Metro Sightings

His umbrella pierced the air and tapped the ground like a cane as he gingerly stepped out of the sliding metro doors. His impeccable dark blue suit was clearly tailored to fit his short, stocky, frame. Compared to the jeans and bum style sweaters of the others getting off the Barcelona metro, he stood out as an emblem of cleanliness and superiority. His walk was slightly effeminate. More like the waddle of a mother duck. He waddled proudly with his head held high looking straight in front of him. For some reason the crowd parted and stayed parted behind him as though he were a boat with a wake. There was some commotion at the entrance to the moving escalator. People pushed up against him and around him. He was stopped there. Was he waiting for something? Or someone? He stood still, patiently and proudly. I walked up and halted in surprise. Rising to a mere 2 feet there appeared the top of a little girls head covered in brown curls. He pulled back his umbrella and gently pushed her along with it until she was standing on the escalator. He stepped on and they stood side by side looking up and ahead. I stood behind them and tried to memorize everything about them so that I could tell you after. She was wearing a red windbreaker and a checkered skirt above a pair of light blue jeans and pink Adidas tennis shoes. All these things were so tiny, they would have fit a large doll. I have never been good in judging children’s ages, but she was young and small, standing in full height, she probably reached my knee. They did not speak or even look at one another.

At the top of the first moving stairway, the man stepped off without even looking down and headed in the direction of the second escalator. Without the least bit of fear, the little girl crouched down very low and at the last moment when the moving stair was about to hit the concrete floor, she jumped up very high and landed on the floor. Without any hurry, she raised her head high and walked in the direction of the prestigious blue suited back. Again at the entrance to the second escalator, he stopped and let some people pass without in any way letting anyone know that he was with someone else. Without looking down, he used the umbrella to push her along from the back onto the escalator. At that moment, he looked up and I saw the great intelligent eyes pass over me in their Ray Ban eyeglasses. Mid way through the ride up, the girl turned and I realized, her face and eyes were exactly those of his. The eyes were large, brown, patient, and penetrating. She looked me up and down, found me uninteresting, and continued her silent ride up. At the top, he again stepped off calmly and walked in the direction of the metro exit. Again she jumped off and without rushing walked just as proudly behind him. At the exit, several people said hello to the gentleman and he returned their slightly bowed salutations with a nod. I saw him lower his hand without looking down. Without looking up, she raised hers. And swinging the umbrella back and forth along the ground the couple disappeared from view.

There had been less than 10% chance of rain this morning, could he have taken the umbrella simply for effect? By the time I had made it half way up the hill to my work, it was amazingly beginning to sprinkle and rain lightly. I imagined them together under the large umbrella and the thought kept me smiling all day.

Work Wars

Some people are irritating. Others are VERY irritating. The woman across from me at work takes it to a new level. The harder she tries to be friendly and nice, the more irritating she becomes to her co-workers. She is the reason why working in an open space environment is not productive. No one else in the room speaks on a phone. We do research. We write cases. We work. She is constantly on the phone squawking in a voice reminiscent of a dying crow. When she senses the young attractive researchers concentrating hard, she purposefully kicks out her foot causing her little wooden foot bench to scratch the floor like nails against a chalk board. Her face spreads into pure pleasure as she obviously enjoys the attention that she gets from the researchers and their contorted faces as they grab their ears in pain. When the postman comes to drop off the mail, she bubbles up with delight like a virginal schoolgirl. Her voice pierces my eardrums and no matter how high I turn up the music in my headphones, it stabs through to the inner core of my throbbing brain causing me such horrible anguish that my body convulses involuntarily. She traps the poor guy between her desk and the mail tray. He stands there for 15 min listening to her giggle about the email she sent to the wrong person this morning. I am on the verge of throwing up. I cant concentrate. I stare at her hatefully, willing her with my very soul to let the poor guy go. He sees me trying to help him. His eyes show that he too is praying the torture will end. He inches slowly towards the tray. Then she notices my stare. She stops talking abruptly. Her mouth spreads into a smile. I know she’s doing it on purpose.

