And another one bites the dust?

Having struggled through years of incomprehensible lessons in the Spanish language and failed to learn it with the requisite fluency that my stay in Spain would seem to demand, I have taken it upon myself to fail to learn Catalan too.

Let it be said at once that I do have two qualifications (of sorts) in Spanish and that, in spite of my signal inability to come to terms with even the most straightforward of verbs in the language, I do find that I can flannel my way through conversations (or monologues) in most everyday situations and, although my partners in this unequal linguistic exchange come away paler and older than when they first encountered me and my ‘way with the foreign words’, they also (generally) seem to understand what I have been on about.

I take this admittedly low bar of foreign communication as an achievement, and am prepared to give it my best in Catalan.

I have had my first three lessons, in the same school that has been valiantly trying to teach me Spanish.  For the princely sum of 10 (ten) Euros I am now enrolled for 150 hours (one and a half hours twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays) for the next year.

Unlike my Spanish courses, where because of my specious confidence in attempting to speak the language I started in media res, so to speak, in Catalan I start at the very lowest entry level. 

And that has to be a good thing, as from the lowest of the low, the only way is, of course, up.  At least that is the theory to which I am adhering and in which I fondly believe.

By way of preparation for the first class I learned the days of the week in Catalan (though not how to spell them – little by little does it!) and how to give my name and nationality.

My nationality (a moveable feast at the best of times) is firmly placed in Wales when asked about it in foreign lands.  Catalonia’s National Day (11^th September, the Diada) marks a disaster in the history of the country when the final outcome of the War of the Spanish Succession was finally decided in favour of the Bourbons and not the Hapsburgs.  England had been firmly on the side of the Hapsburgs, as had the Catalans, and the Catalans were assured that England would stick by them whatever the outcome.  That commendable solidarity lasted right up to the defeat when the English hightailed it out of the conflict leaving their erstwhile Catalan allies to take the consequences. 

And severe consequences they were including the loss of Catalan territories in France on the other side of the Pyrenees; the destruction of the walls of Barcelona; the imposition of a Madrid appointed governor (just like the actions of the systemically corrupt PP government of recent memory); the suppression of the Catalan language (a go-to stance for all Spanish, Fascist, Right-Wing, nasty people), and various other humiliations.  This is what the National Day celebrates. 

It is hardly surprising that it is also a focus of nationality when more than a million people (or a few thousand if you read the Spanish press) take to the streets.  So, you can see why I distance myself from the perfidious Albion in this part of the world and emphasise the Welsh upbringing that I had – Wales having provided a higher ‘volunteers per 100,000 of the population’ to fight in the International Brigade against Franco and the Fascists than other parts of the United Kingdom.  And there is a monument to the fighters of the International Brigade in Cathays Park in Cardiff.

Actually I wouldn’t bet my life on that statistic, but I believe it to be true – and in the ‘World According to Trump’ that is all I need!

The only drawback to my Welshness in Catalonia, specifically in my language school, is that I am called on to provide words and phrases in my assumed national language to be written on posters on the walls to emphasise the multi-cultural background of the institution and to parade its diversity.  Unfortunately my suggestions of “Towards the light” (school motto);

“Bereft is he of craft without inborn gift” (college motto);

“Truth, Unity and Concord” (my other university);”

Awake, it is day” and “The red dragon leads the way” (city mottoes) were not acceptable as I knew them (or at least knew how to spell them) only in English.  My Catalan teachers wanted actual Welsh and I am ashamed to admit that I had to look up the Welsh before I submitted them to be written up!

The differences between Catalan and Spanish are not anything like so great as those between English and Welsh.  This is hardly surprising as Catalan has strong links to the group of languages derived from Latin; the links with Spanish and French are especially strong and some words differ more in their spelling in these languages than their pronunciation.  But Catalan is a distinct language and, like all minority languages comes filled with political and social overtones when you attempt to learn it.

In the part of Catalonia in which I live, in the city of Castelldefels, just outside Barcelona, I do not think that Catalan is the majority language.  This area has seen a vast influx of workers from other parts of Spain who have gravitated to Catalonia to take advantage of the job opportunities that such a highly industrialized part of Spain offers.  Catalonia is a rich part of Spain – and a potentially richer part, independentistas argue if it finally separates itself from the other regions and attains nationhood.

In the present febrile atmosphere, where the repercussions of the vicious attempted suppression of the referendum vote for Catalan independence by the Spanish State still reverberate: Catalan and Catalonia are flashpoints and discussion is divisive and at times bitter.

