NAVIDAD IN BARCELONA

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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. 

DOWNSIZING

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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.

EXPAT OBSERVATIONS: WHAT'S UP WITH WHATSAPP?

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On the eve of our one-year anniversary of Spanish residency, I thought I'd use the next few posts to reflect on some of the more amusing/bewildering/unique aspects of Spanish/Catalan/Euro life... 

In 2014, Facebook paid a cool $19 billion for an app few Americans had ever heard of; the purchase of WhatsApp baffled many, myself included. Billions of dollars for a messaging app...when everybody already texts and emails? 

But in true "Zuckerberg knows best" fashion, any lingering doubts about WhatsApp's relevance dissolved the moment we arrived on Spanish soil. The app is absolutely ubiquitous in this Iberian land, and we were immediately schooled on its social importance. 

It would be tempting to pigeonhole WhatsApp as an email or text message lookalike, but that would be to overlook some critical differences. Here, WhatsApp functions as a totally distinct means of communication with its own etiquette and usage rules:

  • Unlike texting, a rather familiar means of communication typically reserved for people you know, it's totally appropriate to WhatsApp strangers you've never connected with: you can WhatsApp restaurants for reservations, hair salons and doctors offices to make appointments, car dealerships to schedule maintenance, and teachers to schedule meetings. In that sense, it's much like email.
     
  • But unlike email, the pace of conversation is quick. Poorly abbreviated messages are kosher. Excessive emoji usage is encouraged. In that way, it's more like texting.
     
  • But unlike both texting and email, you can also choose to forgo written messages entirely and opt instead for voice memos. Entire conversations are had by exchanging one pre-recorded voice snippet after another. In that sense, it's more like a really bad phone connection with long lags between every spoken sentence.
     
  • And then there are the WhatsApp groups. There are WhatsApp groups for workplace teams and kids' classes, birthday party invitees and music class students. All of them seem to bring out the most...hmm...chatty...sides of people; it's not unusual to have well over 100 texts at the end of a day, often entailing a long string of "LOL" or "jajajaja" or <smiley face> <crying/laughing smiley face> <heart/heart/heart> <kissy smiley face> emojis. In that way, it's more like an AOL chatroom circa 1997.

I'm still getting used to the etiquette; I don't the sound of my own recorded voice, and any hope of workday productivity required that I turn off the group message notifications. But I definitely see the value in keeping people connected in a quick and informal way. The kids' classes have super active, very connected parent groups; it's a nice way to organize on-the-fly playdates or send reminders about the school supplies you were supposed to send in two days ago. And the whole thing has given me a great excuse to become reacquainted with my inner smiley-face-loving tweenage self.

😜 👍 🇪🇸

CITY DATING

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Visiting a new city is the terrestrial equivalent of a first-date; you see its best self, all gussied up and dying to make a good impression. In one whirlwind first encounter, you get the highlights — the things it’s most eager to divulge, the parts of itself it’s most willing to share — all with the mutually-understood intention of luring you back for a second round.

But as we all know, first dates don’t tell you much about real life...

To shamelessly overextend my metaphor, in previous travels I’d tricked myself into believing the new city and I were married. Or at least cohabitating. I thought my brief encounters afforded me a privileged glimpse into what our life together would really be like, and I crafted my daydreams accordingly. For instance, when we first visited Barcelona as tourists in 2014, I genuinely felt I *knew* knew for the place—the neighborhoods, the food, the shops, the people. After nine days, I could picture what our life would be like together, how we’d raise our children, the long hours we’d spend relaxing in the sun and walking down the beach. (Perhaps this is unsurprising coming from a girl who got engaged after 7 months of dating.) "Barcelona," I thought, "I know you. And I’m ready to take the plunge."

Two years later, I would find out that I was — of course — totally mistaken. I didn’t know know anything; that was just a first-date. Now that we actually are living together, I see a completely different side. The city has secrets and quirks. Sometimes it’s smelly. The culture is complicated. Jamón ibérico is overrated. The local bureaucracy is thick but relatively efficient. It’s not that I love it any less; it’s just a more interesting, more complex place than I could’ve imagined at the outset. There are countless things that, as a resident, I’m beginning to see, but that exist just beneath the gaze of a casual weekend visitor.

Having had that realization about Barcelona has changed my general attitudes about traveling. For better or worse, I’m now acutely aware that I’m only on a first-date. No more daydreaming about our marital bliss; I’m just a first-timer, grudgingly conscious of all that I don’t and can’t possibly know. In some ways, it makes our quick weekend trips feel somewhat shallow and superficial; in other ways, it makes me very grateful to have gotten the chance to really explore one culture while bopping around to get a taste of others.

To that end, we recently took a quick trip to Prague. It was every bit the enchanting, fairytale town that we’d been promised. Spared from worst of the destruction during the World Wars, the charming old buildings are intact and make you feel as though you’re strolling through a different time. Over three days, we checked off the TripAdvisor top “Things to Do,” and while I didn’t exactly come away feeling like I knew what life in Prague is really like, I do think our first date ended with a definite spark.

ONE YEAR OF NON-US RESIDENCY

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Today marks our one-year anniversary of leaving the U.S. (not to be confused, of course, with our one-year anniversary of actually arriving in Spain); we took off for Europe on May 31, 2016, and with the exception of a short trip back during the holidays, have been overseas ever since. 

The experience of not being a U.S. resident can be summed up as a series of nots. It's been one year of not one-click shopping on Amazon Prime. Not eating New York-style pizza or familiar-tasting ground beef or quasi-natural peanut butter. Not being expected to tip at a restaurant or having the check arrive unsolicited. Not owning a television. Not being able to small-talk with strangers or eavesdrop on their conversations. Not overdosing on twice-daily Starbucks venti drip coffees. Not enjoying the perks of unlimited mobile data plans. Not being forced to consume U.S. political news against my will.

People often ask what I miss most about the U.S. and it's a hard question to answer. These things are neither good nor bad — they're just not. Sometimes I miss the unthinking ease of Amazon Prime, but I also appreciate the check that brick-and-mortar stores place on my spending habits. My mouth longs for a good ol' greasy pizza parlor, but my thighs are pretty okay with the current shortage of options. It's irritating both to hunt down restaurant staff when you're ready to pay and leave, but also to be chased out prematurely by a waiter trying to turn a table. I'm occasionally curious about what the teenage girls on the bus are talking about and giggling over, but more often I relish my bubble of non-comprehension.

On a day-to-day basis I'd say I don't miss much. But that's not exactly true. When we no longer ask incoming houseguests to smuggle in American products — think bulk packs of Bounce dryer sheets, Trader Joe's multigrain pancake mix, Whole Foods fresh-ground honey-roasted peanut butter, or deodorant, hair products, shaving creams, and razor blades — you'll have proof that we've weaned ourselves off America. (However, considering how much I appreciate a good fabric-softened bath towel, I'm not sure that day is coming anytime soon.) But more than anything, I very much miss not being in the same hemisphere as everyone on my "Favorites" contact list. It's a special kind of lonely when you wake up and want nothing more than to call your family and friends...but realize you'll have to wait at least 6 more hours for them to get out of bed.

So the moral of the story: You should visit. We would love nothing more. #butpleasebringpeanutbutter