Channeling Hemingway

“In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dulled and know I had to put it on the grindstone and hammer it into shape ad put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.” – Ernest Hemingway.

The previous statement should be read over and over by all of us every morning.

Only too often do we find ourselves slaving away in an office, confined to the daily monotony of working for an unappreciative boss, with no social life and no time to even think about the world and life and the wonders that lay outside our routine.  It seems that society forces upon us an existence such that we cannot stop to think about the details of our lives, for if we really did, we would be horrified. Occasionally it is people themselves who force this existence upon their very own mind, training it from a young age at school to think about money, career, and stability as “real,” and travel, poetry, and love as “dreams.” The fight against the confines of society continues.

The Bubble Couple: Third Culture Kids

I was sitting in a new little secret restaurant last night, having dinner with a friend. The atmosphere in the place was serene and removed from the fast beat of the world outside. It was located down a long tunnel into the side of a building, and though the tables were in theory still outside, the air was warm and cave-like. While enjoying the silence of company with a close friend, I began to pay attention to the people sitting around us who, like us, had managed to somehow find this new secret restaurant and were too eyeing us wondering how we had managed to share in their discovery. That was when I noticed the couple sitting against the far wall in front of us. Unlike all the other patrons, they were not looking at anyone else. They were only looking at each other. And they were not part of this Spanish world. Three things marked them as aliens: 1) their language: they were definitely speaking Thai; 2) their dress: they looked like they had stepped out of an 80s bike thriller, possibly Mad Max, which is not uncommon to find in Spain, but somehow on them it looked even more profound; 3) they did not care at all about anyone else outside their bubble. It appeared that they could have been sitting and laughing and smoking cigarettes in any restaurant in any country in the world, as long as they had each other, they were at home

It was beautiful and made me extremely sad at the same time. As a third-culture child, growing up all over the world, I will never represent a certain culture so specifically as they represented Thailand. I looked at my friend and explained my thoughts to her. She looked at me and said, you shouldn’t be sad, we fit in anywhere. She too had been born in Russia, and then she had moved to three different countries before choosing to stay in Barcelona. Just like me. She spoke Spanish, Russian, and English, and when we spoke we mixed all three languages into one so that no native speaker of any of the three would ever understand.

The idea of having a third culture is not anything new. Anthropologist Ruth Hill Useem coined it in the 50’s, but despite this, not few people know what it means and exactly how many third-culture kids there are out there. But it appears that we seem to gravitate towards one another and form our own communities. And in my dreams, I wonder if there will one day be a future where everyone will be a Third-Culture Kid, where borders do not exist, and where we can chose not only how we dress, but where we are from. At least for now, we have each other.

Genuine Concern for the Fair

I never noticed how strange the people in the metro were. Not until today. There was no reason why today should be the day why I would notice. Was it because my cell phone battery had died and I couldn’t play minesweeper? Was it because I hadn’t brought a book? I don’t know. But I noticed it today.

It started when I got on. A fear took hold of me when entering the metro car. The same kind of fear when entering a bar full of criminals. They were all groups of men pressed against one another seemingly plotting something sinister. All had dark circles under their eyes. All looked like they needed a shower. Or maybe the light is made specifically like that in the metro here in Barcelona so that people look more fearsome than they are thus minimizing theft.

I sat down and immediately blended into them. Its true I wasn’t a man, but I had dark circles under my eyes (judging by the reflection of a somber version of myself in the window) and I was wearing black like them. Also, I probably needed a shower. That was when I noticed that there was not a single light-haired (i.e. Blonde) person in my car. Or in the car on the left. Or in the one on the right. In fact, it took 6 stops for a blonde to enter the train. Literally, only in the center of town. It lead me to ask the logical question, do blondes only reside in the center of town? So far, the only logical answer is yes. It will take further investigation and possibly some interviews to understand why.

Theories are welcome. 

