School's Out

The last day of class after a month-long intensive course, and teacher and students alike are in a lightheaded, school’s out sort of mood. This has been one of the best teaching experiences I’ve had, and it’s mostly down to the students: they’re talkative, get on well with each other, ask loads of questions and have made a huge effort with all their assignments despite all having busy jobs. The class started every day at 8am but luckily most of them are, like me, morning people. We got into a routine of working for about an hour and then taking a coffee break together on out the terrace, which officially was meant to last 15 minutes but would often stretch beyond that.

I’ve been teaching the group colloquial phrases and trying to get everyone to use them in context. During the coffee break today the recent film Sharknado came up, and was roundly dismissed as complete rubbish. One student then flapped his hands in a it’s-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue way and said “Wait…wait! Sharknado, it’s so bad it’s good!” using one of the phrases we’d learned. I wanted to high five him. Back in the classroom and with 10 minutes to spare before the end of the lesson, I was persuaded to let them watch the trailer on YouTube. Granted, we were already in a silly mood, but it had us almost crying with laughter.

The one where señor Teodoro helps me locate the fuse box

Twenty minutes into my first experience of living alone and I’m already stuck. The flat is furnished with some rather lovely things, including a tall, slim lamp with a spherical glass shade. I drag it carefully into the corner by the sofa and plug it in. Sparks fly and I’m plunged into gloom – it is a basement flat that is beautifully cool during these summer months, but a little bit dark. I hunt around in the half-light for the fuse box. It was something I forgot to ask the owner when she showed me around and even though it’s not a big flat, I can’t see it anywhere. Sheepish, I open the door and step onto the landing. I hadn’t noticed it before but to the right of my front door is something which could be a fuse box. I open the plastic casing and flick the biggest switch. At that exact same moment I hear somebody emit a screech from a couple of floors up. Pure coincidence? Horrified, I flick the switch down again.

No choice but to get the neighbours involved. The people opposite are out, so I go up one floor and knock on a heavy, wooden door adorned with a brass crucifix. A smiley man in his seventies appears. He’s wearing trousers and a vest and has a TV remote in one hand. I introduce myself to and explain the problem. His name is Teodoro, and his wife, who joins him at the door, is called Carmen. Teodoro follows me down the stairs. He must be psychic. Either that or the layout in his flat is the same as mine, because he walks straight up to a painting which is balanced on the top of some shelves and removes it to reveal the fuse box. He puts everything right and replaces the picture. Beaming, he welcomes me to the building and tells me to pop up any time.

What's 'tog' in Spanish?

Some recent moments which gave me pleasure:

Cycling full pelt down Calle Marina, trees dropping golden leaves all around me.

Trying to explain the duvet tog system to a very patient shop assistant in my local bedding emporium. He didn't know what I was talking about. Came away feeling rather foreign but touched by his feigned interest.

The busy Saturday morning market in my barrio: though it's not far from the centre of Barcelona, I feel like I'm in a completely different place, a town in itself.

Saturday

By the time my alarm sounded at 8am there was already a chorus of washing machines outside my window. Window in the vaguest sense of the word, for it looks out not over the rooftops of Barcelona, but onto a dank inner well that runs from the ground floor flat right up to the attic flat, 2 floors above me. These inner wells contain little balconies for washing machines, mops and junk and are usually covered in a film of grease and dust. Amazingly people still use the space to hang out their washing. I open my window for approximately 4 seconds twice a day, just to raise and lower the blind.

The metro was quiet, and I arrived at school just as the caretaker was unlocking the door. The two receptionists looked pale and mumbled a weak "Hola" when I stretched across the counter to pick up the class register. I don't usually work Saturdays, but agreed to substitute for a colleague who's worked weekends for 2 years straight. She'd told me the students were easy and friendly, which was largely true, but 3 hours is a long time to keep even the most motivated person interested. Rain fell steadily outside and muffled the sounds of roadworks...the endless roadworks which follow me around this city.

After class I meet two friends for lunch in a tiny family-run Japanese restaurant. As we sit in there watching the windows slowly steaming up, we marvel at the food, at the waiter's excellent Spanish, and at a love story gone wrong. When we emerge the sky is brighter. We head in separate directions. I stop at the fruit shop and buy some vegetables, including a beautifully bright purple stripy aubergine. A Latino couple run the shop, the only shop on the street open on a Saturday afternoon at 4pm. Their baby daughter lies asleep in her cot in one corner, oblivious to the music pounding out of the radio on the counter.

Up the street and home...

Tango

While taking washing off the line, I hear my neighbour (who until today I'd only heard shouting at her sons) singing a few lines from an old song rather beautifully. I pause, trying to keep as quiet as possible, and wait until she finishes. I don't manage to record her but I find the words later - they were originally sung by Carlos Gardel.

El día que me quieras
La rosa que engalana, se vestirá de fiesta con su mejor color

On the day that you love me
The pretty rose will dress in its best colour in celebration

Ode to iced coffee

Ode to a café con hielo, a cooling pick-me-up on a hot day. So simple: just pour a freshly made cortado (espresso topped up with milk) over a couple of ice cubes sitting at the bottom of another glass, and stir. The ice cubes make a gentle cracking noise as the hot coffee is poured over them, which gives way to tinkling once they've melted a bit and are free to bob around in the glass. It's very hard to drink it slowly.

What the locals say

What do the locals do to keep cool in this heat? Some stay in their apartments in their underclothes and emerge occasionally to lean on the balcony and look down onto the street. Many go to the beach. There are several stretches of beach heading north along the city's coast. Yesterday I left home early and was at the Marina end of Barceloneta beach by 9am. It's one of the nicest times to be there as it's practically deserted, save a few leathery abuelos out for a swim and some gentle stretching. I'd been there for about an hour when two regulars arrived and settled down a few feet away from me. They were both women in their late 60s and they seemed to know lots of other people on the beach. They talked constantly, to each other and to the people around them. I tried to concentrate on the book I was reading but eventually closed it and rolled over. The women had started to talk (very loudly) about immigration and their opinions about some of the newcomers in their neighbourhood. The Chinese, Indians and Pakistanis, they agreed, were hardworking ,decent people. Various (flimsy) anecdotes to support this opinion were shared. They also had nice things to say about some Venezuelans living on their block. Peruvians, however, and Africans, oh, they were totally different. I'd rather not repeat what the women said, but it was not complimentary. Some of what was said did not surprise me, given the women’s generation and the fact that there is still a lot of suspicion and ignorance around immigrants here, despite optimistic campaigns by local government to encourage harmonious living. Time will tell how Barcelona's increasingly diverse population gels together, or not.