You cannot live your life without knowing the true romance of a love song for a seagull. Who likes girls.

I don’t mind, I swear I don’t.

I don’t mind stepping around the abandoned beer cans in the stairway on my way to work in the morning.

I don’t mind that weird lingering smell in the vestibule.

I don’t mind the drunk girl who runs about her flat in high heels at 5 a.m, bleating like a spring lamb. I think her childlike joy is sweet. I really do.

I don’t mind that you think siesta hour is the ideal time for a flamenco party. Sleep is overrated anyway.

I don’t mind that most of you stare at me silently with vacant saucer eyes when we pass in the stairway. Unable to crack a smile or muster up the customary two syllable ‘hola’ or even ‘hello’ in reply to my greeting. You were obviously raised by wolves back home.

No, I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.

Wolves actually have excellent social skills.

I don’t mind that the father of the family squatting upstairs is most probably a pickpocket. At least when he heads out to work wearing a different British football T-shirt every evening, we smile and ask each other how the day went.

The one thing I do mind. The one thing I can’t stand anymore, are her cries. I’ve lived with her howls of rage and frustration for three days now. I’ve never heard such plaintive pain in a voice and it haunts me day and night.

So please, dear neighbour, for the love of god, if there is any decency in you.

When this cycle is over, neuter your horny little cat.

She flashes me a toothy smile.

I’m thinking to myself, I’m losing my job in two weeks so there is no way in hell I’m buying you anything.

I first got her a drink over a year ago, and since then she checks in with the regularity and persistence of a dog.

An old dog.

A dog which doesn’t reckon it’s about to start wagging it’s tail for food now. Not after a lifetime of not giving a crap. She rejects free food if she doesn’t like it, asks for better chips if her chips are over done, gives money back if it isn’t enough, and never learned ‘por favor’ in her many years here. A thoroughly unlikable and annoying old lady.

After scolding me in Russian for about five minutes and getting scolded back in English for a few minutes, she simmers down. She smiles.

She lets out a few coughs and touches her parched throat.

Someone has left a bottle of water on the table. I move it closer to her. She screws her face up, sticks her yellow tongue out and makes dramatic choking sounds.

What was I thinking, offering her life threatening water. Idiota!

I shrug.

She sits silent for a couple of minutes, and then she coughs again.

I point at the water. She does the choking routine and then points at my beer. I burst out laughing and so does she.

I don’t imagine I’ll be too impressed with water when I’m her age either. Destitute or not.

I pour a splash of my beer into a glass for her. Her shaky hand darts out, grabs the glass and downs it in two. She puts the glass down and smacks her faintly moustachioed lips happily.

She pulls out a pair of fake All Star converse shoes. Since this is the first time she has offered me anything other than used bras which look like they’ve been stolen from the laundry line of a brothel, I accept.

She’s overjoyed.

I give her another splash of beer. She knocks this one back just as quickly, impervious to my feeble cries of ‘slow, slow!’

We beam at each other in a happy beer haze.

On the pavement outside, a sexy dark skinned skater boy comes clattering along. His board catches on the pavement and he goes flying.

Georgia and I burst into simultaneous drunken cackles.

She gets up, thanks me for the drink and totters off. Another Barcelona evening, well spent.

You have to side step the prostitutes, pimps and pickpockets to get into the bar. Propping up the bar you’ll see some extremely dodgy looking characters, all runaway hair and earrings and intense stares….who later turn out to be the band members.

You won’t get past the scary looking gitano (Spanish Gypsy) blocking entry to the back of the bar, until you’ve paid your three euros.

Inside the crowd is a mix of locals, dodgy locals, extremely dodgy locals and guiris. All living in perfect harmony for these few moments because they’re all here for the love of Flamenco. The guitarist is the owner of the bar, and his band plays every Saturday night.

Prepare yourself for the shock, but the bar man will serve you with a smile. The cheerfulness doesn’t stop there. The band keep up the banter, the crowd throws it back to them, and all in all the whole place is dodgy but friendly. Just the way I like it!

The crowd and atmosphere is all forgotten when the Flamenco dancer steps up. Me, I was blown away. The way that woman moved her body, I thought she was going to set the stage on fire (I may have a little crush on her).

The verdict of the regulars though: Good, but lacking intensity(!)

What!!?

Visit the Robadors 23 blog for details for more information on this and other music nights.

It’s a risk since the artists haven’t been announced yet, but two days of shenanigans for the price of 26.50 Euros is well worth it. The artists almost don’t matter. Well okay they do, but history is on our side. Last year we saw the likes of Iggy Pop, Gogo Bordello, Cypress Hill, M.I.A, 2 Many DJs and The Specials (who gave me my first terrifyingly enjoyable moshing experience: it really is just about being beaten up to music. Heaps of fun. Honest!).

