Abnormal normality

“The curious incident of the dog in the night time” came to mind as we made our way to work, or rather I drove Toni to his work at our regular ungodly time in the morning so that he could start his travails at 7.00 am promptly.  Except in this case it was the traffic that was notable by its absence rather than the bark of a dog.

Part of Toni’s way to work is along the C-something or other, one of the main motorways into Barcelona from the west of the city.  Even at 6.30am the traffic is heavy and, at St. Boi we take a slip road off the main motorway which winds its circuitous way around the road works for a new section of motorway that have been going on for as long as I have been in Catalonia - and still no new road.  We branch out at the notorious St Boi roundabout to a link road that takes us into Cornella and then a few side streets (along which major busses go!) to his place of work.

As with all attempts to use urban motorways to get places in the morning, timing is everything.  If we leave at 6.30 am promptly, although the traffic is heavy and marginally suicidal, we get there with enough time to spare for Toni to have a quick coffee in the café at the end of the street a few steps away from his work, should he chose to do so.

The traffic this morning was eerily sparse and by way of equilibrium for the spaciousness of the roads we were stuck behind two large slow moving lorries on the slip road that slowed us down.  But, lo! As we passed the usual bottleneck where the slip road has its own slip road to join another motorway - there was nothing.  Not a single car. 

To give you an idea of normality, I sometimes count the number of seconds that it takes to get to the end of the queue I observe on the opposite side of the road as I return to Castelldefels on the largely empty side of the road that it not going in to Barcelona or other major cities: my longest count has been twenty-seven seconds of tail back, counted while travelling at 80 kph!  Nothing.  Not a single angry driver keeping as close as possible to the driver in front to ensure that no chancer tries to cut in to save a few seconds.

In the couple of minutes that it takes to deposit Toni and make my way back onto the major road system and pass the link road, a small queue had built up and was visibly growing by the second.  You see what I mean about timing!

We realized that the paucity was due to (or is it “owing to”?  I can never remember the rule that I learned imperfectly back in form 4 of Cardiff High) the fact that most people have not yet returned to work.  Schools are back on the 7^th of the month, I think, and our Catalan class recommences on the 8^th.  So, next Monday we will find the entire motorway fuming with resentful workers still half asleep, dreading the day ahead and spoiling for a traffic jam to make their return to work complete in its awfulness.

Today, however it meant that I got back to Castelldefels in good time and turned into the Swimming Pool car park just as the gate was being unlocked.  Timing again!

It further meant that I was one of the first to get changed, but no matter how precisely I make it for the opening time of 7.00 am I am never the first in the pool, there must be people who have secret ways into the complex to allow them to bag a lane!

But when I got to the pool, some of the usual suspects were not in place.  I am there early because I have to be, but there are a couple of obviously retired ladies who do slow mysterious strokes who seem to monopolise the outside lanes.  Why are they there so early? 

There are ‘serious’ swimmers who move through the water as if they are being chased by piranha and you can almost hear them clucking with annoyance if anyone dares to join their lane when there isn’t another option. 

 

These are the swimmers who will do butterfly in a crowded lane which, “as any fule kno” is the height of bad swimming manners.  It is wrong for a variety of reasons; first and foremost, because I can’t do the stroke for more than a few seconds, so I take it as a personal affront; secondly, because it takes up the entire lane; thirdly because it is very splashy, and for reasons that I do not fully understand I abhor being splashed when I swim.  In water!  Fourthly because it is a vulgar display of offensive physicality and small-minded showing off. 

Mind you, I have to say that I feel the same for any stroke other than crawl.  In a crowded lane, crawl is the only stroke where your efforts stay (roughly) within the width of your body and you do not encroach on another swimmer’s space.

I managed to complete my swim in a lane that I had largely to myself, so I have little to complain about.  And the cup of tea in the café afterwards was not accompanied by the Camino of parents-with-children using the car park to leave the car and then march the kids through the café to the school.  It was oddly tranquil, and far too early for even the most resolute of parents (who in this part of the world seem to spend - and I mean spend - a lot of time, effort and money to getting someone/anyone else to look after the kids when they are on holiday) looking to take their charges for a quick or even a long swim.

Our pool/sports centre usually has a sort of sports camp where parents deposit their kids in the morning and pick them up in the evening, the centre will have amused and fed them during the day.  This must be a very profitable part of their activity and they have ‘camps’ for all the major holidays.

So this week will be one of non-normality with routine being re-established on Monday of next week.  When the city will be back in the safe hands of the retired.  Again.

Survived again!

 

After a night or rain, weak sunshine at lunchtime.  I’ll settle for that!  Travelling along a busy motorway, early morning, in the dark, in the rain, is a truly depressing experience.  And a frightening one.  I am always amazed by how little Spanish/Catalan motorists modify their driving to suit the conditions, and, in spite of myself, I find myself drawn into their lunatic dicing with death manoeuvres until a more sensible me takes control again and argues that the gain of a few seconds is not worth the risk.

