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In Which I Spend The Whole Day Grinning
April 23, 2008 by Mike
Barcelona
I've been a bit cheeky over the last couple of days: lovin' Barcelona; not reporting back too much. Sorry, but I've been too busy having too much fun.
And no, nothing like that, thank you missus. (*sigh*)
But I really should give you a taste of today. It's been unique.
And while some of you (I'm looking at you, John Brewin) will be stunned, amazed and a little hurt that I don't begin with the football, what's been really special about today has been that it's the Day of Catalonia's patron saint: Sant Jordi.
Jordi is bigger than Ronaldinho and Lionel Messi round here. That's saying something. He might not have been good enough to get in the Barcelona first team, but he combines religion with regional identity, arty-farty culture with romance: it's a potent combination.
Religion: well, he's a saint. (Saint George, in fact - also patron saint of England, Portugal, Georgia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Bosnia and Herzegovina and the Republic of Macedonia. That's almost as many countries as the Chelsea dressing-room.)
Region: As the patron saint of Catalonia, the people here turned him into an anti-Spanish -- and by extension pro-democracy -- symbol during the Franco dictatorship. And what could the old git do? He was in hock to and in league with the Catholic church, so he could hardly force the wayward Catalans to stop celebrating his saints' day. Heh heh.
(A former icon of the Barca side, Johann Cruyff, one of the first foreigners allowed to come to the club during the dictatorship, named his son Jordi. It was taken as a pro-Catalan, anti-Madrid gesture, and hugely popular. Sadly, as a footballer, Jordi turned out to be slightly worse than.. me.)
Culture: it's traditional on Sant Jordi's day for women to buy and present a book to men. I didn't quite work out which men -- husband, family, friends -- though I can report it's clearly not traditional for women to give books to foreign tourists who smell ever-so-faintly of motorbike oil and desperately need a haircut... (*sigh* *sigh*)
Romance: ... meanwhile, the men of Catalonia present the women with a rose. Again, I'm not certain which women.. wife, mistress, both, family, friends. If it were all the women any man finds attractive I'd have needed several fields' worth of rose bushes... but I did manage to present one rose to one special woman. Solange is the boss of the workshop where the new, secondhand shocks, and a new front tyre, have now been fitted. And d'you know what? When I arrived late morning to settle the bill, pick up the bike.. and present her with a rose.. *none* of the men she works with had given her one. A rose, that is. But Juan, the Argentine mechanic, has sorted the bike. It feels a gazillion times better. Gracias, Juan, even if you do support the wrong team.
Antonio, Juan and Solange
(There you go, John.. that's at least three football references and I haven't even got to the match yet.)
The whole city takes Sant Jordi seriously -- by which I mean they have fun with it. Las Ramblas were chockablock, with bookstalls in particular. As a bibliophile, I took great gulps of the smell of new books in the crisp, sunny spring air. Luvverly.
Down towards the port there were a dozen or more radical stalls, selling books, newspapers and t-shirts. Ecological, anarchist, seven shades of Marxist, Marxist-Leninist, Leninist, Marxist-Marxist, Leninist-Marxist, Lennonist-McCartneyist.. you name it, they were there. I got quite nostalgic. Sadly, I don't have space on the bike for even a t-shirt.
But a whole day devoted to books and roses? How could that be anything else but the clincher: I. Could. Live. Here.
--
I spent the evening in The Greatest Local In The World.
(And yes, John, this is the football bit: FC Barcelona against ManYou.)
Last decorated in the mid-70s. Last cleaned about four days later. Some gawdawful-looking sandwiches on offer (this in a country that lives and breathes great tapas.) The same beer that's available in every bar in the city. No space to sit; no space, in fairness, to stand, without bending at an awkward angle to see the screen -- yes, a small, old-fashioned telly perched at one end of the bar, rather than the huge and glossy screens available in All The Other Bars In Barcelona.
But.. something in the welcome not only of the three men behind the bar -- the smiling brother, the scowling brother, the goofy Other One -- but of every person crammed in to the narrow, scratchy, gloomy room. The old fella with the gammy eye and the stained hat who started singing flamenco songs, loudly and well and without a soul noticing apart from me. The couple who sat nursing a single cup of coffee between them, glued to the television, exchanging neither a glance nor a word, but sharing an earpiece each of a portable radio that was, undoubtedly, broadcasting a rabidly pro-Barca commentary of the game. The well-dressed man who gripped his newspaper tighter and tighter with every half-chance missed by his team. The codger who explained to me in detail each half-chance, that I'd just watched, in impenetrable Catalan. The hoodies who gave up their seats for an old couple and who stepped out into the street to answer their mobiles. The boss' six year old son, proudly displayed in photos on the wall, who cried and cried throughout half-time because the football wasn't on. The old lech at the door who had a comment for every woman walking in and out. And every woman who walked in and out, who gave as good as they got.. with a smile.
It was the most multicultural bar I've ever sat in -- and that's saying something after 20-odd years in Ladbroke Grove.
There's a sign behind the bar:
For our neighbours' sake,
singing is not permitted
before 10am or after 8pm.
How could you not love that? Especially as the flamenco singer didn't get started 'til the second half -- that's after 10pm, sir!
Oh, by the way. It was a turgid 0-0 draw. I didn't even notice how dull the match was, I was enjoying the venue too much. Thank the lawd I hadn't paid €150+ to go to the game itself, and miss all the fun.
Comments
By Nick | April 29, 2008 2:43 PM
Glad the bike's in order again.
One day I hope I get to visit the bar you descibe - sounds great!
By karen With | April 29, 2008 6:14 PM
Compare pic of u in Barcelona with the one used as an intro - honestly looks like da trips doin u a lotta good bro!
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By Ro | April 29, 2008 1:04 PM
Just sent your photo of the guy in the tortoise shell to Tom who is at the moment in Kabul. From Barcelona to Kabul via Nailsworth. He then forwarded it to his friend George in Harare who also thinks it's funny. What a small world, eh?