Story for your Monday Morning Pleasure

Last week, I began preparing early for the Thanksgiving Feast that my American friend and I were going to cook for all our European friends. We created a fabulous menu and split up all the ingredients that we needed to get. We were going to have everything from Turkey to Mashed Potatoes to Sweet Potatoes to Caesar Salad to Corn to Cranberry Sauce and so on. I went to my favorite store, Mercadona, and started piling things into the basket. I kept crossing everything off the list. Finally I was down to only one ingredient: Dried Tomatoes. I don’t remember now what they were for, but as they were on the list, they must have been necessary.

I normally refrain from speaking to anyone at the store for fear of making a fool of myself. But I was feeling extra bold and in a hurry that day so without even thinking about it, I began to ask the man unpacking vegetables in the vegetable aisle where the Dried Tomatoes were. Unfortunately, I forgot the word for “dry” seco and confused it for the word “dirty” sucio.

ME: Perdona, estoy buscando tomates sucias. Excuse me, Im looking for dirty tomatoes.

HIM: Que?! What?!

ME: Tomates sucias. Dirty tomatoes.

HIM (eyes looking like they´re going to pop out of his head): QUE?

ME: Pequenas rojas y sucias! Small, red, and dirty! (Here I started using my hands to show him what they look like.)

HIM: Sucias?!?!?

ME: Si! Puequenas tomates sucias! Estaba buscando en todos los sitios y no puedo encontrar ningunas pequenas tomates sucias!! No puedes ayudarme? Yes, Little dirty tomatoes. I have been looking everywhere and I cant find any little dirty tomatoes! Cant you help me?

The whole time he was looking at me like I was crazy and other people had started getting involved. Someone went over to the regular tomatoes and started going through them. Strangely, no one was laughing. Then the grocery man finally realized what I was talking about and shaking his head he said, “Secos,” as he handed me a bag of little, red, dried tomatoes. Awkward.

I <3 Swiss Air

En route from Barcelona to Geneva at the moment and for the first time in a long time, I am happy with my flight experience. Not just happy, but extremely pleasantly surprised. Swiss Air is a throwback to the good old days when airlines used to serve you food for free, when they showed movies even on short flights, when they would give you as many drinks as you wanted, and when they didn’t care if you have three large carry-ons bags.

The stewardess says to the passenger in front of me, “White wine, yes of course. And another drink as well?” He was already reaching for his wallet, probably being used to likes of Delta and Continental. His jaw drops. He cant believe his ears. He says he´ll have a water and I´m sure he’s happy for the rest of the day. He even starts some small chat and she happily chats back. I don’t think Delta stewardesses even remember how to smile, their faces plastered into a constant glowering expression of hate. 

What has happened to the airlines? Why can Swiss Air do this, while everyone else seems to have turned into penny pinches sniveling anger mongrels? Last minute (i.e. day before the flight) Swiss Air´s ticket for this route was the same it had been last week, and was half the price of SleazyJet.. hm.. sorry, EasyJet. EasyJet: where you have to hide your extra carry-on behind your back, pay out your nose for luggage, food, and drinks. Where the plane smells like death. And where you’re treated like such cheap dirt that you step off the airplane thinking what you did to deserve this.

I should give myself some credibility. For someone who doesn’t work in the industry, for someone who isn´t a top manager and for someone who doesn’t get paid to do it, I fly a ridiculous amount. In August alone, I took thirteen flights, including two trans-Atlantic and two trans-Pacific. And unlike most people who travel that much, I fly economy. As of late, the experience has gotten so bad, that it becomes unbearable. 10 hours on Hawaiian Airlines from Sydney to Honolulu without a TV and having to pay for drinks and with food that looked like it has previously been digested by someone else. Luckily on some airlines, I hold elite status, giving me access to Economy Plus (god forbid they would ever upgrade me to Business!), and Ill have to say KLM and Lufthansa often surprise as well. But on the whole, its usually a long unpleasant affair aided only by sleeping pills.

I can´t speak about the Asian airlines, which I’ve heard wonders about, or about flying business class, but for regular travelers, ultimately in Europe,  Swiss Air has to be the best. They make flying the way it should be. The way it used to be. Pleasant, easy, and affordable. And now back to the comedy that’s on the flip down TVs. Everyone is laughing, more drinks are being served, and life is good. When will the other airlines catch up?

