All quiet on the blogging front

A blogger without a laptop is, as we’d say in Yorkshire, “n’er use, n’er ornament” and as such I am unable to share those new experiences that have tickled my tastebuds in recent weeks. Instead I have been trawling the web for bloggers who write about IT fixes but have finally given in and resorted to bribing techy guys at work with a taste of home and pork pies from Bury market in the vain hope they’ll rescue it.

So in the meantime I’ll use the time to top up my tan and be back with new posts hopefully very soon.

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Las Arenas de Barcelona

Bullfighting may be banned in Catalonia from New Year’s Day 2012 but a toro hasn’t lost its life at Las Arenas de Barcelona bullring since I was a twinkle in my parents’ eyes in 1977. Between then and 25th March this year the bullring sat idle and in a growing state of disrepair until it was finally decided a few years ago to make use of it. Lo and behold what else could it possibly be turned into these days other than another temple to consumerism? Thus where crowds once cheered, bulls died and toreros pranced and taunted in their elaborate costumes and red capes there are now high street stores, chain restaurants and cafes, a multi-screen cinema and a rock and roll museum. By the way ‘Arenas’ does not mean ‘arena’  but rather ‘sands’, one of the many false friends to fool us between Spanish and English. The bullring’s façade, which is heavily moorish in style although it was designed by Catalan architect Domènech i Montaner, has been kept and elevated, but inside nothing aside from it’s circular shape remains to hint at its former usage.

It has always completely escaped me why anyone would choose to have a meal in a shopping centre cafe or restaurant, it escapes me even more why you’d want to do this in Barcelona given all the other amazing eating options available to you. However, it seems there are plenty people willing to do just this and as such there are a selection of chain fast food eateries and restaurants, although not the usual suspects of Burger King or McDonald’s. None of what follows are on my list to visit anytime soon.

I procrastinate about going shopping in the same way some people put off a visit to the dentist so I’m not really best placed to comment on the stores available, all I’ll say is nowhere particularly grabbed my attention and lured me in.

What I was most looking forward to was climbing up to the open-air, domed roof and catching a glimpse of the city below. From the side facing Plaça d’Espanya towards Montjuïc the view was every bit as good as I imagined and I spent a few minutes looking down trying to grasp how exactly everyone knows how to navigate the crazy roundabout in the plaça.

The following rooftop restaurant would have been a lovely setting for an outdoor meal had it looked onto the view above. Instead some genius must’ve decided a staircase and rooftop view was a bigger selling point. Thoughtless planning in my opinion.

I left Las Arenas feeling very disappointed. Its magnificent and historic gift wrapped façade, once torn away reveals a bland, uninspiring present to the visitor. I will stick to admiring its exterior on my daily commute and leave the rest for others to savour.

Arenas de Barcelona, Gran Via de les Corts Catalanes 373-385

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Sant Jordi (St George’s Day)

It’s a rather strange situation when moving to another country means you learn more about your own country’s patron saint than you did when you lived there. That’s how I find myself when the festival of Sant Jordi comes round. Firstly most citizens of England would struggle to tell you what date St George’s Day falls on and secondly, they wouldn’t be able to tell you of a single tradition that exists to commemorate the day. I certainly couldn’t before I came here.

St George, or Sant Jordi as I’ll name him from here on in, is the patron saint of Catalonia (as well as many other countries and cities as I’ve now learnt) and our familiar George cross sits next to the Catalan flag in the Barcelona masthead. Thankfully there is no hint at any racist connotation regarding the flag or the national day, here the celebration leads more towards love and friendship with the exchanging of roses and books. Stalls pop up around the city selling new and second-hand libros and predominantly red roses although other colours are creeping into popularity.Each rose is presented with a hint of Catalonia and for reasons unknown to me, an ear of wheat.Times have changed from the original tradition and although it’s still customary for men to present women with a rose it’s also now the norm that both sexes receive a book. This tradition stems from the fact that the 23rd April was also the date of the deaths of literary mights Cervantes and Shakespeare. As this year’s festival has fallen on a Saturday rather than a school day there’s been no roses for me, but I have managed to replenish my book supply as some stalls did have titles in English. Whilst we perused the book selection a group where dancing in front of the newly renovated, and slightly vulgar looking El Molino theatre on Paral.lel.And finally, of course this wouldn’t be a true Catalan festival without something to pass the lips to mark the occasion. This day is when people eat pa de Sant Jordi, layers of sobrassada flavoured bread provide the red stripes of the Catalan flag contrasted against the yellow tinged dough. Sold by weight it can be relatively expensive due to the sobrassada and no doubt a fiesta price tag.

