YA ESTA

In what feels like an impossible time warp, our two years in Barcelona have come to an end. Our moving container set sail a few weeks ago and we left last Thursday: we boarded a flight to Venice, are spending two weeks meandering around the Dolomites, Slovenia, and Croatia, and then land back in Boston on June 27 — at which point our grand European adventure officially concludes.

Our hearts all feel a little heavy right now.

We spent the last few weeks saying teary goodbyes to great friends, enchanting places, and a way of life that doesn’t (and maybe can’t) exist in the US. In exchange, we're headed back to a set-up that looks strikingly similar to the one we left two years ago: back to Brookline, into a house that’s just a mile away from our old one. Aaron's going back to Charlesbank. I'll spend a year back at Harvard. We'll have our beloved "Juji" back a few days a week to babysit the kids after school. We'll get to be close to the friends and family we also said teary goodbyes to two summers ago. It's full circle to the point where it sometimes feels like we dreamed this whole thing up — like we never left, like nothing ever happened. 

But the sameness of Boston 2.0 belies so many of the changes that have happened to us—as individuals, as a couple, as a family. Living abroad was, for sure, the most simultaneously empowering and humbling experience of our lives — conferring the dual (and duelling) sense that we could do anything and absolutely nothing. We were curious and fearless, but also so totally dependent on others to navigate even the most mundane aspects of life. (E.g., we had to beg for my assistant’s help canceling our home internet before we left; worse, we needed our kids’ help translating the details of our car sale.) Nothing was easy, but all things got easier; aspects that seemed so foreign and noteworthy at the beginning eventually faded into inconspicuous normalcy. But still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn’t weirdly looking forward to my first call to an English-speaking customer service line; I'm eager to recapture my now-rusty sense of adult autonomy. But the challenge of navigating the Spanish-only lines was just part of what made expat life so utterly engaging — and it makes you realize how much of daily life you miss when you’re able to do it all on auto-pilot.

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At its core, being an expat is like an adult nature vs. nurture experiment. You get to be you, but in a different context – see what sticks and what falls away, what you like and don’t, which pieces are essentially you and which are more a product of your environment. You get to live your normal life, but under the radar and totally on your own terms. You conform to the social norms without being subject to the social pressures. There’s no keeping up with the Joneses, because you have no idea who the Joneses are that you’re supposed to be keeping up with. You confront your own notion of "normal" and adapt accordingly. And all the while, you get to meet interesting, like-minded people who are willing to talk it all over during a five-hour Sunday lunch. It’s addictive. And we’re so unbelievably grateful we had the chance to do it.

The move was conceived four and a half years ago, over a date-night out in Boston on a frigid 5-degree January night. At that point, it was just the nebulous (and probably wine-induced) dream of two cold, burned out, sleep-deprived parents who needed something to shoot for and naively pinky-swore they’d try to move abroad. It took another two and a half years to work out the details. And then two more to live it in all its glory. And now that much anticipated, long-awaited experience has come to an end. Ya esta — it is done.

NAVIDAD IN BARCELONA

The temperatures have dipped below 60, and suddenly folks are all dressed up like eskimos. A utility crew just installed an unreasonably radiant holiday light fixture right outside our bedroom window, which has helped to make the season bright. And now Santas all over town are handing out inappropriately hard candies to tiny tots with their eyes all aglow. It can only mean one thing: it's Navidad in Barcelona.

This year we're staying in Europe for the holidays and importing "Yaya and Boppy" from the States. We're going to spend some time in Barcelona and tack on a one-week Christmas detour to Austria. (We couldn't resist Round 2 of the Vienna markets and a few nights in Salzburg, where I intend to sing The Sound of Music soundtrack on repeat until my kids have their inaugural bout of mom-embarrassment.) 

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It's quite delightful to see how a whole separate part of the world prepares for the impending holidays. For instance, we've discovered that Catalans — an otherwise refined, buttoned-up people — are blessed with a bewildering array of poop-related Christmas traditions. Virtually every tchotchke store has currently stocked some version of a caga tió, an anthropomorphized log that children "feed" for days leading up to Christmas. (Parenting fail: our tió "forgot" to "eat" the mandarina it had been fed on Night #1. Oops.) After being sufficiently fattened up, the log is ultimately beaten with a stick (ironic, no?) until it obediently poops out sweet treats and other goodies. There is an even more ridiculous song that accompanies the already-ridiculous beating (and thus corroborates my story). It is violence, spoiled brattiness, and literal shit all rolled up into one very merry holiday tradition.

