The Year of The Spanish Fever

They’re not minor offenders working off their time by doing community service.

They’re professional ‘barrenderos’ who enjoy coveted, full-time municipal jobs with Cuidem Barcelona.

Somehow it’s startling to see a crew of smartly uniformed people, brooms in hand, working their way down a street. The movements of this particular squad seems as effortless and choreographed as a dance troupe.

It’s work, of course, but it’s out in the fresh air in a Mediterranean climate with relatively little rain. It doesn’t seem excessively strenuous and the sweepers come equipped with earbuds and playlists.

Most of Barcelona’s streets run one way. There are lanes for bikes and scooters used year round. Ignoring crosswalk lights can prove dangerous to unsuspecting visitors.

Each intersection is cut on a 45º bias for visibility and light. It turns each corner into a small plaza.

The city is in the process of ‘pacifying’ its streets — closing them off to the motorized vehicles. It’s an idea other congested cities are turning to as well.

Traffic can back up on these narrow urban streets. Traffic lights and road signs aren’t as easy to see as they might be; and parking can be a nightmare. Fortunately an unlimited, month-long Metro pass costs only 20€ ($21.90).

Even during rush-hour it’s rare to hear drivers leaning on their horns. Just as surprising are the sirens on Barcelona’s emergency vehicles.

They sound like they’re carrying someone off to a birthday party.

‘Generalisimo’ Franco dictated which names these petanca players could be given at birth – the name of almost any run-of-the-mill saint would do.
Plaça de Gaudi, Barcelona — Franco’s Spain dictated how its families were structured, what religious practices were tolerated, what questions could be asked and what media was safe to consume.

The language these men spoke at home as children, Catalan, was forbidden in public.

The Spain of their youth was a mid-century backwater passed over by the Marshall Plan. But that didn’t stop the U.S. from conspiring to keep its fascist dictator in power. The men on the “petanca” court today could tell you exactly what they were doing when they heard Francisco Franco had died. What they felt about the changes that followed might be more complicated.

They were already middle-aged when the XXV Olympics Games transformed Barcelona’s desolate shoreline into the beach that made it the glittering playground it is today.

Success hasn’t come without a price. The conversion of apartments into short-term, airbnb-style rentals is pushing working-class families out their neighborhoods.

‘Petanca’ is still played in the plaza next to the Sagrada Familia. Bragging rights, and who buys the next round of drinks, are measured in millimeters. (If today is any indication, women in the barrio have found better ways to pass an afternoon.)

One liberty these old men have allowed themselves is to pick up their stainless steel petanca balls by dangling a magnet on a string. Their knees and hips, like their country itself, have changed since they were young men.

Every time you start a sentence you don’t know how to finish, strangers in the shops, elevators and streets will come to your rescue.

Barrio of Eixample, Barcelona – And when they realize you’re here to study Spanish, they’ll encourage you with the phrase “poco a poco” which means relax, give yourself some time.

That concept has been pushed beyond its limits by the still unfinished basilica that looms over the rooftops of Eixample. It faces me across the table at dinner every evening. When finally completed it’ll be the tallest place of worship on earth.

Ground breaking for the Sagrada Family began almost a century and a half ago. Its principal architect Antoni Gaudí died in a tragic accident.

Since then a cluster fuck of architects, committees and people with more euros than design sense have been involved. Four long decades of ‘Spanish Fascist Architecture’ didn’t help.

There’s a prank the residents here like to play on their visitors.

They’ll ask what you think of Gaudí’s “brilliant, world-class” landmark in progress, knowing that the travelers code of courtesy requires you to wax eloquent about its beauty.

Then they announce they agree with George Orwell that the edifice is “one of the most hideous buildings in the world.”

It’s a treat when strangers stop to pass the time of day. Even during your first weeks of classes when you’re still sounding your ‘h’s and you can’t conjugate your way out of the infinitive, they’ll tell you your Spanish is very good.

Such generous liars, these people of Barcelona.

It’s no wonder the Colombian family found itself hunkered down on the curb of Avenida Centenario.

After all Spanish speakers like the Ortizes don’t describe things as happening “sooner or later.” They say exactly the opposite, that things happen “later or sooner.”

The Ortizes seemed content enough waiting an extra thirty or more minutes to climb back onto the hop-on, hop-off bus tour that promised to circulate every twenty minutes.

It was not just the distortion of time they experienced that day, the locations of “must-see” attractions were elastic as well.

The Museo de Frida Kahlo, for example, magically occupied two different locations on the tour map at the same time. Even the museum’s ticket taker was baffled. “Looks like a long walk from here” he explained, as he turned away the Ortizes who hadn’t reserved tickets in advance.

The Colombians walked back to the bus stop alongside a disappointed older couple from the U.S. who had made the same mistake.

The younger Ortiz, Elioct, seizing the opportunity to speak English, introduced each member of his family by name. The American, determined to use the language he studied, responded in his fingernails-on-the-chalkboard Spanish and as if by magic, a third language was created on fly.

They all hopped back onto the double decker, dodging decapitation by flowering Jacarandas and power cables. Back at the
Cibeles Fountain they exchanged URLs and email addresses.

Phenomena that happen routinely here in Coyoacán and neighboring barrios border on magic.

Guardian angels appear out of nowhere when visitors like the Ortizes are lost or locked out. Locals stop to help tourists like the Americans place phone calls when Verizon fucks them over.

And miracle of all miracles, serviceable WIFI is provided free to anyone strolling the streets and plazas of North America’s largest city.