Mexico, cycling Britain, then Barcelona

day 16

http://www.gurneysjourneys.com/barthelona.htm

I wouldn’t want to burn any bridges, so this morning I kept an appointment I had with the BF School. They were friendly and very keen to offer me supply work - they were in need of teachers who could cover higher calculus lessons. Out of politeness, as you do, I waited until near the end to ask about the wages and got some good poker face practice as I tried not to recoil in horror when they told me 45 euros per day. They want me to work in my specialist subject, after 8 years training and experience, for 5.60 euros an hour! That doesn’t even add up to a monthly wage of 1000 euros. I kept smiling and told them to feel free to contact me about my availability whilst trying to get out as quickly as possible.

A standard Barcelona lunch - serrano ham and cheese baguette whilst  sitting on a terrace - set me back three euros. I ate whilst watching my friend twitching and checking her mobile. The boyfriend was expected imminently. I was more concerned with my homelessness, however, and made a few calls to flats in my chosen neighbourhood - Poble Sec. One of the adverts was in  Catalan, which initially put me off, but as I only had two appointments I gave Toni a call. After an embarrassing misunderstanding in which he told me to hang on a minute because he was shopping, and I thought he was telling me the room was already taken, I managed to glean that he was going to be at home in ten minutes and I told him we would come round. The flat was perfect in every way, Spanish speaking, spacious, big room (a bit dark but you can’t have everything), balcony, nice area, supermarket next door,…  

By 3 o’clock we had found the 24 hour late boyfriend and I officially had a flat. And a job. And 34 euros.

Tonight we had a proper celebration, a two course dinner at La Fonda. It would have been three courses, we weren’t holding back, it was just that the portions were enormous. Not one of us had room for desert. The most amazing thing… 16 euros a head!

Barcelona is great.

day 11

The low point of my day was waiting over half an hour in a queue to buy my train ticket. I knew I should have bought my ticket to France online a few days ago, but being in a foreign country I thought I should speak to someone about it. This time I paid by credit card which creates the brilliant impression of not having spent 100 euros. I am returning Tuesday to get back into flat hunting in Barcelona, but am faced with the prospect of yet another holiday I can’t afford because I promised my friends I would go and see them while they are a mere four hour train journey away.

At 9:30 this evening I found myself outside on the street surrounded by thick smoke. I had my hands over my ears to protect them from the noise of constant explosions and was watching youths running around wearing hooded tops and scarves over their faces. The good news is I wasn’t caught up in a riot I was actually having my best night in ages watching the “correfoc”, part of the Mercé Festival celebrations. La Mercé is an annual festival lasting four days. Stages are erected all around the city and apart from live music there are lots of traditional events like the swimming race and a competition where different teams try to build the tallest human tower they can.

“Correfoc” is a Catalan word which literally translates as “fire run” (foc meaning fire), and that’s exactly what you do. Groups of people dressed as devils in fire proof clothing carry trident s loaded with fireworks and enormous bangers. They hold about 15 of these together, above their heads, to make a wigwam shape. The crowed gather round tightly (with hoods and scarves as protection), shouting rhythmically and jumping up and down while the head devil gets closer and closer to the wigwam with a large flame. When one trident catches light, the whole lot goes up, and the sparks start flying. There are Catherine wheels sending sparks in all directions and other fireworks which throw a constant shower of sparks in just one direction. The bangers start to light soon after the first sparks and the explosions sound over and over for a good couple of minutes. The crowd have two options - either run away very quickly as soon as it lights, or put their head down, their hands over their ears, scarves across their mouths and wait it out (whilst pretending to enjoy themselves!).

The first time we saw it was certainly the most exciting. Without knowing what to expect, we stood a little too close for comfort and then chose the running away option, along with a bit of girly screaming. It is amazing to see how well normal clothes stand up to a shower of sparks, I can’t believe people weren’t running around in flames, although the rain did help. Every local I spoke to about his festival told me that it always rains. “Why then, didn’t they change the date..” I was thinking, until i discovered that heavy rain is just what you need to stop the correfoc becoming extremely dangerous. I love foreign fiestas like this, where you are just looking at the carnage thinking how unsafe it is, and that it would never be allowed in Britain. We saw one person bleeding from the forehead and he seemed extremely proud about it, but overall, even taking into account fathers who dragged their small sons into the thick of it, there were no real injuries.

As well as the devilish wigwams there was the occasional dragon and samba band that passed by. The fire-breathing dragons were about 12 feet high and varied in ferocity. Some fired sparks directly at the crowd, another had a rather pathetic pink firework fizzing out of it’s head. One of the “dragons” looked suspiciously like a T-rex to me, but the whole spectacle was amazing.

The best of the samba bands drew in a massive crowd around a cafe terrace, and in some ways the pouring rain added to the experience. People were splashing around without umbrellas and dancing away in the rain. We weren’t drunk enough to find the rain inspiring, however, and mostly we just noticed our legs getting wet.

To top off our brilliant evening (pun intended), we tried a local speciality, “leche pantera”, along with a bottle of red and some blue cheese in a tapas bar in the gothic district. The bar was lively - full of wet people like us - and the “leche pantera”, which is basically alcoholic milk, tasted surprisingly good. Apparently it is only made on this street, and nowhere else in Spain serves it.

day 10

By 1pm I had heard nothing about the great English teaching job and I took the plunge and went flyering. To me, this is the lowest of the low in the job world. I imagined standing in the street desperately hassling people to go to whichever shit nightclub I happened to be advertising. And I was pretty much spot on, except in the day time we were expected to have actual conversations with people about the great the mix of R&B and hip hop we provided, then put their names on the guest list.  As far as payment goes, you get 1.5 euros for everybody with their name on the guest list who actually goes, and 1 euro for every flyer with your name on it that is taken on the door. Did I mention that I spent a large proportion of my day writing my name on flyers? I also spent a large proportion of the time I was supposed to be working sitting on a terrace drinking wine.  Depending on the money.. and I will have to wait until next Wednesday to get paid.. if you work in short bursts, with long breaks, it is not such a bad job. I am offering people a chance to go to a club for free, but if they have something better to do with their evening, I am very understanding.

