by Kameryn Westling

Last weekend some girls from my program and I went to Barcelona. We had heard so many great things about Barcelona from people all around the world. But while I was there, I couldn’t help but wonder many times “Why does everyone love Barcelona so much?”

We took an eight-hour bus overnight, which was miserable because it was like sleeping in a freezer, both because of the cold and because of the hard, icy surfaces. When we arrived the next morning we were sore, exhausted and starving. We checked into our hotel on the famous “La Rambla” – one of the dirtiest and run-down hotels I’ve ever stayed in. The water smelled like liquid shit and the tub was rusting, I thought I was going to fall through the floor while I showered. I realized that my own stench smelled better than my skin after showering there.

After dropping off our bags we went to an outdoor restaurant on La Rambla for brunch. The prices were not listed on the menu (a marketing tactic to trick tourists). It turns out that eggs and toast – 15 euros, a glass of sangria – 12 euros and a glass of orange juice – 8 euros! Outrageous! And it wasn’t even that good. Our waiter clearly didn’t like us and we waited for our bill for 45 minutes.

Next we bought tickets for the double-decker, narrated, hop-on/hop-off tourist buses. We took the northern route of the city and went to La Sagrada Familia, the famous unfinished church of architect and artist Antoní Gaudí. This was breathtaking. It’s 9 euros to enter with a student I.D. but well worth it and the profits go directly to the restoration of the church. We took the elevator up in the tower and then walked down the stairs, circling in the tower all the way to the bottom. From the top of the tower you can see the Mediterranean and the ports of Barcelona. We continued to ride the bus back to the beginning of the route. It was relaxing and refreshing after our overnight journey by bus. I must say Goudí’s architecture is phenomenal and definitely worth seeing.

The next day we went to the beach for the majority of the day. It wasn’t anything too special, a lot like the beaches of the East Coast/Mid-Atlantic region of the US (dirty and artificial), with the exception that you could take your top off. The water was refreshing and I felt cleaner in the sea than the shower in the hotel, despite the floating diapers, band-aids and plastic bags I was swimming with. The highlights of the day were the men selling beverages saying “sexy cold beer,” the women selling massages saying “masaje-massage, masaje-massage” and a man selling pieces of coconut with an unidentifiable slogan that sounded like “Da-do-da-do-da-do-da-do” to advertise their products. We also spent hours trying to find a specific tapas restaurant that we heard about and tried to ask for directions with no avail. Every person we asked purposely gave us the wrong directions in order to screw us over. We ended up walking in circles.

After the beach we went to the “Magic Fountain of Montjuic” (La Fuente Mágica de Montjuic). It was this giant fountain with changing heights, shapes, colors of the water all choreographed to music including anything from opera to songs like “Apologize” by Timbaland and One Republic. It reminded me of something you’d see at Epcot Center at Walt Disney World. It was absolutely mesmerizing. We ended up staying there entranced for three hours.

We asked the man at the front desk of our hotel for suggestions of restaurants to eat at he spoke both Castellano and English. He suggested some places in Port Olympic along the water but we got lost on our way there a couple of times. We started asking for directions in Castellano and every person was hostile towards us, laughing and pointing us in the wrong direction. We were able to get a little farther by using English but we were still lost and ended up settling on the first restaurant we found because we were starving. Now I know that customer service in Spain isn’t great but the waiter at this restaurant was terrible. He didn’t bring us utensils or plates for our tapas. When we ordered most of the people I was with ordered paella, I ordered salmon. He said “Why salmon?” I said “Why not salmon? I like salmon.” He said “The paella is better you should get that” and then continued to give me a hard time about ordering salmon, which I was adamant about and it turned out to be delicious! But later in the evening, I went to the bathroom inside and he was sitting at the bar as I walked by and proceeded to whistle at me, wink, and yell “Guapa!” while making kissy noises! He’s got some nerve!

The rest of the night included us being screwed over by a cab driver who took us out of the city and back in to go only five blocks away from where we were staying and then charging us 15 euros. Then, us trying to get into a club where our Venezuelan friend got in an argument with the bouncer because he called her an ignorant, Venezuelan whore completely based on her Venezuelan-Castellano accent.

We made our way back to La Rambla on our way home where we came across swarms of prostitutes of African decent ranging in age anywhere from 13 or 14 to late 20s. It was such a bizarre experience, which broke my heart. It was very primitive like a pack or lions or wolves hunting their prey. They would literally chase down and cling onto any male in the vicinity, even if he was with his wife, girlfriend, significant other. It was so sad and pathetic. We counted 29 prostitutes in matter of five minutes. Seven of them tackled this one man and stole everything out of his pockets. He responded by running down the street shouting for the police and yelling “Putas! Putas!”

We were getting ready to give up on the night and head back to our hotel when we heard a male, British voice say, “Where are you going and how many of you are there?” We told him there were seven of us and he said “Perfect! I was sent to find six girls and now I’ve found seven. Follow me!” We were a little worried but intrigued at the same time. He lead us to this café-bar that he worked at which was already closed for the evening but him and his friends, including the bartender/owner – a Brit, two Argentineans, two French and a Spaniard – were just hanging out listening to music and talking. So we joined them, had a few drinks and all went to the beach to talk and watch the sunrise. It was GORGEOUS – a huge ball of fire laying on top of the water!

Then we got on our bus back to Madrid. It was the best experience, but it was an experience nonetheless. We learned that we were better off speaking English than Castellano because the Catalanes despise Castellano because of their separatist feelings towards the rest of Spain. But they don’t like English with an American accent either. They love tourists and any other English accent, besides American, is fine. But as soon as they hear Castellano or English they are ready to screw you over. Someone commented that they are like New Yorkers but I completely disagree. New Yorkers aren’t mean, they are focused and busy and know where they’re going but they don’t purposely try to screw you over or have mal intent. If you ask a New Yorker for directions they’ll gladly give them to you and be on their way. Catalanes, clearly do not embrace the “no pasa nada” lifestyle, probably because it’s Castellano.