Among those who count themselves as Catalans, there is probably an overwhelming majority who would vote for independence; but there is a sizeable proportion of the population in Catalonia who see themselves as Spanish speaking Spaniards before they consider themselves Catalan – and that particular segment of the population is adamantly opposed to independence.

In the last election the population of Catalonia elected a majority of representatives who were (in theory) pro-independence.  Admittedly, the largest single party comprised C’s a repulsive party composed of political sluts who have achieved nothing and have exerted all their energies to trying to scrape their way to power with whoever and whatever will serve their purposes.  They are, however, a minority, and however they try and spin it, a majority in parliament in Barcelona seeks greater power for the region.  I say region there, because some of the groupings opposed to the unutterable shower of C’s have back peddled on moving towards independence and are engaged in muddying the waters to try and find ‘another’ way to resolve the situation, stopping well short of cutting themselves adrift from the encumbrance of Spain.

There are no easy answers to the political situation in Catalonia, and the gratuitous police violence that we saw against the peaceful demonstrations on Saturday marking the anniversary of the police brutality when they attempted to stop the referendum taking place on the question of independence, merely hardens attitudes on both sides.

Brexit, Trump and Catalonia are all ‘situations’ that require bi-partisan politics to produce satisfactory solutions.  There seems little chance of that in the ‘winner takes all’ approach that seems to govern politics nowadays.

Politics should be the art of the possible, not the fist of the powerful.

Meanwhile, I will cultivate my garden with writing and the learning of a new language.   

Every little helps!

Unity?

Spain is a divided country: that is a fact.  The only point of discussion is how you think it is divided, and by whom.

This division was brought home to me by the reaction of a lady I spoke to this morning when going for an early morning swim before my first Catalan lesson of the week.  She remarked my yellow ribbon badge and we had a whispered conversation about those of the country who are opposed to the attitude that the ribbon represents, and who, to use her words, have the brains of mosquitoes.

The yellow ribbon badge is a signal to observers that I support the political prisoners that we have in Spain.  The leaders of two organisations that were involved in the referendum about Catalan independence have now been in prison awaiting trial since October 2017. 

 

The charges that the Spanish government has brought against some Catalans, via their politically appointed judges, have signally failed to convince any other European government to extradite Catalans who have been charged with “rebellion, sedition and misuse of public funds”. 

The continuing humiliation of the Spanish government in the eyes of other Europeans and the hugely negative impression that has been left in the collective mind since the police violence that attempted to suppress the referendum combine to force those supporters of the Spanish state into ever more ludicrous justifications to bolster up their positions.

For me, there has clearly been mismanagement (at the very least) and judicial corruption (at the very worst) and there seems little chance of a satisfactory solution to a problem that polarises and divides. 

 

The last (disastrous) PP government of Spain took a pugnacious and absolutist attitude towards Catalonia and refused negotiation and manufactured ugly confrontation.  The new “socialist” government of PSOE is little different, while it has said that it will talk to the Catalan government, it has made it clear that the unity of Spain is of absolute, paramount importance. 

 

They have also authorised the expenditure of something like half a million euros of public money to finance the legal defence of Llarena (the appalling Supreme Court judge heavily involved in the (il)legal opposition to independence) even though the case being brought against him by our President in Belgium is a Civil issue.  And the Spanish government has delighted in accusing the Catalans of the misuse of public funds!

We are coming up to the anniversary of the referendum and, as you would expect, demonstrations have been planned.  Each demonstration hardens attitudes on both sides and makes a negotiated settlement even more difficult.

I have even had the, “Why are you learning Catalan?” question thrown at me, as I start the new academic year in my Beginners Catalan class.  With the supplied accusation that, “Catalonia is part of Spain, and Spanish is the language of Spain, not Catalan!” 

To which you might reply that Catalan is the language of Catalonia and is an officially recognised national language in Spain itself – though try speaking it in the Senate or Congress and you will get short shrift!

I think that one of the problems about the language in Castelldefels is that the linguistic make-up of this particular part of Catalonia is one where Spanish is the dominant language.  There are many people in the city who are not native Catalans so it is natural to hear Spanish as the language of general use.  Get away from the coastal strip of Catalonia and you hear Catalan much more.  All Catalan speakers also speak Spanish and it is fairly common to hear conversations where one person will speak Catalan while the response will be in Spanish: there being a clear difference between understanding and speaking.

It is inevitable that there is a political dimension to the language.  Statistics vary, but 70%-80% of the Catalan population speak Catalan and more than 90% understand it – figures that Welsh can only fantasise about! 