I have actually measured the advantage semi-scientifically by observing the behaviour of car drivers along certain stretches of the urban and urban motorway roads around us during peak traffic times.  In urban situations, traffic lights and zebra crossings stop traffic, so any gains made are usually wiped out within a few hundred metres of road.  On motorways, slow travelling lorries overtaking each other and entrances and exits from the motorways are the major causes of traffic slowing.  If the motorway is being used as a way of skirting a short stretch of urban congestions then the traffic gains of the death-welcomers is usually marginal.

St Boi is, and has been for years, a bottleneck and place of frustration for traffic trying to change from one motorway to another.  I sometimes think that I can hear the deep rumbling sounds of hundreds of motorists’ teeth being ground simultaneously as they wait in seemingly never-ending queues!

One of the links that we take every day goes from a three-lane major motorway to a single lane turn-off link road with consequent slowing.  In theory.  In practice the speed that motorists take the curvaceous, unlighted road is terrifying.

Added to all this is the Spanish/Catalan use of the indicator.  Here a flashing light means that the driver is executing the turn or movement, not that he intends to.  If you are driving along a road and there is a junction with another road joining yours with broken white lines, that is just an indication to you of where the other cars will join your part of the road, there is none of that namby-pamby waiting for a safe space to make the move.  As these two things happen all the time, there is a sort of safety in continuity.  As you know that it is going to take place you make allowances, and therefore no deaths occur.  What happens when, say an unsuspecting Brit drives along the road expecting the courtesy and safety standards at home, I do not know.  Though I would point out that the number of RTAs in Catalonia are astonishing and would occasion questions in parliament if they occurred in Britain.

Still, I have been driving on Catalan roads for a decade now, so, while I am still constantly astonished, I am also fatalistic and make sure that I allow for what I know is going to happen.

But still, none of this driving gains anything.  The most that criminally reckless drivers can hope for is a couple of car lengths advantage before they are slowed down by the built-in limitations to carefree driving!

I am obviously typing all this to reinforce my own (perceived) considerate driving and to make me feel morally superior as some cretin overtakes on the inside and veers across a couple of other lanes.

-oOo-

I have just finished reading “Fear and Loathing in La Liga: Barcelona vs Real Madrid” by Sid Lowe (2013) London, Yellow Jersey Press It was actually recommended by the Local an English language internet magazine that concentrates on Spain.  I had already taken out a subscription before I realized just how right wing the political content of the thing was, but it is useful for recipes and inconsequential information about my adopted country.  “Fear and Loathing” was one of the books suggested as “essential” reading to get a flavour of what it is to live in the country.

I am no real fan of football but I am a Barça fan.  I can name more members of the team than I was ever able to do for any of the British national teams up to and including the World Cup winning team of 1966 – where the broadcast of the match I heard on a school trip aboard the Nevasa somewhere in the Baltic!

Living in Catalonia and surrounded by a family who are ostentatiously Catalan, my interest in Barça is as much self-defence as anything else.  My interest is of course increased by the fact that Barça’s motto is famously “mes que un club” – more than a club.  This can be taken in a number of ways, but it has also been, and is now, a focus for nationalism and Catalan independence.  Politics is inseparable from the games, especially los clássicos, the games between Barça and Real Madrid.

This book, all 432 pages of it, takes what I think is a balanced view of the “loathing” and attempts to put it in a social, political and historical context.  Sid Lowe attempts to take many of the myths surrounding the game and especially these two teams and find evidence to assess them.

Although I am not interested in football, you might say the same thing about piloting a Mississippi Steam Boat or whale fishing, but it did not stop me enjoying the work of Melville or Twain.  There is something exhilarating about entering a world about which you know little relying on the competence of an expert who wants to communicate – and Sid Lowe is definitely an expert!

In his ‘Author’s Note’ at the start of the book, Lowe writes, “Part of me wanted to include footnotes throughout” in the event he did not do so, but the book reads as though he could have and the reader feels that he has documented evidence to back up everything he says.  The book also passes my ‘academic’ test by having a proper ‘contents’ page together with a bibliography and index and it has two sets of photographs in the middle!

The rivalry as revealed in this book is much more nuanced than fans on either side would have you believe.  Real Madrid was founded by two Catalans, and Barça by a Swiss (in the official history) or and Englishman in another book I’ve read, but by a foreigner at any rate.  The rise and fall and rise and fall of the clubs is more complex than I had ever realised and iconic points of conflict between the two, for example the notorious signing of Di Stéfano, are explained with new information making the final assessment much more interesting.

I read this book like a novel and when you think about it the two clubs combine money, power, glamour, politics, nationality, language and virtually anything else that you can think of in melange in which there is a fair amount of sport as well.

I recommend this book without hesitation even, or perhaps especially, for those who think that they have little interest in two over-paid bunches of kick-ballers pretending to do something important with their time!

A lot has happened in the five years between the publication of this book and the present.  I for one, look forward to Lowe’s next book with some eagerness.

-oOo-

The sun has now been shining brightly for longer than five minutes so I will go for a short bike ride (to show willing) and also to see a new sundial that has been set in place ten or so streets away from where I am typing this.