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Poo-ing logs not your thing? How about a poo-ing human? In another distinctly Catalan tradition, caganers (literally: shitters) are also widely available for discrete (or not so discrete) placement in your at-home nativity scene. The traditional version is a generic peasant wearing a red cap and white shirt, but the local Christmas markets offer a poo-ing version of virtually any other person (or cartoon character, religious figure, or "other") you could ask for. (Does anyone not feel merrier with a poo-ing Trump in their living room?) Of course, you know the whole thing is a little much when even a 6-year-old boy is grossed out by the new family caganer (who's kickin' it next to the caga tió on the bookshelf)

There are also very sweet (and dinner-table-appropriate) traditions, too. Christmas here is more or less a Thanksgiving-like holiday — packed with family and long meals, not gifts — but it is decidedly second fiddle to the Three Kings (Los Reyes Magos). There's a huge parade on the evening of January 5, which is when the Kings arrive in the Port of Barcelona by boat and then process through the heart of the city center. It's the Three Kings (not Santa) who deliver toys on the morning of January 6.

Naturally, after being surrounded by dozens of classmates who are anxiously awaiting the Three Kings' arrival, our children are also expecting a visit from these exotic new gift-givers. But between Christmas day in Austria, a belated-Christmas back in Barcelona, and now the introduction of Three Kings, this is turning into a bit of a parenting puzzle. I'm not entirely sure how or where we'll give the kids gifts, or which magical, mythical being will get to steal my credit for bringing them. But at this point I can say one thing for sure: none of the cool ones are coming from the bum of a log. 

EXPAT OBSERVATIONS: THE FIGHT FOR INDEPENDENCE

October 1st — or 1-O ("one-oh") as they've named it in Catalonia — was strange. Almost as strange as the three days that have passed since.

The morning of the vote was drippy and wet and the gray sky seemed to reflect the mood of everyone beneath it. I ventured out to the gym and was taken aback by the 15+ Spanish (read: not Catalan) police vans—silent but lights flashing—that crossed my path in a slow but serious procession. From the treadmill, I watched side-by-side television news broadcasts—one from a Spanish station featuring images of Spanish police being cheered on by anti-separatists, the other from a Catalan station featuring images of Spanish police being brutally aggressive toward separatists. By that evening, helicopters were hovering over our neighborhood and a group of protestors had assembled not far from our house. We stayed inside and read bits of breaking news about the violence down in the city center. That night's 10:00PM pot-banging session was louder than ever.

In a move I guess I should've anticipated, a "General Strike" was declared for Tuesday, which was as ambiguous and seemingly aimless as it sounds. Shops and markets didn't open, daycares and schools closed, the public transit system ran a little or not at all, taxi drivers stayed inside, and roads everywhere were blocked with protestors. Although I had a lot of time to contemplate it on my surprise hour-and-a-half walk home from work, it still remains entirely unclear who—besides the people who live here—the strike was meant to disrupt. (I'm pretty sure Madrid did not care that I couldn't buy fresh bread yesterday.) But disrupt it did. As did the helicopter that hovered, again, overhead for an hour. And the hundreds of people who chanted and marched down a nearby street. And the pot-bangers who timed last night's session to drown out an unsupportive speech by the Spanish king.

People are still not talking openly or loudly about any of this, although it's right at the surface and impossible at this point to ignore. The Catalan government has said it will declare independence by Monday, at which point it's anyone's guess as to what will happen next. For now, it's an interesting time to be here; here's to hoping "interesting" is as far as it goes.

 

EXPAT OBSERVATIONS: THE VOTE FOR INDEPENDENCE

It's the eve of Catalonia's vote (or maybe not) for independence and there's a strange feeling in the air all over Barcelona. No one has any idea what's going to happen tomorrow. Will there even be a vote? How is Madrid going to respond? Surely there will be protests and demonstrations, but to what end? Will things get violent? Will we still be living in Spain come Monday morning? 