On Thursday the 21st this week the line-up will be released and the price of a 2-Day ticket goes up to 40 Euros ( + booking fee).

Question is, are you in a gambling mood?

Cruilla at Forum: one of the best venues

The metro line to Placa Espanya exploded with international suits this morning, complacent and laden with expensive gadgetry. Sleepily excited and looking forward to showing off their not-yet-released mobile phones and laptops which can fly a space ship to Mars while detecting and ordering milk when your fridge levels run low (that of course is the greatest human challenge at the moment: stale milk in the fridge).

Pickpocket heaven you’d think, yet I didn’t spot one single beady eyed crowd scanner. None of the regulars, and no visitors either. Not even the lighter and tissue paper sellers.

The metro has been cleaned up for the visitors.

So don’t begrudge those bright eyed hordes in their varied shades of grey. Yes you may have to squeeze onto the train Tokyo style, like so many tinned fishlings, but you also get thievery free commuting for one week. Enjoy!

The food is tasty, simple and satisfying. The atmosphere is loud, friendly and relaxed. Yes you will stand out a little as a guiri but nobody cares really. If you wanted to dip your toe in the social/community/alternative living scene in Barcelona, this is a good place to start. They also host art exhibitions, a free shop (exchange stuff you no longer need for stuff you do), workshops and talks.

Go with a group of friends and get a table to yourselves, or go alone and perch at the bar. It’s all good.

Payment is by donation. Give what you can, a euro, a couple of euros or more. Beer is one euro.

La Otra Carboneria describe themselves as free space for people to collectively create and fight a city model which wants to sell everything. A model which treats people as little more than scenery in the ‘Barcelona Theme Park’.

Visit them at the junction of Carrer Urgell with Carrer Floridablanca.

My mum: Really? In a truck?

Dad (points to another truck with an elephant painted on): Did it look like that?

Me: No, it was a real elephant!

Dad: Was it big?

Me: It was an elephant!

Mum: How could it get up there?

Me: er….dunno

We lapse into companionable road trip silence.

Mum turns to dad (conversationally): Did you put the bag of rum in the boot or is it in the back seat?

Elephant truck

But then I remembered the Ikea advertisement. I found it, watched it, and now I understand.

Watch and learn:

–

Wiki says
The pathetic fallacy is the treatment of inanimate objects as if they had human feelings, thought, or sensations. The word ‘pathetic’ in this use is related to ‘pathos’ or ‘empathy’ (capability of feeling), and is not pejorative. In the discussion of literature, the pathetic fallacy is similar to personification.

Part 1. The Protective Prostitutes

Us (flyering): Come to the Fish n Chip shop ladies. It’s open at 6 am every weekend. Good food and drink!

The girls smile and accept the flyers and we make to move off.

Lillian: Here! Come back! Tell me….tell me some more about the Fish n Chip shop.

Us: Sure, well you can get Fish and Chips, it’s deep fried. And you can get an English breakfast or an American breakfast.

Lillian (quietly): Keep talking to us girls, that man there is waiting to rob you.

Me: Oh thanks for the warning! What’s your name?

Lillian: I’m Lillian, I’m from Mozambique.

Muriel: I’m Muriel, from Kenya

Shady man gives up and walks away.

Me: Nice to meet you ladies, do you work here during the day? I’ll say hello if I pass by.

Lillian: Oh no! We don’t work in the day.

Muriel: Nah, we study in the day.

Me: What do you study?

Lillian: Anything we can. Catalan, Spanish, any free course we find.

Muriel: Yeah, we want to be ready for the day we get our papers. As soon as we get papers, we’re going to find real jobs.

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Part 2. The Flirtatious Thieves

Boy: Excuse me señora! Is this yours?

Me: Hey, that’s my wallet!

Boy: Yeah, you must have dropped it back there.

Me: No I didn’t. You stole it!

Sheepish grin

Me: So, did you find any money in it?

Boy: Er…no, even the phone was crap….

Me (in my best teacherly voice): Now don’t you feel ashamed trying to rob a girl with no money?

Boy (Sheepish grin): I came to give it back to you, and….umm… could I get your phone number?

Me (laughing): No way!

Boy: But why?

Me: Because you’re a robbing bastard, that’s why!

Boy’s mates (laughing at him): You’re a robbing bastard! Ha ha ha!

Boy: Aww cmon, it was too easy. This city is full of thieves. (In his best teacherly voice) You should be more careful!

Read more on Barcelona’s crime at the Thief hunters in Paradise blog.