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The Countdown to Christmas

It’s now less than two weeks to Christmas, a fact that almost passed me by due to the beautiful weather we’ve been having, the absence of breakfast TV presenters giving you a daily reminder from October onwards of the number of shopping days remaining and the generally more muted tone the Christmas period receives here.

This is the second year I have spent in Barcelona in the run up to the festivities and the first where I will be spending Christmas Day here. For anyone who is a Christmas fanatic this is probably not the best place to be during this season. For others like myself who tire of the excesses, the crazy shopping, the advertising, the ostentacious, garish house decorations and the ‘start’ of the Christmas season creeping earlier and earlier each year in the UK this is the perfect place to hide out.

Not only is there not ‘extreme Christmas’ to quote a friend of mine, but also there are frequent reminders of the true reason for the celebration. Now this has no meaning or significance for me, but I do feel heartened that the commercialisation of the holiday hasn’t completely overshadowed it’s origin.

But the religious significance isn’t followed by all and Santa and the temptation to adorn your dwelling is never far away. The Spanish don’t share the British love of cheap chocolate bars (shame, I do miss Cadbury’s) and as such the mountains of selection boxes are absent from the supermarket shelves. A culture of giving greetings cards also doesn’t exist in the same way as in Britain, therefore card shops bursting at the seams also don’t feature, they have to be hunted down. Fancy some mulled wine, mince pies, Christmas pudding or cake? Get your apron on as it’ll be a challenge to find them, although a trip to Lidl might save you the effort of having to make your own mincemeat. The German markets which have become an integral part of British Christmasses over the last few years are also non-existent. These I do miss, however much they may be a marketing import from Frankfurt and not in the slightest British.  The days may have recently been warm but once the sun drops that mug of glühwein would go down a treat.

Now, all this isn’t to say that Barcelona doesn’t have it’s own festive feel. The city is now dotted with stalls and markets selling trees, gorgeous blood red poinsettias, nativity figurines, caga tiós and caganers.

Most families have a nativity scene at home and it’s a tradition to buy new figures every year, there are markets such as the Fira de Santa Llúcia in front of the main cathedral which are crammed at weekends. There’s one person who wasn’t in Bethlehem that night, however, but a belen wouldn’t be complete without him. He is the caganer, literally the pooing Catalan countryman, relieving himself amongst Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus and the wise men. Can you spot him here? In keeping with modern times, the caganer these days might be Messi, Barack Obama or even the Pope with their pants around their ankles.

Christmas Eve also wouldn’t be the same for Catalan children without Caga Tió, this time a log, that excretes small gifts and sweets. I’m not sure what the origins of this fascination with defacating comes from, but I find it very charming and amusing.

The log is secretly filled by their parents and the children then gently tap the log whilst singing the following song, before the blanket is lifted and the caga tió releases his treats.

caga tio poo log

caga turró poo turrón

avellanas i mató hazlenuts and mató (cheese)

si no cagues bé if you don’t poo well

et daré un cop de bastó I’ll hit you with a stick

caga tió poo log

The caga tió only gives small treats, the main gifts come via Els Reis, The Kings or Three Wise Men, on January 6th the Epiphany. Despite Santa’s arrrival to dilute this culture, for most children Els Reis are the bringers of gifts and their visit is celebrated with a parade in the city which sadly I will miss once again this year.

