Kitten Haiku

Autumnal fluff with
Interspersed blue and rose-pink
Warming my belly

Bench Behaviour

In Barcelona benches are not primarily designed for taking a five minute rest when out shopping or for sitting and eating an ice-cream with a friend.

Benches belong to the señoras.


Packs of them congregate on a daily basis at their chosen bench which they occupy together for hours at a time; gossiping, nodding wisely and watching the world go by.

Peaceful. Knowing. moulded into the woodwork.



You’ll know when you are sitting on their bench when you feel an icy stare on your back, followed by the slightly impatient tap of a walking stick or even a sharp throaty cough. It is inadvisable to take on the challenge ... if you do the hairs on the back of your neck will soon begin to tingle and your face will flush red until you feel like all your innermost secrets have been learnt by those steely ent-like eyes behind you, only in order to be hummed later from pack to pack, spread like sticky honey throughout the city.

The Sadness of George Sand

Gegants are extremely large papier maché figurines, intricately clothed and painted to represent legendary figures: kings, queens and mythical folkloric characters. The hollowed-out, wooden-framed body allows a large, presumably quite strong person to clamber underneath, lift the thing up and make it ponce down the street in flamboyant carnivalesque parades. Each city in Catalonia is represented by unique gegants: in Barcelona look out for Jaume I and Violant d’Hongria as well as the Gegants de Santa Maria de Mar:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2Zk7krmF_U

La Mercè, patron saint of Barcelona, according to legend, appeared to Jaume I one late September evening way back in 1218, proposing a saving-Christians-from-the-blood-thirsty-Saracens campaign. Much later, in 1687, the virgin Mercè delivered Barcelona out of the perils of a giant plague of locusts. In ongoing grateful celebration the city celebrates every September: fireworks, dances, music, correfoc and gegants ...among other things.

While Violant’s eastern European origins draw attention to the early cultural diversity of the nation and its celebrations, in the postmodern global era the cultural integration and indeed also non-integrations are ever more visible. In this year’s warm ups to Mercè, intercultural synthesism raised its head quite appropriately on the Rambla, where two new gigants were officially inaugurated under the watchful eyes of Jaume and Violant: Frédéric Chopin and George Sand.

As I stood watching, a happy tipsy little Pole excitedly taps me on the shoulder announcing that his friend personally supervised the creation of the monster figurines. “Catalans are practically Polish,” he added with a grin.

I turned back and found myself fixated on Sand’s face; she seemed to be lost in a tragic world of anguish. Whereas Chopin just looked formally dull. Perhaps she wasn’t enjoying her 1838 visit with Chopin to Barcelona (represented here), before going on to Mallorca. Her giant lips are too tense to be painted so red and they somehow clash with the deep blue bags that have been boldly streaked under her eyes. This doesn’t seem to be the face of the rebel writer, vivacious defier of the social and class norms of 19th Century France. Dressed in prim robes she seems far removed from the perils of male garments and aromatic cigarette smoke. Is it the sudden conformity of the gegant costume imposed upon her that brings sternness, a heart-rending solemnity to her demeanour? Is it a growing sexual apathy? Surely not regret for times gone by? Is she worrying about her children and their uncertain futures? Is that heavy fabric itching her papier maché skin? Or is it a foreboding of the hard conflictual times to come, with Chopin’s deteriorating health a reminder of her own iridescent but also ephemeral youth? She writes: “One changes from day to day, and...after a few years have passed one has completely altered.”

Stag Touble

With the rise of budget airlines the infamous rite of passage, known amongst other things as The Stag Do, has seeped beyond the British border, oozing its way into a variety of European host cities. Some unsuspecting locals might well be shocked by the eager city complicity in this growing industry. Take Barcelona as an example:

Stag advertising for the city uses words like physical, sensual, exotic and hedonistic.
Enthralled by such riotous promises, one swarm of happy Stagites jostle for seats close together on the 18.36 Bristol-Barcelona Easyjet (delayed) flight. The delay is as good an excuse as any to competitively consume overpriced alcohol in the departure lounge. The rabble's volume control is stuck on maximum and somebody announced that the first person in the group to be caught not making any sound would be denied entrance into the strip club later. The noise drowns out the automated Spanish security instructions, and the one with Dudu emblazoned on his matching uniform shouts, “ we can't effing understand you. Nobody can effing understand what you're effing saying.”