Inspiration

As of late, I haven’t been able to get inspired to write anything. No amount of traveling or meeting new people seemed to stir my imagination. Until today.

Today I ventured for the first time into the world of the Mercat Del Encants, one of the biggest and oldest flea markets in Barcelona. Heaven and hell had come together to create this hot, loud, bustling, screaming fair ground. Everything imaginable under the sun is being sold there for prices that would make peoples eyes bulge. It is the Camden Market of Barcelona, before Camden Market sold out. 3 Euros for a pair of shoes. 20 Euros for beautiful antique chairs. Awesome records for under a euro. Air rifles,  antique army uniforms, knives, tools, porcelain cups, all types of silver, books, electronics, jewelry and that’s not even mentioning the vintage clothes that would make the girls shopping on Melrose pee their pants in hysteria.

And all of this simply laid out on the sidewalk in front of the vendors, allowing any shopper to dig through it at their hearts content. From every direction vendors are screaming that their prices are the cheapest and everyone from elderly ladies to tattooed hipsters are on their knees searching for their own personal treasure. Its true that this is not for everyone, the faint hearted who don’t like crowds, aged items, haggling and strange smells probably should stay as far away from this market as possible. But for those of us who love the thrill of spending hours digging through worthless things for the possibility of finding something that everyone else missed, worth hundreds of dollars, and buying it for only a few. For those of us who will never sell that item, but put it on a shelf just to remind ourselves of our own little personal victory. For those of us who can spend hours there just walking around and buying nothing just languishing in the feeling and energy of the crowd. And even for those who wander there simply to imagine the story behind that painting, or the romance behind that ring, or the childhood spent with that toy. Well, for those of us, it is this place which opens the floodgates of inspiration.

Angry Birds, I finally get it!

Everyone’s been talking about this game for the last two years. But as someone who prides themselves on usually being anti-pop culture, Id never even wanted to try it. UNTIL TODAY. This morning my boss sent the whole company an email showing us that the Angry Birds was now available for Windows Phone 7. And that was the end of my day! There’s nothing special about the game. Its actually just mind numbingly simply enough to be probably the most addictive game I’ve ever played. There’s these ugly honking green pigs and super evil looking birds. The pigs have apparently stolen the birds eggs and its your job to fling the birds through a suicidal slingshot into the temporary ice, wood, or cement structures of the honking pigs to get revenge. The first round you play is ridiculously simple and you think, how can everyone be talking about THIS game? The second round you think, Maybe Ill just play one more? And then the next thing you know your whole lunch break has gone by and your eyes are burning and you are on level 2-21 and you JUST CANT STOP!

Yes it really does suck you in.

 

Wish I was Music so I could Travel without Borders

Two days ago I went to FNAC and stood in line hoping that I wasn’t too late. When I got to the front I nervously mumbled some words but the cashier didn’t even listen to what I had to say, he saw by the look in my eye what I wanted. As I held the two incredibly expensive pieces of paper in my hand, I was so overjoyed that I had to sit down. Nothing could disturb my happiness: not the riots going on behind my back in Plaza Cataluña, not the Gypsy woman trying to get money from the two wealthy looking Asian guys next to me, not the fact that I could barely breath from the heat, nothing. I had my Sonar tickets in my hand!

Yes , its that time of year again. Time for  everyone to gather in the most awesome city in world. Time to put on their colorful t-shirts and Ray Bans. Time to put on our dancing shoes and get ready for one of the greatest music festivals in Europe: Sonar!

Sonar brings in thousands of people from all over. And with a Friday night lineup featuring Cut Copy, Trentemoller, Annie, M.I.A., Dizzee Rascal, Steve Aoki, Aphex Twin, Die Antwoord, A-Trak, Toddla T, Boys Noize, Tiga.. just to name a few… who wouldn’t be dieing to go? And its not just one night, its three full days (day and night) of great music all over the city. The greatest thing is that most of the events are not only free but also secret, so just walking around the city you might stumble across something fantastic. So lets put all the craziness of the world into the back of our minds and enjoy this amazing weekend!