The referendum was announced before we moved here, but as far as we've been concerned, it's mostly existed as background noise for the last year. People make sideways reference to it on occasion, but it's never broached in casual conversation; politics in general is a taboo topic in Spain — the deep, divisive wounds of the Civil War still too fresh and polarizing — and it's something best avoided. (Even close groups of old friends may never, ever discuss which side of this issue they're on.)

But in the last few weeks, the referendum has most definitely pushed its way to the foreground. City buses have big ads encouraging a "Si" vote. The red and gold striped Catalan flag can be found atop cookies in bakeries, draped across balconies, and wrapped around the necks and waists of energized, protesting youth. Cringe-worthy separatist graffiti is popping up all over the sides of beautiful old buildings. An impromptu pro-independence parade just went by our front door, complete with a marching band. And at precisely 10:00PM, everyone in the neighborhood will go out onto their balconies and bang on pots and pans for 15 minutes — as they've been doing every night for two weeks. 

One of the most curious aspects is that — unlike every election I've lived through in the U.S. — there aren't two sides highly publicizing their cause. I haven't seen a single "No" poster or anyone loudly and publicly discouraging a vote for independence. The closest form of counter-protest I've seen is the flying of the Spanish flag — which seems benign enough (we are in Spain, after all), but which sends a strong and biting message. (And most of the people flying these flags are from other parts of the country.) It seems to be almost traitorous to both be Catalan and publicly anti-independence.

But there are definitely "No" people. I've talked to lots of them. And one of the things they're most upset by is Madrid's trying to stop the referendum altogether. Many of them really wanted the chance to vote — and to vote "no." But now voting isn't going to be easy, if it happens at all. Google had to shut down its polling station locator app, and Madrid has threatened to arrest municipal officials who allow voting in their cities. So to be certain, the people who turn out to vote tomorrow — if they are able — will not be a representative sample of Catalonia's population. They will be highly motivated (likely in the "Si" direction) and willing to incur the risks of taking part in an illegal referendum.

I honestly have no idea what and who is right or wrong here, nor do I think it's my place to judge. It's been impossible to nail down the exact, truly compelling justification for independence — Catalans will give you dozens of different, complicated, emotionally-laden reasons — but I think it's something a foreigner just can't truly understand. However, I do know for sure that this is another bullet on the list of "really regrettable and totally polarizing" moments from the last 24 months — and another where it's difficult to envision an easy, healing path back from this brink.

DOWNSIZING

After 15 months of pretending that you've turned European, nothing makes you feel more utterly American than a house move.

In July, we decided to move from Sant Gervasi, an upscale, uber-residential area, to Gràcia, a grittier, livelier, more urban spot. The decision was based on a mish-mash of semi-articulated motives, but more or less boiled down to a way cooler neighborhood, a way cheaper rent, and a seeming deficit of big life changes this calendar year. After a whirlwind apartment search, we stumbled upon a neat little newly-constructed 3-story casita that's located about 20 yards away from the neighborhood market; I was charmed. Two days before our US trip, we signed a lease and that was that. 2017 life change? Check.

We were supposed to relocate in August, but our bad luck with house moves and water hazards persisted; the place flooded three days before we were supposed to arrive. We were delayed for a month while they gutted the bottom level, and they just finished last week. So this week was it.

On Monday, a group of packers boxed up our apartment, and on Tuesday, the same guys moved it all to Gràcia. But the sheer size of our furniture and quantity of our boxes overwhelmed them almost immediately. The lead guy took one look at our guest bed and said scornfully, "Sois americanos, no? Todo es muy grande." (You guys, it's a queen-sized bed. It's not that big.) It only got worse when they arrived in Gràcia to find a much smaller unit with a much higher number of stairs. The five guys scowled continuously for the duration, while I self-consciously bribed them with Twix bars and pizza (which, of course, only served to reinforce my Americanness). 

We're mostly settled in now, though Aaron's been making regular trips to the dumpsters to further downsize our very American quantity of stuff. While the process of relocating never seems to become less painful, there is something very magical about tidying up (someone should write a book about that) and simplifying the things in your life. Two moves in a year-in-a-half make you realize how much crap you just keep keepin' (even crap that you deemed mission-critical during the last downsizing, and thus moved 4,000 miles across an ocean, only to ditch in the latest house swap). So lesson learned, Mr. Grumpy Mover Man: as American as we still are and will always be, I henceforth aspire to the European model of living life smaller.