Ravalution

I'm laying on the twisted comforter of a wood-soft bed, waiting to move from my first apartment in Barcelona. Almost as though the Raval knew I was leaving it brought out its storytelling best. This afternoon, as I turned a corner to Carrer Leo, the street perpendicular to mine, Carrer Cardona, 4 policia were questioning a drunken woman sitting on a potted plant, while five gaunt drunken men looked on debating about whatever event had just taken place, and, in pure Spanish fashion, two neighbors poked their heads from two small windows above a store sign commisserating over their account of what had just happened. It seems that whatever happens in Barcelona, there are always witnesses and they all have and want to share their perspective of life events. Sure enough, if a bottle opener doesn't work, or you've lost your way in a barrio, a committee of 3 or more Catalonians form to extend their opinion, their belief, their account, their method. Generally, this makes whatever you'd like to happen take longer, but everyone does get a chance to be right, to be heard. Such is the artists' way. As I left one scene to turn onto Cardona, I walked into a movie set. A film crew had set up right in front of my apartment building, hushing the passersby, cursing at the garbage trucks ("Este BASURA!"), and clapping after every take. After snapping a few photos of the filming, I went up to pack my things and watch the filming from my balcony. In one scene, a long-haired Spanish actor snapped at his pixie short-haired leading lady on the corner..Once the scene was finished they kissed and hugged as though to reassure one another they were still friends; it was just pretend. The duende, the spirit, the devil, the nervous energy and ceaseless passion of the people here is so palpable, they scare one another. They love and cry and bite their nails and smoke and talk with all their being. It is like being around sophisticated babies. Not a day passes where I don't see couples kissing and someone crying.
I signed up for an open mic at the Inusual Project, an artists' space around the corner from my flat. Clowns, filmmakers, storytellers, and me, jazz-singing and networking. Last night, my new friend, Siejie, came out to show her support, and afterwards we went to a spot with a fat rubenesque statue on the bar, then to a hookah bar, and dancing. I worked it out with a light-footed Sengalese man..then hoofed it home at 3am..I will miss the spying walls of this neighborhood..like a rambling church with rivers of sky witnessing the clapping, the pulsing, the fury factory of Barcelona's artist's core.

Clacketas

When one is wondering why she abandoned her queensize bed in kingsize California for the miniature discomforts of an alien land, I find it is best to get ones clacketas out of the closet and partake in the best Spanish lesson of your life...tap dancing. Severine mentioned last week she would be taking clacketas and before I thought about it I was in a warehouse studio, encircled by drums and dancers who smoke like they're on the set of Fame doing a "tooka tooka, ta da ta da" (that's a like a Spanish kick- ball change). Leave it to me to get down with an American dance in Flamenco land. But, Flamenco and Tap are sister dances and this is a good way for me to ease into Flamenco, when the price is right. The teacher - a spindly, wild-light-sky-eyed, gritty voiced 40-something woman with whisky on her breath demands perfection "Valle Valle Valle! Otra vez!Punta! Talon! Punta!Talon!" - "OK OK OK! Once again! Toe! Heal! Toe! Heal!" She figured out I'm American and asked me how to say preparar in English, then mocked my accent "PRRREPAAARRRE!" But it was in flirty fun, and the women, the people here in Spain, are very pointed, to the point, direct. They don't coddle you, they say, "Tell me!", "Follow!", "Put it here!". Spanish is a simple language - masculine in a way- there is nothing to hide. Then, the class took a smoke break. There is an immediacy here, a passion, and at the same time the desire to rest and enjoy all that is sensual, all that is the best in life: food, sex, music, art.
So, my ESL certification course ended, and it was, I daresay a waste of my experienced time, since I was hired for 5 hours of teaching before the curse, I mean course, was over. I'm now teaching adults on Saturday mornings for 3 hours, and have 2 hours with 5 year olds on Friday evenings. So, Fridays I have my hand up a Donald Duck puppet's ass, and Saturdays I'm using Nina Simona to teach the Present Perfect tense. Needless to say I had a pinch of a nervous breakdown with teaching and finishing the course so last week I split Barcelona post haste in search of another version of Spain and found Girona, a city almost 2 hours north by train. I wandered the medeival alleys of the sloping city, had my first taste of first-rate tapas (Who knew a piece of bread topped with a cheese cup filled with seafood salad and shrimp was tapas?), and met Sinead, a world-travelling Dublin-ite who became my travel mate for the next few days. We were essentially planning the same trip for ourselves, from Girona to Figueres with the Dali's Teatre Museu, and then on to the coast, except I wanted a bike trip on Spain's Vias Verdes (Green Ways - bike paths that follow the old train routes in Spain and are best for mountain bikes), and Sinead thought that was a wee crazy. So, On Monday, I set out for the coast on a heavy rented mountain bike, and squeaked my way through farmlands, vineyards, some hunters with bloodhounds...until I came upon a small town on a hill topped by a church. I saw droves of people parking on the grass by the bike path, and police officers ushering old couples across the streets. Somehow I knew I had to go where the old people were going, so I tore my tortured bottom from my bike seat, and followed.Up the cobbled steps into a square where artisans were crafting baskets, signs, glass knick-knacks, then further up steps to crepe stands, honey,cheese, wine, olive, and mushroom vendors, and further still to a courtyard packed with people eating under awnings and drinking cava, Spanish champagne. I took a moment to sip some champagne, and as I looked at the sausage and mushroom tapas that were skewering a loaf of bread, I realized this was a mushroom festival! That's why there were these enormous banners adorned by adorable happy mushrooms. Locking my bike behind a kindly olive vendor, I settled into the festival, listened to a local band, watched 20 old women fashion ornate lacewear, and poked around several live birds of prey (a white owl and a hawk among others) that were on display. 2 hours later, with a gentle Cava buzz and mushroom preserves in my pack, I left the town. I made it to the coast in about 3 more hours, just long enough to run into the Mediterranean in my underwear, then squeak the 5-hour uphill return trip. Thankfully, I made it back to Girona by dusk amid feeding bunny rabbits and bats. Since I returned my bike 3 hours later than I thought I would, I asked the rental clerk if I could pay for 24-hour usage rather than 11 hours because it was 1 Euro cheaper. He told me he was very uncomfortable with "these kinds of negotiations". I told him I was sorry for him. He gave me the cheaper deal.
The next morning, Sinead and I packed up and headed toFigueres for a few hours. Sinead had gone to Dali's Museu on the previous day, so while she was shopping and citadel-seeing in Figueres, I was playing on Dali's stage.