Now it's the English language safety instructions turn and the air hostess called Laura edges away nervously into the whirlwind of bowler hats that are being tossed to and fro, hoping to reach the safety of the eye of the storm. No luck there... the chorus breaks out:

Laura, can't you give me some time?
I've got to give myself one more chance
To be the man that i know i am
To be the man that i know i am
... I'm gonna need your love...

Relentless.

Battling against the seeming inevitability of the situation, the staff stoically begin on the snack trolley tour of the cabin. A rather frail looking lady in one of the last rows whispers, “a beer please.” “I'm afraid we've sold out ma'am,” responds Laura's co-worker Julie with the pleading smile.

As the unspeakable pleasures of Barcelona get ever nearer, the hysteria continues to escalate. At one point Stag himself stumbles down the passage way towards the back end toilet. Pausing for a moment to regain his balance he grinned slyly at a young child, pointing proudly to a graphic biro-pen illustration protruding out of his cut-off jeans.

As the plane finally sailed down the runway it's hard to know who cheered louder: us or them.
Clambering onto the bus that is waiting to take us to the terminal building, I see the stag party not so nimbly pinching bottoms- whoever pinches the least must buy all the drinks that night.
I'm lucky to find a small safe corner which is populated by an astounded group of Catalans, talking over the phenomenon in a schizophrenic jumble of Spanish and Catalan:

“They don't appear to have any self-control or dignity”

“Yes, yes. I wonder if they are all okay in the head”

“I think it must be something to do with the problems that they have with English girls”

“Quite right. I hear English girls are very frigid”

“Do you think they realise how stupid they look all dressed the same?”

“Of course Catalan men are much more handsome”

“Perhaps that's one wearing a pink shirt is gay”

“Probably”

“He has a very large nose”

“His knees are bony”

“Why don't they wait till later to molest the ladies ... in the club”

“English men are repressed you know”

......

The next morning I woke to the sound of a thunderstorm, and as I looked out the window at the pouring rain I allowed myself a moment of smug satisfaction in knowing that at least the party’s wild plans to pass the day at “the million beach chiringuitos (curingeyetoes)” might literally be washed away.

A Piggy Itch.

On Monday I went to Land’s End
Where I made an unusual friend:
“Scratch my back,” he requested,
“For I’m a little congested”
I oblige. He sighs: “I commend.”

Singing

Swinging and twisting our way under the city, the aircon. is off and the sticky stench is somewhat overpowering. With a sudden jerk we arrive at the next station, a small shriveled old man is flung hard back into his seat, setting his dentures flying out of his mouth, onto the lap of a smallish child sitting opposite. She shrieks. Piercing. Unfazed he reaches out a moley vein-ridden hand to make the retrieval, offering a gummy apologetic grin. As the train sets off again, clutching the teeth with his left hand, with his right he digs deep in his right trouser pocket and pulls out a grubby capacious handkerchief. Shaking it out with a quick, surprisingly strong flip of the wrist: a small initial – J – scarcely visible stitched into one corner. He clears his throat with a deep gargle, tilts his neck back with a sharp click and spews forward a ball of spittle onto the waiting rag. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Tilting back and forth in the carriage he rubs his chomping gear. Top, top, top. Bottom, bottom, bottom. Then with a grunt he reinserts. The girl has stopped screeching and stares now, with jaw hanging loosely open. He clears his throat again and staggering to his feet he bursts into loud, rusty song. Reaching the door as the train once more pulls to a stop he takes a moment to whisper to me: “you’ve got to make your way through life singing.” He winks.