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!

Bon día, Barcelona

The natural flow in most of my life adventures generally followed a North-South trend. The furthest I had ever relocated using this well-rehearsed routine was approximately 9000 km (5400 miles). My first major East-West move breaking the trend was from O-town to Barcelona back in 2007. This was fundamentally different as the move was also across several time zones, which I find is much more difficult as the distance grows between your destination and point of departure.

In transatlantic travel, it can be preferable for heavy sleepers to take the overnight flight - if it’s available, of course. Sleeping in a tin can while levitating a good 10,000 m (35,000 feet) above an icy body of water can be easy for some. The occasional shake and bake is just like a sweet caress. Statistics are on your side when riding a passenger jet compared to riding a unicycle around a volcanic crater – never would have guessed - but somehow I am unable to catch some Zs on what some call “the metallic condor”.

From YUL to BCN – trying to sound cool using airport lingo – the flight time is about 8 hours and 30 minutes, depending on prevailing winds, weight of the plane and the size of the pilot’s lunch prior to boarding. Aside from the travel time, there is about a 6-hour actual time difference (GMT -4:00 versus GMT +2:00), which can eventually make you feel like you are living entirely world apart from the one you loved ones stay behind. I does take quite a lot of getting used to.

Travelling for a long-term move is much different to vacationeering – term originates from those vicious beach pirates making their way from one resort to the next, one piña colada at a time. The sense of adventure grows as you bounce around like a monkey with a mad case of indigestion, wondering, “what did I get myself into.” For some, these feelings may be tough to admit, even to the most seasoned nomad. Did I make the right choice in accepting that kind invitation from that guy to stay at his apartment, or is he some Hannibal-the-Cannibal looking to savour some foreign cartilage? Yeah, you know you’ve been there too, tough guy.

After the slowest trip of a lifetime – I did sit in an airplane once with my brother for 13 hours, but we killed time reciting the lines from Top Gun word for word in three different languages – I was in balmy Barcelona. I blended in nicely with the locals carrying two humongous suitcases and my laptop bag strapped to my chest like a suicide nerd bomber. I hired an airport taxi that reminded me of the black and yellows in the Southern Cone where a gipsy driver was taking me to my first Catalan home.

2007 FIFA U-20 World Cup Canada

I have often associated Canadian summers – like most Canadians – with the perfect time to play soccer. The parks are filled with people enjoying the limited sunshine and fresh air, pretending we are some tropical country. Hey, we deserve it. We are also one of the few countries along with our American cousin down South to have a competitive league over the summer, because... well, you guessed it: our winters.

My last summer before heading to Barcelona was momentous. FIFA organized an under 20 World Cup in my honour – I have a lot of contacts - bringing the best young talent in the world to Canada. This is perhaps football at its best. Generally, these youngsters are looking to play their hearts out on the field, hoping to catch the eye of some European scout to secure a contract. Later on when you watch the Champions League or other international tournaments, you can say, “I remember that guy back when he was a kid!”

Ottawa hosted Group E, which to my delight included Argentina, with the likes of Sergio “El Kun” Agüero who now plays in Manchester City, Sergio Romero, goalkeeper for Sampdoria, Ever Banega, a no-nonsense defensive midfielder currently patrolling midfield in Valencia and Angel Di Maria, an explosive goal scoring winger featured in Real Madrid’s first team. Now, 6 years after this tournament, they are all pretty much international regulars for Argentina.

Most Canadian cities were ill-equipped to handle an event of this magnitude and greatly unexpected the heavy turnouts to each game. I remember going to Lansdowne Park with my buddy Glen to cheer on La Albiceleste, and the residents in the Glebe were frustrated with the crowds. Another interesting fact was the number of Argentines who travelled from Montreal, Toronto and even far West to see the boys win. It almost seemed that Argentina had a strong home field advantage.

The tournament in its final stages was most remembered for some incredible South American dominance with Argentina putting in an elegant display of the futbol lindo to win it all and Chile playing some outstanding ball. The Chileans were soured in an incident where the Toronto Police brutally beat and arrested a number of Chilean players who were trying to make their way to their expat fans to thank them for their support.