And what replaces those mountains of chocolate bars, Celebrations, Roses, Quality Streets and the like that we Brits consume by the tin full over the Christmas season and then try in vain to shift with exercise in the New Year? Well here those January gym memberships go to moving the kilos attained from turrón. Slabs of super sweet almond paste, almonds in hard nougat, ones made with egg yolks, bricks of chocolate with hazlenuts and almonds,  as well as polverons small delicate almond biscuits which are delicious with strong coffee, crystallised fruit and sugared almonds.

My personal aim for Christmas is an amalgamation of my worlds, my tiny tree, the glühwein and mince pies that I so love merged with some of that teeth tingling turrón and a glimpse of the caganer.

Bon Nadal a tothom / Feliz Navidad a todos / Merry Christmas everyone.

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Eugeni Forcano. La meva Barcelona (Eugeni Forcano. My Barcelona)

‘Destino’ was a weekly Spanish magazine which started life in 1937 during the Spanish Civil War by a group of Catalans connected to the Spanish right, but shifted in a few short years to being published in Barcelona and taking a liberal and catalinista path until it’s death in 1980.

A self-taught photographer named Eugeni Forcano joined the magazine in 1960 and for the next 14 years regularly contributed cover images and photo reports for the publication.

 

Cover of 'Destino' magazine 22nd July 1961

 

Some of this work is currently being exhibited at the Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona (Barcelona Photography Archive) which is located in the former Convent de Sant Agustí in Born, an impressive space which has now been converted for community and cultural activities. The archive houses a collection of more than 2 million photographs of the city from 1839 to the present day and I went along to see some of senyor Forcano’s work.

The exhibition is entitled ‘Eugeni Forcano, My Barcelona’ and indeed his Barcelona is very much different to my Barcelona. Although many of his photographs are portrait in style and his subjects, the street sellers, children, tramps and ordinary working people dominate the frame and often look you straight in the eye, it was those images of the crowds of citizens, events and street scenes of a sadly yet in some ways equally thankfully lost city that most captured my interest.

 

Selling cards of Mary to bless the new year of 1964

 

 

Woman with her daily bread, C/Valldonzella in Raval 1962

 

As I was unable to take my own photos on display I have taken these from the Eugeni Forcano link above. Unfortunately some of my favourites that captured this relatively recent yet almost unrecognisable ciutat are not available to share here.

The period that Forcano documented for Destino magazine was that of a different Catalonia and Spain. The country was poorer and living under Franco’s dictatorship, evidenced in some of the pictures with castillianised street names, for example ‘Via Layetana’ in place of the Catalan ‘Via Laietana’, huge religious processions and a sense of the religious fervour and influence enforced by the regime.

 

Religious occasion at Barcelona Cathedral 1963

 

Much less so than today, it would appear that nuns and monks were ever present amongst the lay folk and there were some amusing scenes of nuns in unexpected places such as on the beach in the first picture or appearing outraged by the arrival of the bikini below, something which would they would rapidly see more of as the government started Spain and the city onto the path of being the tourist trap it is these days.

 

Nuns contemplating the bikini, 1961

 

Bullfighting, a symbol of Spain, encouraged by the government and before the recent ban in the region, took place at ‘Las Arenas’ bullring in Plaça d’Espanya. It was also used for other events and displays. In coming months it will open as a shopping centre after being renovated and raised due to the designs of the Richard Rogers Partnership. ‘Las Arenas’ means ‘the sands’ by the way, not arena. A false Spanish friend.

