The Art of Bureaucracy

Regardless of where you live on this orb purposefully floating around the endless universe, there is one constant truth: you may not want to do it, you may dream of a better one or you may be struggling to find one. Yes, a job. Love does not pay the bills (sorry Jackie Moon) and España is no different.

When I returned to my country of birth, the Ontario government made me jump through several loops it terms of acquiring a driver’s license (which I understand, since I had never driven before) and public health coverage. Ontario still has primarily a social health system funded by taxpayers. In order for those public doors to “free healthcare” swing open for you, you need to prove something like 6 months residency. Until then, don’t get injured or sick. It’s expensive!

My roommate in Barcelona had advised me that before heading out to look for work and to open a bank account in Barcelona, I would need a NIE (Foreigner Identification Number). This identification number is pretty much necessary to be a regular citizen in Spain. I would need to head out of my home to line-up at 6:00 AM at the entrance of the Extranjería building as they only let people in before noon.

The United Kingdom is probably the master of queuing, but Canada is not far from matching the production of excessive and pointless paperwork. Getting people to line-up is a skill we Canadians have that cannot be matched even by the most populated countries in the globe. From coffee at Tim Horton’s to the Dollar Store, we do it. I was definitely ready to wait although I was not excited to do so.

Surprisingly enough, if you are early enough, the NIE process can take less than a whole day. Get ready to line-up for 2 hours before the office even opens its doors as many people are on the same boat, looking to be able to start making the big bucks. Should you require more on this process, this article may be helpful.

Devil Without A Cause

Barcelona is a vibrant city showcasing really interesting cultural events. The correfocs (literal translation would be “fire-runs”) was without a doubt, one of the coolest events I got to see first hand, just off the Gothic Quarter on via Laietana – also one of my favourite thoroughfares in the downtown core.

If I am not mistaken, this visually striking parade has something to do with the Festival of La Mercè – Our Lady of Mercy, the patron saint of the district of Barcelona. The celebration dates back a good 400 years when Barcelona suffered a plague of locusts. However, I was never too clear as to how the correfocs fit into all of this.

Let’s get down to the nitty gritty of the correfocs, before I get further sidetracked. These can come in different forms during a fantastic parade. In a nutshell, they are small papier maché floats that look like dragons and devils, dancing around the streets at night as bystanders cheer them on. What’s so cool about that? Well, the floats shoot fire!

Perhaps as many cultural traditions in the Iberian Peninsula, the groups are divided in barrios, each with a float of their own. Those who dance along the procession are generally wearing devil masks, blowing fireballs and putting on a fantastic show. Eventually, they make their way to the ocean at Mare Magnum symbolizing the closure of this grandiose event.

There is apparently an even more colourful expression of this Catalan tradition in a place called L’Arboç. In the evening of the feast day, a replica of Hell (as we imagine it would look like) is reproduced on the town square. A bunch of devils burn and dance for hours, shoot fire-jets and other pyrotechnics. A curious tradition indeed but well worthwhile if you make it down there in September.

September 11

When this combination of month and numbers pops out, a series of memories, emotions and feelings follow suit. As a North American, I am always reminded of the attacks on the US back in 2001. If we shot back to 1973, this was also the date where the Chilean military ousted Salvador Allende, the democratically elected leader of the country. In Catalonia, this date also carries a bittersweet feeling.

September 11 is the Diada Nacional de Catalunya (National Day of Catalonia) and I was excited to partake in the popular activities. In Canada, our national day is a time for having fun and celebrating all the wonderful things we feel our country stands for. I gather the Americans are much the same. They surely plagiarized our traditions seeing that our national day is on July 1 and theirs on July 4.

For Catalonia, this day commemorates the defeat of the Catalan forces fighting during the War of Spanish Succession. The Catalan troops fought in support of the Habsburg’s claim to the throne and were defeated at the siege of Barcelona by the royal army of the Bourbon king, Philip V. This was the beginning of what nationalists there consider an occupation, a feeling that Franco did little to appease.  

I was explained that during this time, there are communal activities and festivals but these tend to be overshadowed by independentist organizations and their political rallies, protesting the royal yoke. Some adore King Juan Carlos for temporarily silencing Hugo Chavez’s bombasts, but he is not an accepted figurehead in most autonomous regions of an ethnically and culturally diverse kingdom.

