making. I asked if I could have a go, quietly trying
to follow the rhythm of the basco ska that the stereo was pumping out, and
ended up being the main attraction. Sr Ingles, they kept calling me,
obviously incredulous that a guiri could have the audacity to be able to
play an instrument that's never really left their culture. I can't wait to
play them my rendition of Hotel California on the charango, if I can
remember the code to my storage facility in London.

This weekend was insane. Jeff Automatic, of Barfly and garage fame, came out
to do a set at the razmataz club, which is basically the ministry of sound
out here without the been-there-done-that rustiness, and I thanked all my
new found friends for their kindness and patience by getting us all in free.
It was insane. I've never seen such an affection for ninetees music in my
life. I was horrified, I'd always thought Barcelona was cool, but it turns
out I fit right in. It's a lot to take though, the night only really kicked
off at two am and by the time I pulled my acheing body of the beach to amble
home it was gone 9! I'm too old for this sh*t (or will be in a matter of
weeks).

The bottom line is I really like it here. It's not at all what I was
expecting, but then I guess my imagined cross between the flamenco scene in
strictly ballroom, the paris of Amelie and the pacific island that Ursula
Andres emerged onto dripping in Dr No was not really possible to live up to.
It's just a city, like any other, and so it's hard to make friends, you
spend most of your time fighting banality and it smells. But they have got a
lot of things right here. Unlike in London, where I always felt any sense of
community was either a branding tool for a multinational or a demonstration
against one, there's a definite desire to make the city work and be special.
It's little things, like a transport service that's kitsch but sensible, a
well wrapped up tourist industry that respects the locals and the locations.
Things like putting mime artists outside the big clubs at 5 in the morning
comically indicating people should be very quiet and herding them to the
main road where they wont wake up residents. It's imaginative, funny and it
works a treat.

The really shocking thing though is how extraordinarily hard it is to find
Spanish speakers. At first I thought it was funny that everyone I met was
from somewhere other than Spain. Now it's actually beginning to frighten me.
I was chatting to a girl at the club and we were both yabbering in Spanish
until I asked her where she was from and she said California. When I said I
could speak English if that would make it easier she actually hugged me,
saying that she'd only understood half of what I had said and was so
relieved I was from England. Apart from being offended that she'd obviously
been humoring me while I had tried to communicate, it struck me that this
has happened to me a lot. Barcelona is full of people pretending to be
Spanish, and sometimes trying so hard they fool themselves.

I have made Spanish friends, but only through word of mouth and thanks to
Spanish friends in London. They must hide somewhere, I know there have to be
some. They couldn't have all gone to live in London. It's also making me
question why I'm here. I obviously don't expect to fit in to a foreign
culture to the point where I can have an indigenous experience but I'm
beginning to feel like I'm in the foreign legion. I don't really suppose it
matters that much, people come here because they want to be a part of
something and I'm sure there's a space in the crazy game for me. At least
I'm not fighting for deckchair space in Marbella.

I finally found some official figures and the Spanish do actually sleep the
least out of anyone in Europe. The siesta doesn't happen any more, but the
working hours are still based round it, so mostly everyone is dazed. I guess
that adds to the magic of the surroundings.

I'm not Spanish yet, so I think I will get some sleep now and put this
dammed laptop down

Buenos noches cariños

Danny (although soon to be spelled dani)