A celebration at the Las Arenas bullring in Barcelona 1961

I can’t say I’m sorry to see that the oppression and religious conservatism has disappeared. However, what is saddening is the irreplaceable city that is no more and which unfortunately I don’t have photos of to share here. The fisherman at Port Vell in their rope soled espardenyes (sandals) sharing wine on the quayside after landing their catch. The old streets of the Barri Gotic and the Rambla unburdened by the throng of tourists with the pickpockets and bag thieves that trail them and the locals alike. Workers unloading goods at the defunct Mercat del Born which after much archaelogical excavation is being turned into a cultural centre, albeit with lots of delays.  People travelling to work on open sided trams and policemen directing traffic under stylish parasols to protect them from the sun. No ‘Volem un barri digne’ (‘We want a dignified neighbourhood’) signs hanging from balconies in the Gotic and Raval areas in response to the drug dealing, noisy drunk visitors and beer sellers disturbing the residents peace.

Could Forcano have predicted when he snapped this smart, bespectacled visitor almost half a century ago how much the Olympics, the subsequent enticement to tourists and their omnipresence would change his city?

Barcelona tourist August 1962

 

Time moves on, somethings die, disappear, advance, improve. However, somethings never change and just as these weary females kneel at the steps of a cathedral to beg for some relief to their poverty, this is something my Barcelona does have in common with Forcano’s. Maybe it’s futile at the church steps these days, now the begging is in the squares, on the corners in the most visited barris or on public transport instead.

 

Begging at cathedral steps 1963

 

‘Eugeni Forcano, La meva Barcelona’

Arxiu Fotogràfic de Barcelona, Pl. Pons i Clerch, Born until 15th January 2011.

Additional photos also at Sala Ciutat, C/Ciutat 2, this has been extended until 21st November 2010.

 

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The morning after the night before

Barcelona has woken up this morning to a huge resaca, a pounding, throbbing hangover after yesterday’s general strike.

For me, with the exception of beating drums on the pedestrianised street in front of my flat at 8am to rally people to strike, the day was exceptionally peaceful. The usually morning cacophany of shutters being raised, cafe tables and chairs been put out, the ‘ding ding’ of the butane gas canister sellers doing their rounds, scooters revving their engines as people shoot off to work and general street chatter were absent. Like a long, extended, Sunday morning it pretty much stayed that way for the rest of the day, although some local, independent grocery stores and internet/call shops did start to open as the day progressed.

I took advantage of the day off work to wander round Montjuic park with two newish Barcelona arrivals so I can’t claim to have witnessed any of the proceedings in the city, however reports from Facebook updates and this morning’s papers indicate parts of the city were subjected to violent incidents.

In my neighbourhood this morning the evidence of yesterday’s events are seen only in the detritus and litter on the pavements, the unemptied street side refuse bins and a series of graffiti on the windows of many of the nearby banks and building socieities.

'29th September, no unions'

Elsewhere in the city it seems others will be witnessing more of a trail of devastation. To quote one friend from the previously mentioned social networking site, “Via Laeitana looks like a hurricane has just ripped through it” and today’s El Periodico backs this up with reports of this thoroughfare looking like “a war zone littered with broken glass, stones and bottles and a column of smoke going up towards the sky”, not surprising then that many of my friends and acquaintances decided to have a comfortable night in to avoid encountering any trouble.

My still unfluent Spanish and gaps in knowledge about the political and economic situation here leave me feeling unqualified to comment on yesterday’s events. The finger is being pointed at anti-capiltalist demonstrators as the main source of the violence although there were clashes between picket lines and police around the city, reminiscent of the early 80s in the UK. My only personal comment can be that violence and destruction of a city will win few supporters and will leave the city today taking strong painkillers and picking up the pieces.

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The curious tale of the little caged birds

It was with bewilderment and curiosity that I started asking questions about the numerous teenage boys and young or retired men I kept seeing around carrying small, covered bird cages. Why where they everywhere in the commuter town outside Barcelona where I work? Why did I sometimes, although less frequently, see them in Barcelona too? Why would these men be sat chatting with their friends and the cages would have pride of place on the cafe table or roof of the car, a small flap of the cage cover open? And in true paparazzi style, I started to take pictures, secretly zooming in from a distance,  fascinated by what I was seeing.