You’ll see certainly notice the senyeres dancing proudly in the wind and people gathering around monuments of their fallen leaders Rafael Casanova and General Moragues. Floral offerings of many sorts stand in remembrance of the day several centuries ago. My advice if you wish to stay away from the protests is to visit some of Barcelona’s museums, as most are free to the public on September 11.

Gracia For The Rest Of Us

From the early going, Barcelona was indeed proving to be a charming city. Upon the Iberian giant’s embrace of the Euro, along with many of the EU’s subsidies, the country’s economy kick started like it was 1492 all over again. This so-called progress encouraged many of those from countries colonized by the Spanish crown to move to the Madre Patria, hoping to find a better life than back in the New World.

Plaça Diamant in the borough of Gracia

Gracia, my new neighbourhood, reflected much of this new wave of multiculturalism. Where I had mentally prepared myself to become just another Catalonian, I realized this would be a trying feat. Most residents were young and hip (like myself) and hailed from Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay and Brazil. In my apartment building, it felt I was living in Little Buenos Aires, which suited me quite well – can anyone say “asado”?

Gracia is a part of town populated by young people (mid twenties to late thirties). Local residents who have lived there for generations clash with the much louder younger generation, with their decibels fueled by Chichi Peralta, Celia Cruz and other of the Latin-American musical geniuses. Others have called an armistice, overwhelmed by the never-ending barrage of music and party, surrendering to the countryside where the local, quieter, Catalan culture still dominates.

A more curious aspect I noticed was the alarming lack of parks. I come from cities where there are generally quite a few greenbelts. In Barcelona, pedestrian enclosures surrounded by bars, local businesses and convenience stores replace what others call nature parks. The few trees standing around the plazas provide some contrast from the concrete and stone surroundings. However, should you really need some nature, Parc Guell, another of Andoni Gaudí’s architectural masterpieces, is also located in the northern part of this barrio.

Andrés Calamaro, a Hispanophile Argentine rocker

Many areas within the metropolitan area of Barcelona are extremely well serviced by public transport routes being subways, cable cars and buses. I always liked to say that I could be anywhere in town in 20 to 30 minutes, something that would be hard to match in busier North America urban centres. Should you be looking for easy access to the city and a younger population where you can settle for a while, consider Gracia.

Gràcia a Diós, I’m Home

There is nothing I remember best than the day I arrived to my temporary digs in Barcelona. Upon arriving at the address securing the printed e-mail, holding it like a sacred scripture, I rang the doorbell and waited. My trusty goons (the suitcases) sat on my flanks. Thieves are clever in this town as each of these made for a difficult snatch and run. Seconds turned to minutes and my mind wondered if I had fallen for a scam of sorts.

My Movistar store on Carrer Gran de Gràcia. Notice the Catalan signage

Across the street on Carrer Gran de Gràcia, a Movistar cellphone shop teased me, knowing very well I was in quite a pickle. I picked up old Samsonite and his twin brother, dragging them to the store. I was determined to purchase a prepaid phone to get connected to the grid. Being jetlagged and somewhat underslept – for lack of a better word – my most immediate need was to find a way to communicate with my supposed host in the case my intelligence was erroneous.

Fifty euros or so later, I was in possession of a sleek new cheap phone and was able to dial up the number for the apartment I could easily see from inside the store. I was immediately greeted with a friendly che or two, establishing initial contact. My new flat mate mentioned that he had totally forgotten to tell me the doorbell was out. He said he’d meet me at the door, so once we hung up, I proceeded back to the point I was dropped off. My suitcases were getting much heavier each step I took under the warm, humid, Catalan midday sun.

I noticed the door to the street was now ajar, as my newest friend unlocked it through the flat’s intercom for ease of access. Nice lad. As I nudged the door open further using my patented hip shuffle, I could now see the hallway was dark as night. Well, more or less, under the lens of the unknown and all that baggage that usually follows along. I could only see the shade of a person coming down and eventually he came to the light, welcoming me to Barcelona.

Carrer Gran de Gràcia in the nighttime. Pretty sweet, eh?

From the street, the building itself seemed rather beaten up so I worried if I was moving in to roach city. However, the young Argentinean gentleman had a great sense of pride for his home. The apartment could have been a poster child for an IKEA campaign (this is meant in a good way) or for a magazine on how to maximize space in a small dwelling. Things were off to a good start!