Catalan thoughts

Barca failed to win the league.

Gloom and doom from Toni’s mum who greeted us at the airport with an earpiece firmly plugged in and her attention focussed on the two games of importance being played out in two stadiums. A win for Barca and a draw or loss for Real Madrid would have clinched the league for Barca. Although Barca won, so did Madrid and even though the points were equal for both teams, the deciding feature in Spanish football is the ‘head to head’ meetings – and Madrid had the advantage. Ironically, in the UK, I think that Barca would have won on goal difference; but this is Spain and so miserable defeat!

What surprised me as we drove towards Terrassa in the dark was the number of fireworks which exploded in the sky to mark the victory of Madrid. The struggle between Barca and Madrid is about much more than football, so the number of ostentatious displays of enthusiasm for Madrid was more of a political statement than joy at a team’s victory. Even in Terrassa there were the traditional displays of enthusiasm by drivers tooting their horns. Each exuberant noise was greeted with a scowl from Toni’s mum and a muttered imprecation.

I know on which side my sympathies lie and so I continue to live under Toni’s mum’s roof!

Added to the disappointment of Barca not winning the league was the even more disappointing sight of the televised highlights of a bull fight in Barcelona! There was a demonstration from a group of anti-bullfighting protestors, but it was decidedly depressing to see a full bull ring with, yet again, no human fatalities to even things up. The bull fighter was awarded both ears and, something which I had not seen before on television, proudly paraded around the ring holding two bleeding chunks of gristle in his hands.

Disgusting! I had thought that the bull ring in Barcelona was going to be redeveloped as a shopping centre and thus bull fighting consigned to the murky past of animal cruelty in Catalonia. I feel that this is going to encourage me to join my first Spanish pressure group! To hell with Hemmingway and his self deluding macho crap – anyway, look what happened to him.

I think that I am looking more critically at how life goes along in Spain now that I am here for good than with the previously more accepting holiday eyes. I am much looking forward to making sweeping generalisations about Spain and Spanish Life from my very limited experience. It has never stopped me in the past so I see no reason to suddenly start being reasonable when I am living in the proof of what I am saying – even if, statistically, it might be a little one sided!

I shall start my observations by stating unequivocally that the Spanish are much more interested in delicious bread and pastries than are the British. Today we had a coca; a decorated flat loaf shaped creation crisscrossed with lines of a sweet custard-like consistency and decorated with pine nuts and crystallized fruit with sugar scattered on top. The texture and taste of the ‘bread’ was like a hot cross bun and it was altogether pleasant.

The ordinary bread is much tastier than the British equivalent, especially when treated to the Catalan method of preparing bread: soaked with crushed tomato and drenched in olive oil. Delicious, almost a meal in itself!

I almost had heart failure when (with Toni’s less than informed help) I used my card to find out the balance in my Spanish bank account by using a cash machine. The amount which was printed on the receipt indicated that over 95% of my money had gone. It was only after heart massage and general comforting that Toni realised that he had encouraged me to find out my daily withdrawal amount rather than the total. I sometimes think he is trying to toughen me up to the realities of Catalan life!

I have bought a new mobile phone to use in Spain. The assistant in the Terrassa branch of the Carphone Warehouse had a more than competent command of English and it turned out he had spent about a year in London, though as he pointed out, the number of Spaniards in the capital significantly thwarted his attempts to master the English language! He merely confirmed what I have long suspected: the centre of London is a wholly owned colony of Spain – it’s only fair after our refusal to quit Gibraltar!

Carles, or Plague Boy as we prefer to call him, has now brought low his mother, father and aunt. His uncle (Toni) is showing incipient signs that he too is succumbing to the malaise that seems to be a trademark of his nephew, and I await my own diseased fate with weary resignation. Carles is showing his versatility, his power is not merely confined to the colder months of the winter; he is equally at home in the more torrid months of summer.

I am at present the recipient of a menagerie of plasticine animals which are being deposited next to the computer by Carles. I only hope that there is some sort of antiseptic effect from this child friendly goo, otherwise I will be joining his uncle in illness.

One of the prices you have to pay for the comforts of family life. I have escaped babies for a number of years, so I suppose it is only fair that I start to pay now.

It’s a hard old life.