If I find it, I will include a photo of it in the next blog.

-oOo-

Please feel free to visit my poetry blog at:

https://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com/2018/11/daily-run.html

No time for 'work'!

Well, if nothing else I have done my Catalan homework.  To an outsider, I must have looked like some casually dressed general planning an invasion as I consulted double page spreads of grammatical explanations and examples, thumbed my way through my totally inadequate “easy learning” dictionary, and resorted from time to time to Google Translate on my mobile phone.  

And all of that was for a relatively easy grammatical exercise!  God help us all when we get to the rest of the declensions of the verbs!

 

Still, it gives me a sense of satisfaction to think that I am at least starting from the very depths of ignorance and any accretion of knowledge will be a bonus.  And, I have to say, that the odd words are getting through to me when I watch the Catalan television station.  Bit by bit.

This all sounds very commendable until you realize that there are students in my class who are learning Catalan after being in the country for fewer weeks than I have been here years.  And the most that I could use the language for was to ask for a cup of iced coffee!  That is, at least, in the process of changing.

-oOo-

I have had a letter from yet another hospital summoning me to yet another appointment.  Don’t get me wrong, I am more than appreciative about the way in which my thrombosis, embolisms and dicky heart have been treated – after all, I did manage to produce a chapbook based on my stay in hospital – and I am more than prepared to turn up promptly and wait while another doctor reads my details for the first time and makes a pronouncement.

This time the hospital I have to visit is in the third town away from Castelldefels along the motorway towards Barcelona, in St Boi.  We usually go to St Boi to visit the supermarkets (or ‘Sheds’ as we used to call all those large stores on Rumney Common in Cardiff along the Newport Road) and very little else.  It is, it has to be said, an unlovely place, and it is further hated by motorist commuters who have to go through a bottleneck there to change motorways.

 

For as long as I have lived in Castelldefels there have been roadworks in St Boi as the slowest road construction in the world eventually will (please god) transmogrify itself into a motorway interchange and cut out the need to navigate ever-changing temporary roads whose ineffable structure is presumably there to facilitate the building of the big new quick roads that will make the daily commute just a little less miserable.

But this deliverance is in the unknowable future, like Tantalus’s sustenance, just out of reach.  To be fair, a decade’s worth of roadworks has accomplished the moving of the traffic jams little further along the motorway, so that is something.  Not much, but you really have to experience the bone grinding futility of parts of the network of roads feeding Barcelona to be able to appreciate even the smallest amelioration.

In my darker moments (like, for example, at 6.30 am taking Toni to work because there is no public transport to get him to there for 7.00 am when he starts) I fear that I will see the completion of the Sagrada Familia before this bloody road is opened.  What makes things worse is that you can see pylons stretching emptily towards the skies that should be carrying a road bridge – they have been there so long that they are now covered with graffiti; you can gaze at empty stretches of multi-lane highway running parallel to our inefficiently winding road; you can see machines, lorries, equipment – but no people actually working on the bloody thing.

In my lighter, and therefore far more pretentious, moments, I have assumed that these ‘roadworks’ are nothing of the sort and are actually a vast piece of performance art/installation piece and as such I should be grateful that I have been able to appreciate its developing complexity over the years.

Talking of complexity, tomorrow morning should be an example of the sort of life that can only be lived by the very fortunate - or the retired.  The day starts with my staggering out of bed well before half past six, and having a cursory wash before taking Toni to work.  Returning to Castelldefels, I get to the swimming pool just as it opens at 7.00 am and have my 1,500 m swim.  By the time I am done, having had a shave and completed more thorough ablutions, the café is open so that I can have MY special cup of tea and do a little desultory writing in my ever-present note book.  

I then go directly from the pool café to Bellvitge hospital in Hospitalet de Llobregat for my monthly Control where a single drop of blood, from the tip of the middle finger of my right hand, is tested to see that the viscosity of my blood is within the limits set to encourage the disappearance (the gradual disappearance) of the thrombosis.  I am then given my schedule of rat poison (because that is what I am taking in reality, dress it up with scientific names as they might) for the next month.

Once I am released from the hospital I then make my way back to Castelldefels to go to my first Catalan lesson of the week.  At 12.30, my lesson ended, I make my way into the centre of Castelldefels to go to the framers to discuss how best to bring to concrete fruition a little idea for a ‘picture’ that I have devised.   

Its realization all depends on how much the framer’s bits and pieces that are essential to make it work, cost.  And I should have a price in my mind beyond which I will not go.  There again, ‘should’ is not ‘will’!

The afternoon can be given up to writing.  My publications are lagging behind schedule and I need to get them back on course.

-oOo-

Being up so early, I heard a healthy chunk of the Today programme on Radio 4 and therefore caught the ‘puff’ for Melvyn Bragg and the new book celebrating the twentieth anniversary of ‘In Our Time’.  I made the serious mistake of looking it up in Amazon and bought it at once!  In hardback!  It looks exactly the sort of thing that I like – with pictures!   

 I will review it in a later blog, as soon as it arrives!