The reason became apparent after asking questions of colleagues and acquaintances. These are singing birds and owning and tending to them is a common hobby and seen as a lucrative money making scheme here.

Here’s the deal. You can buy the tiny, baby birds for around 10€, you, to quote one of my sources “care for them, feed them, give them air outside, make them grow big and strong” and then either sell them on for a profit or enter them into singing competitions where I’ve been informed a top prize can be as much as 6000€.

I know of someone who has devoted the majority of her spring and summer to feeding 16 petit baby birds on a 2 hourly basis, which has restricted her social life or opportunities for venturing far from home, to be able to sell these on to someone in Andalusia for 10 times the original outlay. Not a bad return, but quite a commitment.

I’ve done a bit of digging from online newspaper articles and it appears that this is not restricted to Catalonia but happens all across Spain, that the birds learn to sing by imitation and can be played music or bird song for hours and that indeed the prizes can be substantial. However, like any financial gain based on a competition, the chances of winning one of these high prizes are probably pretty low.

What I love and find the most amusing about this are the covers of the cages; I’ve seen a workman with his on the dashboard of the car, resplendent in it’s Barça insignia, another young man on the train to Barcelona, his bearing their rivals of Madrid, the cow print style shown below and numerous chintzy checkered and floral varieties.

A lot of effort goes into “making them big and strong”, these must be tough little blighters with claws of steel judging by the way I’ve seen two or more cages fastened together and swung alarmingly back and forth as their owner walks along the street. Is it clinging onto it’s perch for dear life, cowered in a corner waiting for it’s safe arrival back home, or is there, I wonder, not even a bird in there at all?

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Havana Cultura fridge artists at Estació de França

What do you do when your fridge has given up the ghost and will no longer chill those beers, that wine, those cheeses and salad? Well, probably not what a group of Cuban artists have done to 53 old fridges being displayed over the past weekend in the vestibule at Estació de França.

Before I mention the exhibition I have to comment on the beautiful train station hosting it. I have a real fondness for Estació de França, not only because this is where I first arrived in Barcelona when I moved here, but also because it is a glorious looking building, from the façade which evokes thoughts of Paris

and inside the details, the ironwork and marble hark back to a different era of travel. The station was built in 1929 at the same time lots of other buildings were being constructed in the city for the exhibition of that year, such as what is now the MNAC and the Mies Van de Rohe Pavillion around Plaça d’Espanya. I can picture this place full of people with their coats slung over their arms and carrying their leather suitcases, a much more charming picture than people these days at airports with shoes and belts in plastic trays and being patted down by disgruntled looking security staff.

I adore the ticket desks, a world away from the gaudy and miserable red and grey Virgin trains desks I’m accustomed to back home, and from here you can take a train to France, Switzerland and Northern Italy. I’m such a travel romantic, sigh.

Unlike the other stations in Barcelona there are no underground platforms here so as you approach the station on the train you get to take in the city. The iron roof is stunning although I can imagine this scene was very different when the station was filled with soot and smoke before the trains were electrified.

So, back to the art. The artists, known as ‘Los Frios’ (The Cold Ones) have transformed the fridges into individual pieces for a show which has already been shown in Havana, Milan and Paris. The show was being hosted in Barcelona by Havana 7 Cultura, a interesting venture to promote Cuban culture by Havana Club Rum, which I’m sure won’t do their product sales any harm either.

The exhibition literature claims to be ‘a homage to the refrigerator which is vital in Cuban life’ and that ‘it is more than just a simple electrical item but rather an icon around which all family life revolves, it occupies pride of place in the home and is passed from generation to generation’.

The work is inspired by the Revolución Energética, a programme introduced by Castro’s government in Cuba to replace old, high energy consuming electrical goods, such as these refrigerators.

The ideas were original, amusing, creative and sometimes simple but extremely inventive. Here is a selection of the 53 pieces:

Here is the first of my two favourites, so simple

and finally, the last stop at the end of the line for all of us.

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