Porn

After 11:30 PM, every night, 4 of the 12 channels I have on the bite-size TV in my shoebox size flat show 3 screens of simulcast porn. Graphic menages, fisting, stripteases, whatever my up-late ass wants. Yes, the people here are passionate. Maneuvering around lip-bound couples and men wailing gitano songs to one another while children pee along the sidewalk. It is an awake, blunt, brittle culture of the heart. I may have passed 6 weeping women in the 12 days I've been here.
What else? I'm in class at least 10 hours a day, getting refreshed on grammar and classroom management..so, I'm essentially understimulated and wondering when I can get away from English and practice my spanish and flamenco while exploring spanish cuisine with my undoubtedly smoldering future Spanish boyfriend.
Of course, I've already had 2 potential suitors...the first on my first day here, Ecalba, a security guard at the supermercado who immediately gave me his phone number and asked when I would call. Suitor #2 has higher prospects as he is a sailor, skier, diver, and world traveller! Yesterday he gave me a photo of himself, man-kini clad, on his sailboat. He's got a hot bod for a 76-year-old grandfather! Keep your mitts off him grrls..Salvador is one of my Elementary level English students. He generously brought me photos and maps of Costa Brava because he wants me to love Spain as much as he does. The folks in the English classes I've taught are all around Salvador's age with a youthful sense of adventure and crisp style. The elderly are out interacting, wearing lipstick, drinking in pubs, spending days with their friends on the beach and in the park, not shut away..It is refreshing and encouraging to see soo many elders interacting with life here. Stephan, my instructor, thinks it may have to do with the familial bonds that are inherent in Spanish culture. Grandparents live with the family, families stay together, visit one another often. Salvador sees his extended family every week...
Meanwhile, Arda also has two lovers...2 nameless Spanish mynx's he's already bent over. Perhaps I'm getting old...I know I am already in the friend zone with this cutie. But it's all good, more room for the Spaniards to move on in.
So classes are dull and task-heavy. I've barely seen the city! No Sagrada Familia, or Montjuic, or museums. This morning, after having gotten lost in the vortexian Raval countless times, I finally found the way from my flat to the beginning of Montjuic Park and caught a glimpse of Barcelona's steeples above futuristic silver domes and snaking city hallways.
The Raval is like Barcelona's maze-y Mission District. Cheap "Paki" shops (run by Pakistanis) sell dollar items and questionable produce. Yet there are rows of high-end vintage shops, original designers, arts spaces, and independent theaters. Last week, a narrow, dark-haired nymph in a olive green gown carrying a basket of bread walked past me. I quickly realized I was walking through a photo shoot. Progressive Spanish fashion headlines news stations. When I'm working I'll invest in shoes, tiered dresses, but not the bullshit, blousy gypsy-pant trend.
Write more later..time to deliver lesson number 2...Speaking and Reading...I'm about facilitate a debate about prostitution with 70-year-olds...

