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. 

EXPAT OBSERVATIONS: THE FIGHT FOR INDEPENDENCE

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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

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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.

EXPAT OBSERVATIONS: LABOR STRIKES (OR, “THE CAB RIDE THAT COST $400”)

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Labor strikes are a way of life in Spain. In the year we’ve been here, we've seen all kinds of people strike. Air traffic controllers. Public transit officials. The folks who clean the airports. The people who administer driver’s license tests. The guys who handle airline baggage. And the taxi drivers. Ohhh, the taxi drivers.

Unlike the American variety, European labor strikes tend to be scheduled and finite, which means pre-announced disruptions with known end dates. For instance, during a long weekend getaway in December, we arrived at the Barcelona airport and legitimately thought terrorists had taken over; trash covered the floors, protest stickers covered the walls, and there was not a single open public restroom in sight. (Proof here.) As I seriously contemplated letting a full-bladdered Eliza pop a squat in a corner, an airport official showed us to a secret loo and promised that the strike would be over at 5:00PM the next evening. Sure enough, everything was back to normal when our return flight landed a few days later.

It’s an interesting strategy—this predictable, fixed-length strike—and at first we didn’t really understand it. Shouldn’t the workers hold out indefinitely, until the terms of their demands were met? If people know about and can temporarily plan around your strike, doesn’t that lessen the blow? But as we’re learning, striking Spanish laborers have figured out how to pack the maximum punch in the minimal amount of time.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. We had a 4:15PM flight scheduled from Barcelona to Stockholm, where we’ll be for three nights before heading to Iceland for a week, and then on to the U.S. (Subtext: there’s a whole lotta trip that depended on us making this first leg.) Luckily, ever-punctual Aaron insisted that we leave three hours before our flight, and even luckier, ever-procrastinating me actually acquiesced.

As we stood curbside, waiting to grab a cab — with three carry-on bags, one immense checked bag, two car seats, and two kids in tow — my heart sank as my taxi-hailing app broke the news: “Due to today’s taxi strike, we may not be able connect you with a car.” Uh oh. We scanned the streets. Nothing. Double uh oh.

Barcelona’s airport is poorly connected via public transit. But lacking other options, we made a split-second decision to hop on a train down to the city center, where we figured we’d catch the airport bus...or at least track down a defecting cabbie. Under the best of circumstances, the whole thing should take just over an hour. But during peak tourist season when there are no taxis anywhere, that number grows much, much higher; the line for the airport bus was a full city block long. It would take at least an hour to board a bus, plus another 45 minutes for the bus ride itself. We were never going to make it.

As time was evaporating, we decided to board the train back home and made the wallet-wrenching choice to drive our own car to the airport. But in one final “eff-you,” we discovered that the otherwise unoccupied taxi drivers had organized a parade of sorts: dozens of passengerless cabs lined up and drove as slowly as they could — I’m talking foot-off-the-gas, idle speed — down the highway toward the airport, intentionally backing up traffic for miles. With no time left, our car ended up in short-term parking. For the next three and a half weeks. We made it, but barely, and only after a choice few words were shouted in the privacy of our own car.

This taxi strike only lasts one day. But I’m quite certain that—a month from now, as we’re paying that obscene parking fare—we’ll still be thinking about those protesting cabbies. I just can’t say for sure that we’ll be sympathetically reflecting on their plight.

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.

😜 👍 🇪🇸