Half way through my evening I got a call which ruined it completely. Miguel left me an answer phone message to casually inform me that the room is not available after all. That is seriously bad news. I am going to visit friends in France the day after tomorrow. I have no time to look at flats before I go, which means I will come back with nowhere to live. Just for completeness I found the first internet cafe I could to see if I was still unemployed, as well as homeless. The message was “we would like to work with you in the near future, call me on Tuesday”. What does that mean? Well at least it’s not a “no”.

day 9

Today started badly on the job front. I had no interviews, appointments or even jobs to apply for. I spent the morning fairly uselessly on the internet before meeting a friend for lunch followed by a free tour around some of the interesting architecture on Passeig de Gracia. Unfortunately we didn’t go inside any of the three buildings, but I’m sure the Spanish practice was good for me and I learnt some themes of modernist architecture. Obviously we took in a Gaudi building, Casa Batllo. We discussed the exterior features for a few minutes, the curves and mosaic style are worth looking at closely, and we were told the building represents the story of George and the dragon. If you use your imagination the tower looks like a sword being thrust into a dragons tail, the bone like columns are ribs, and the rose represents flowers which grew from the dragons blood.

At the Spanish college where we finished he course I was drawn in by adverts for various jobs. I actually telephoned two telesales jobs, but doubt I will ever send my CV to their email addresses. I also sank as low as phoning up about flyering on Las Ramblas, I can go for a trial tomorrow if i want. And the best opportunity was a guy called Trevor who offered 12 euros an hour for people to appear in English Language teaching DVD’s. He came down for an interview there and then, it was all sounding hopeful until he took one look at me and said I was too old. At least he put me on the list.

This evening I met Gonzalo, the newest addition to my flat, and we chatted in the lounge about important issues such as how much the boys smoke, and whether I watch Lost. (I don’t). The room should be available next Wednesday (thank goodness as I don’t have anywhere else to stay).

day 8

As usual I woke up to an almost pitch black room. The tiny crack of light from behind the curtain should tell me whether is it day or night, but, in fact is coming from an interior window. We don’t have interior windows in British houses, but here in Barcelona they seem to love them. This one looks out into the square space enclosing the lift shaft, and since the light is on all night and no natural light reaches my room at al, I am left to guess whether it is morning yet. I hate that disorientation. I heard the lift moving and decided it was worth leaning across to check my watch. Imagine my surprise when i realised it was 10:30am.

Luckily the only appointment i have today, on my quest to find a job and a flat, is at an International School at 3pm. This is the same school that offered me a permanent job back in April but then kindly retracted it. I feel they owe me.

Unfortunately, the sweltering walk to the school landed me with nothing except a very sore little toe. The principal at the school couldn’t have friendlier, but she didn’t actually have any work for me. I left my contact details in case any tutoring is ever needed, and then had the brilliant idea to put out a classified advert in English. How many people in Barcelona might be looking on the internet for and English speaking maths tutor? 30? 7? 1??

I somehow managed to get double booked this evening, which is pretty impressive since I only know three people in the whole city. My new flat mate Miguel did not sound too happy when I turned down his invite in favour of meeting an English contact. A friend’s friend’s brother has invited me round for drinks. He is clearly a very busy man and I nearly missed my window when, thanks to the confusing metro map, the train today took three times as long as expected. I had time for a slightly hectic chat with him and his girlfriend. They were getting ready to go out for dinner and tag teamed me to ask questions and get all the polite chat finished. The girlfriend works for the company which are now my only hope for a job. I had the interview yesterday and am still waiting to hear from them. According to her I will get paid (I’ve heard horror stories about people who don’t), I won’t have to work too hard, and I can watch Fawlty Towers and call it an English lesson.

day 7

http://www.gurneysjourneys.com/barthelona.htm

My main problem today is that I have an important job interview in a few hours, and no handbag. It doesn’t sound like such a dilemma, but it is so sweaty in Barcelona that I can’t wear a jacket, and I have no pockets. Even though I have the whole morning stretching out in front of me I manage to leave the bag shopping trip until the last second and end up with a bright orange woven item from Oxfam. At least it was very cheap. In my rush I find that by the time I board the train to the offices of the English school, I have a list of things to get done on the journey; eat breakfast, brush hair, file nails, and safety pin the strap of the bag in an attempt to create a more sophisticated style. The train journey  surprised me by lasting a mere 6 minutes -  the scale on metro map remains a bit of a mystery to me.

Eating in public is not the done thing in Spain. Food and mealtimes hold more importance here than in England. It’s ridiculous really, you can stand in a crowded tapas bar eating out of a napkin whilst trying to balance a drink in the crook of your elbow, but people look at you disapprovingly when you eat a crumbly croissant on the train.

The interview went pretty well. I managed to keep all the orange parts of my outfit hidden under the table, and I genuinely think I can do the job. The waiting game continues; this time I will get a definite yes or no in three days.

I spoke to Miguel to confirm that I definitely want to rent the room, and then found myself in a kebab restaurant drinking red wine, giggling with my best friend (who is here doing a Spanish course) about drunken summers and reminiscing our teenage flings. It was so much more acceptable to chop and change among your group of friends at that age, the easiest way to play the game is remembering which ones you didn’t go out with.