Lentil Salad

I'm eating one, at Cafe Fidel, a block from my flat, 7:30 pm..2 and a half hours before Barcelona's acceptable dinner time. Restaurants, bars, are only beginning to awaken, and will truly come to life between midnight and 2am. So so so so..each moment I'm switched, puzzled, flipped between.."hmm, I could have a go at this, learn spanish, take the Barcelonian theatre world stormwise, and ooooh! look at those cute fucking boots!". Then, like this morning, when I awoke with a cramp in my left leg from sleeping on a cardboard bed, and I show Severine (I know my roommate's name, now) pictures of "home" with vast dramatic oceans, minty redwoods, and blissful loving friends..I think, why did I fucking MOVE here! Why not visit..take a sabbatical..travel Europe..Why did I leave it all to make something else? I was building theater, life, career, community and broke it down to sit in a classroom with potential English teachers who don't know about pronouns, to live in a city who considers beautiful running and bike paths to be those alongside smokestacks and massive discotecs...oooh the lushness of California, Hawaii, Portland have spoiled me..I can breathe there. But I did want an urban experience, I was thinking about moving to New York, this might've been a stopover to another playground. But today, in EFL classes, smiling 70-80 year-old Barcelonians, with their inquisitive eyes and smart jewelry reminded me of what drew me to this place, to European sophistication and ancient multiculturalism..style, art, curiousity. The elderly here sit in the park, talk to one another, dress as though they're employed, look you in the eye. My beautiful Turkish friend, Arda Esol, who is not only an ex-sea captain, but a model/singer (aren't they all, darling?) reminds me, daily, that if I hadn't done this, if I'd stayed in the fresh beauty of my known life, I'd wonder about here, and I'm only here 6/7 days. Patience! So, this is a lesson of my life..I've cultivated patience for children, for friends, for family, where is that wellspring for myself? Patience to allow myself to become.
And this city is charming, despite its ugly beaches, with underground bars in the elbows of cobbled alleys, full cups of red wine lining the filigreed streets, colorful smatterings of vintage shops, herbal gooderys, and blue-eyed, brown, lithe Castellanos. There is more to crack and more of me to be cracked here..hopefully my bed won't be the first to break me down.

Bhaah! I'm in Barcelona!

