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.