These are not proportions that can be dismissed and they have to be taken seriously.  Quite how you define “seriously” is, I suppose, part of the problem.

I have not been in Catalonia for very long.  Years, yes, but not very long in the history of Catalonia and the generations of resentment about the way that they have been treated  by the powers in Madrid!  But in the (relatively) short time that I have been here I have seen a marked difference in the attitudes of people to the concept of independence. 

 

For reasons that I do not entirely remember: firstly, I went to a football game of Catalonia versus China in Camp Nou, and secondly, I went alone!  I remember looking around at the Catalan supporters and seeing Catalan flags waved vigorously.  These were the ‘ordinary’ Catalan flags of a plain ground and four bars. 

There were very few Catalan independence flags, that is, the ordinary Catalan flag with the addition of a star within a triangle of blue.  When the Catalan national anthem was played, one person near me raised his right arm in a clenched-fist power-salute until his clearly embarrassed companion told him to put his hand down!

Now, in any mass gathering of Catalans, the independentist flag is in the majority

and you hear talk of the founding of a republic and cutting links with Spain as an ordinary topic of conversation.  How times have changed!  And those inept politicians who find is so hard to ‘do’ politics are to blame for the present on-going disaster.

So, my determination to learn ‘some’ Catalan is not only a recognition of one of the cultural values of the area in which I live, but is also a political statement that sides with the Catalan desire to be seen to be different from the suspect government from Madrid.

In some ways I realise that I am emphasising the political dimension of my attempts to learn Catalan to counteract my horror at having been introduced to the first verb we have to learn in Catalan, by making the learning of it some sort of political/cultural activism!

My only fear is that this blog will be read by my friend Dianne whose first language is Welsh and has, in the past, threatened all sorts of trials and tribulations if I dare learn Catalan before I learn the language of the country I profess to come from.  With an even deeper irony, it turns out that there is another Welshman in my Catalan class.  And he does speak Welsh!

We shall see how far I progress.  And we shall also see if the idea that learning more than one language at a time is somehow easier, with the brain responding to informational overload with compartmentalized ease.

We shall see!

Sheep and goats!

 

There are, as is well known, two types of people in the world: those who find stationery (with an ‘e’ for envelope) endlessly fascinating - and those that don’t.

I am, enthusiastically and terminally, in the first category.

One can speculate about how such fixations develop, and I have thought back to my childhood, and I think that I can see the reasons that I am how I am.

My first ‘remembered’ pocket money was 6d (sixpence in old money or 2½p in the ‘new’) even in those distant days that was not much.  It would have bought me 24 blackjacks, 6 chews or one and a bit sherbet fountains: and it had to last a week.

This is where the lure of stationery comes in.  You could buy drawing pins or paper clips with part of your money and you got lots of ‘things’.  You didn’t ever use them all, but it was a real example of plenty for not very much.  Like staples.

Not every six or seven year-old would ask for a stapler for Christmas - but I did.  And I got one too (my parents probably delighted that a childish wish could be fulfilled at such little expense!) they may have been delighted, but it could not possibly match my ecstasy on owning a grey, sleek, official-looking piece of grown-up machinery.  There was not, it must be admitted, a whole stack of papers that I needed to staple, but the fact that I could if I needed to was the point.  And the further point is that a stapler needs staples, and for a very small outlay you could get a thousand of them.  A thousand!

It was the same with notebooks: lots of pages for small amounts.  It almost seemed a pity to have to write in them.  Which, again if I am fair, I seldom did.  It was the ownership of flickable blank pages that really mattered.

As I grew older I was able to rationalise my addiction into defined ‘necessity’: I needed folders for schoolwork.  And clips.  And pens.  And rubbers.  And Tippex.  And so it went on.

Any new system for stationery organization or display had my attention.  The different folders that I purchased usually had differing configurations of holes for the paper - and that necessitated the purchase of hole punches, and then the purchase of those paper Polos that you stuck around the holes to stop the paper from tearing through over use.

From where I sit typing this I can see two domestic paper guillotines to my right; behind me is a long arm stapler purloined from my last school (with the full knowledge of the senior management team); on a shelf in front, the thermal binder is next to the ring binder; further along is the plastificator, with A4, A5 and card sized plastic sleeves; there is a printer within arm’s reach, to say nothing of the serious table-mounted guillotine that can slice through 500 pages at once.

I have enough pens and pencils (for which, incidentally I have an electric sharpener) to supply a school; I have various small staplers (with staples) and a staple remover; I have post-it notes in many sizes and colours; I have stickers (both festive and plain); plastic rulers, metal rulers, cutters, tape dispensers, Dymo machines (manual and electric) and a bewildering array of magnifying glasses.