Well..mostly...I've been sleeping through the past day and a half..So, Arturo dropped me at SFO which turned into a luggage revamping session since both of my bags were overweight and then Iberia wanted to charge $150.00 for one small "extra" bag. SO..thank god Art was still there, we consolidated my computer and clothing into one carry on and he smooshed some pants into what was once my laptop case..I, like Heidi on her journey to grandfather's home in the mountains, wore 2 sweaters and a jacket with my sarong wrapped round my neck like a festive scarf...all in all I paid $25 for one bag with extra weight and spent the 3 consecutive flights sweating and trying not to alienate those around me with my bursting bags...the sweaters did make for lovely cushions...the flights were relatively incident free with about 40 minutes of lag time between each. Somewhere between Chicago and Madrid I started to wonder whether my luggage was following me, but since I hadn't had time during the stopover to check on my bags let alone go to the bathroom I put my trust (gulp!) in the airlines..Iberia was a distinctly pleasurable flying experience equipped with 2 meals..Dinner included a free small bottle of red wine (I almost asked for a second one to help me fall asleep)...and lean, raven-haired flight attendants. The most frustrating part of the journey was the stopover in Madrid, where, sweating, swearing, and fatigued I grappled with my 2 bags across a 23 minute journey (signs kept me updated as to how many minutes I had to walk to get from Terminal R to Terminal J..according to whose pace is this timing?, I wondered) from one terminal to the next. Just before terminal J, I went through security again, and, unlike the US, patrons are given shallow tubs to put their valuables and then must CARRY these shallow tubs to the Xray station. SO I'm pulling my suitcase and balancing 2 shallow trays while wearing 2 sweaters, a scarf, a coat, and a backpack...ummm, I was ready to rage like a Spanish 3rd grader: "Muy mal! Su sistema es muy dificil!" .Translation: "Very bad! Your system is very difficult!" First spanish language goal: Learn curse words! I tottered through security and made my flight..tore off my layers and passed out my moist forehead sealed to the window. When I awoke, an hour later, Barcelona beamed at me..dry, hilly, with the modest Meditteranean lapping the shoreline...oooh...I miss San Francisco! No! I'm doing this! I walked through the airport, stopped to reconfigure my belongings and attempt (unsuccessfully) to use the internet. I found an ATM, bought a shot of rocketfueled espresso, and called the INTESOL coordinator Stephen Holden who told me to meet him at a cross street in front of the computer mega store PC City in Barcelona in 45 minutes. OK...ok..At this point, my luggage was the last remaining on the carousel and a generous airport employee passed me a free luggage cart. After a 30 Euro taxi ride wherein I had my first Spanish conversation and learned about my drivers 2 sons, I arrived in front of PC City, realizing I don't know what Stephen Holden looks like, when he arrived, hugged me, welcomed me to Barcelona, and introduced me to Arta, an adorable 26 year old Turkish sea captain who is one of my classmates. Arta and Stephen walked my luggage and I down the ornate, narrow alleys of El Raval district, dripping with bright fabrics, laundry, and bustling with dogs, mopeds, and prostitutes. WE came to my flat, hiked up what was supposed to be 4 flights but felt more like 6 because of the skinny twisting stairway and dropped my bags in my SPACIOUS (in the sense that it's about half the size of my room in Oakland) room with a foot wide balcony. Glimmery afternoon light dressed the golden walls of the small apartment. My French roommate, Sevical (I think that is how you spell it), arrived just then, looking narrow, sleek-haired and gloomy..managed a half-smile to welcome me and showed me a kitchen with 2 hot plates,and a toaster oven. The space will do well for now. There's a lot of light in the essentially 3-room space...one combination kitchen, living room, my room, Sevical's meagre room ( she sleeps on a single metal-rimmed sled shaped bed and has been for the past 2 years she's lived there..what?!?), and a bathroom. When I saw the dingy, massive dormitory space that Arta's living in I felt grateful for my room, although I'm not ready to start hanging artwork just yet. At 2, Arta and I planned to meet for celebratory drinks at 8. I slept on my unmade bed for 4 hours, showered, unpacked a bit, and Arta arrived promptly at 8. We walked through the warm early evening, smiling and buzzing about the similarity of our journey here. He was bored with work, drawn inexplicably to Barcelona, wanting to be fluent in Spanish. Two essential differences between us is that he has disposable income, and is a pretty-faced, muscular sea captain. We found a wine bar, Schillings, and had some wine toasting to our adventure and to finding gainful employment. We walked the streets admiring the prostitutes and the ceaseless city squares with their fountains, palm trees, and towering, long-windowed baroque and gothic apartments. The city reminds me of a cleaner Jerusalem, a humid Paris with dark-skinned passion players. We made it to the wharf where patrons dined on seafood on restaurant boats, and Africans sold fans, scarves, and flying blue lights. We stopped at the LP Bar, decorated with records and playing the Rolling Stones, then decided to buy falafel, red wine, and snacks and continue our conversation at my flat. After meandering for over an hour we found my apartment again..his sense of direction rivals mine...then drank more, talked about Burning Man, about living a self-reflective life, pushing yourself to not remain comfortable, to risk adventure. I like him. We planned to perform in the streets together, he plays guitar and sings. He left around 2AM, I was drunk and stayed up til 4. In CA it was 7PM. I cleaned up the flat before Sevical returned. When I awoke at 4:00 pm today, Sevical observed that I liked to sleep, and gave me some flat rules such as never putting opened red wine in the fridge ("This is like insanity for me"), and being sure to turn off all lights as in my drunkeness I had forgotten to turn off the living room light. I offered for us to make dinner tonight together, at 10 pm, which is an average dining hour, then made my way past the touristy cobbled boulevard, Las Ramblas, to a vegan restaurant with internet access and fresh smoothies. I'm here now writing to all of you, wondering what I'm doing, what this place holds for me, if I'll love it. I love you all and feel blessed to have such loving amazing people in my life. I can't wait to sleep again and get into this city's rhythm. It is special here, but it is not yet love for me.

Long Goodbye

This is like tearing off a band aid VERY slowly. In this month I've performed in a play, performed a marriage, had my mother, sister, and 2 cousins stay with me in my 1 bedroom apartment, and finally, over a couple of fine Sonoman wines my sister and I tore down photos, paintings, buddha heads, and books, stripped my apartment and she left to Portland. I am alone here with my records, but nearly every trace of me has been taken from this apartment. Now living in this halfway apartment, this purgatory that is no longer mine, I can leave it a little easier, knowing it was a physical manifestation of the me that moved in here 4 years ago and the me now that is ready to come undone to be the other. I feel like I am saying goodbye everyday here..to streets to cars to jasmine to san francisco to bays and my queen bed. Part of me wishes I left already and didn't linger like a phantom.

The First and Last

I'm leaving Oakland Hebrew Day School today. After 4 years. Teaching, scolding, fretting..I am out. This place held me as a womanly girl. They helped pay my way to a Masters, let me do research here, gave me Fridays off. I slept off hangovers in the Rabbi's study, went to theater camp with their grants, fell out of love here and fell back into my calling. ..writing, performing, playnig, adventuring. So today is the first day of my adventure to Barcelona into the first secure unknown I've known. Secure because I've proven to myself that I can make my way anywhere, alone, that I can hang with the hardness and voice what I want. And I want besas y suenas ...kisses and dreams ... lovers and realized visions...it's time...Now to go cry goodbyes.