I am insatiable in my need for aspects of the stationeryatorial possibilities - even if I have nowhere to put my acquisitions and struggle to find a use for those I already have.  But I don’t smoke and so I am ‘allowed’ a minor aberration or three.

As with watches (I will go into that in another post) I am searching.  Searching for perfection.  In this case the perfect pen.

I much prefer to write with ink through a fountain pen nib and, over the years, Parker, Montblanc and Sheaffer have been purchased and gifted to me.  And I have lost the lot.  Some blotty biros stay with me for years, but give me a decent fountain pen and it will be lost before the ink cartridge empties!

I eventually found a solution that met my inky needs and my propensity to mislay, by discovering the pre-filled disposable fountain pen.  A wasteful extravagance, but one that I embraced.  The nib was a good match for my scribbled writing and seemed to be able to cope with my destructive scrawl through the length of the reservoir of ink, and the smallish cost of the thing meant that it didn’t really matter if I lost it.  This attitude of course encouraged me to buy the things in relative bulk so that I could, as it were, go on finding the ‘lost’ pens in a continuous serendipitous discovery process, before they too were lost in the never ending cycle of my stationery life.

Which brings me to Lidl, or possibly Aldi, but certainly one or the other.  Catalonia, unlike the UK, does not start putting out the ‘Back to School’ merchandise on the first day of the summer holiday, they wait until the calendar indicates that it is only a despairing teacher’s scream away from the start of term.  So, it was in early September that I noted a matched set of pen, roller ball and packet of ink cartridges set out alluringly in one of those impossible to breach plastic bump packs.  “Why not?”, I thought rhetorically, and put one in my basket.

It was only when I got home that I discovered that the design on the barrel of each of the writing instruments, that I had thought to be vaguely Orientally inspired, was actually an open, monster’s claw.  I am going to continue using it in the expectation that other people will, like me, take the graphic to be bamboo rather than something else beginning with the letter ‘b’ related to the gruesome that I can’t think of.

As I am wise in the ways of ink cartridge fountain pens, I knew that while one cartridge was feeding the nib, an extra cartridge should be able to be fitted into the empty space of the barrel.  And it could and was.

I then turned to the rollerball.  And it didn’t work.  And it continued not to work even after some vigorous flicking to get the ink to flow.  Disgruntled I dismantled the pen to find that there was nothing inside.  I mean there was no refill there.  Nothing.  I then realised that the thing actually used the cartridges supplied.

This was a revelation!  It is surely a rule that the refills for rollerballs come complete with ink supply and nib, like the refills for ballpoint pens.  But I also realised that I had never seen an ink cartridge rollerball pen before.  And I further realised that, if a roller ball could work with an ink cartridge - why hadn’t it been done before?  Perhaps it has been done, but for something that momentous to escape my stationery eye would be remarkable.

It must be greed.

It is said that HP printer ink is one of the most expensive liquids on the planet. The cost of the printer machine has fallen dramatically over the years, but that it because the companies know that they can make so much more money by customers buying their ink.  Even a cursory exploration on the Internet about how computer printer companies limit the life of the ink cartridge in the printers is easy to find and surely, is little more than theft.  There are, allegedly, chips inside printers that count up the number of copies that you make and, at a number decided by the company, the machine will begin to display error messages urging you to buy a new cartridge, irrespective of whether you actually need one or not, and if you do not buy a new one, then the machine will simply stop printing.

This is yet another example of the planned obsolescence exemplified by the light bulb.  There is one electric light bulb that has been burning continuously for over 100 years and I believe that it had its own website and there is a camera trained on it so those with nothing better to do can stare at a lighted lamp and think about all the light bulbs that they have thrown away because they have ‘blown’.  

It’s funny, too, isn’t it, that modern cars don’t seem to rust like they used to?  New technology has nothing, or little to do with it, manufacturers have known how to make cars rustproof for years, but they got more money by ensuring that expensive welding would be needed after a certain number of years, ensuring too a continual replacement of the vehicles.  And don’t get me started on coffee capsules!

In spite of these examples, and many more, that show the uncaring nature of capitalism and the gullibility of we the consumers, I am still enthralled to know that I now posses a roller ball that uses ink cartridges.

And, in yet another example of how the things around me don’t really change, I couldn’t find it to get a real look at the design.

But it will turn up and it will give me pleasure when I find it.  Though I may not, or indeed, ever really use it.  

But that response is the nature of addiction and I am working on it.  

Sometime or other.

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