So here is a message for the Catalanes: Calm down, “go stick your heads in the fridge.” There’s no need to be this hostile towards anyone. It takes too much energy. You’ll be a lot happier just letting it go.

Finally, back in Madrid – clean water, nice people, Castellano! So long Barça, hopefully next time will be better!

by Jeanne Reidy

It wasn’t that we were necessarily seeking out some English entertainment, but when we realized that the West Side Story would be performed in English (and subtitled in Spanish) as part of Madrid’s Veranos de la Villa 2009 festival, my sister, brother-in-law and I got tickets right away. Even though I was excited to see my favorite musical performed in such a unique setting, I have learned that in Spain, you never know what you’re going to get, so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Luckily, I was most pleasantly surprised.

The venue was incredible. El Escenario Puerta del Ángel is located in Casa de Campo and on a map, looked a bit complicated to get to. One switch of a metro line and a short walk and we found ourselves at a place I never knew existed. We didn’t know was to expect- an indoor theatre or an outdoor one for the summer festival or assigned seats or general admission or elegant theatre attire or a casual summer night out. We were surprised on all accounts.

First of all, Veranos de la Villa is an annual festival in Madrid starting at the end of June through mid-August. Each night, at various venues around the city, music, theatre, dance, musicals, concert poetry, movies, flamenco and circus acts are performed.

West Side Story, directed by Joe McKneely (music directed by Donald Chan), has been performed in Tokyo, Paris and now Madrid in celebration of 50 years since it debuted on Broadway.

The venue is an open air theatre in a giant landing space in the largest park in Madrid. I’m not quite positive if it is there year round or built for special events like this festival but I would imagine it is the latter. To take a break from the show, you simply need to glance to your left to see the western-facing side of Madrid’s Royal Palace and Cathedral, gently lit after sunset. There wasn’t a bad seat in the house- which was surprisingly not filled on the Saturday night. Apparently subtitled classic American musicals are not so appealing to the modern-day madrileño.

When we saw the start time of the show, 21:30, we couldn’t quite understand why a Spanish production would play through the dinner hours. We had just planned on grabbing an extra late dinner after the show. However, upon arrival, we noticed several vendors selling ready-to-eat fruit, bocadillos, snacks and drinks. This wasn’t ball park food either. You could enjoy a glass of wine and some fresh fruit on a leather chair under an umbrella before the show or during intermission. Furthermore, there were jewelers and other vendors for admiring. It seemed like they had thought of bringing every detail from an indoor venue outdoors to the middle of the park. Special appreciation goes to whoever thought to provide twice as many women’s bathrooms as men’s.

The show itself was impressive as well. The singing didn’t blow me away but the dancing most definitely did. The cast wasn’t huge but their stamina made it seem like there were twice as many actors. In typical Spanish fashion, the show started about twenty minutes late and the intermission took longer than planned.

You may be wondering, as we did, how to “subtitle” a musical. There was small screen hanging above the stage which was working double time to get the lyrics and dialogue across at the same time they were being said. I was surprised how successful a method it was actually. Because I basically have the lyrics of West Side Story completely memorized, I tried to spend most of the show watching the subtitles. To no surprise, some of the dialogue and lyrics don’t exactly translate across languages. For instance, some jokes in the show that should get an immediate reaction, did not come across in the Spanish version and if they did, due to the subtitles, the laughs were a bit delayed. I had to giggle a bit, as you can imagine, when reading the subtitles for “When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette, ‘til your last dying day”. Regardless, I think the madrileños got the idea and enjoyed a taste of American theatre. I know I did.

For a moderately priced ticket, the evening was well worth it. I strongly recommend taking advantage of this event or the rest of what Veranos de la Villa 2009 has to offer. I’m planning on it.

West Side Story plays until July 5th. http://www.esmadrid.com/veranosdelavilla/

by Sonia Pathmedevan

The Metro. A convenient means of getting around the city. However you are often amongst tired and sometimes smelly commuters. One is also a captive audience for many metro musicians and beggars that enter with bandages on their feet and other body parts recounting their financial woes and asking one for their contribution. (I’m confused, unlike the United States, I thought socialized medical coverage provides for all legal or non-documented illegal). As far as I am concerned, if you try to do something productive, such as provide entertainment based on your talents (or sometimes perceived talents), then you would be more inclined to get a tip versus preying on people’s guilt by telling them your sad story. Almost everyone has a sad story in them, but most of us at least try other means of resolving it versus asking strangers for a hand out.

It was a rainy day when I first heard him play on the metro and since music always moves me, the sounds coming from that instrument warmed my heart. I was fascinated with the “tambal” (pronounced “sambal”). I had never seen anything like it before. I gladly tipped him $1 Euro. He caught my ear because, unlike others, he played exceptionally well.
I ran into him two more times. The second time was at the 24 hour Chocolateria where churros and chocolate sobered up the group I was with after a night of drinking. I had run out of cigarettes and had offered a coin to someone sitting in the table next to my group so that I could buy a cigarette. An hour later, my group was still in depths of a philosophical discussion. Trying to stay awake, although all I wanted was to get to my humble abode, I looked around for another cigarette. Smokers can tell, I guess, when one is “jonesing” for a cigarette. He sat two tables away and he held up his pack and questioned with his eyes if I wanted one. This was a cordial gesture, no other intentions were demonstrated, just one smoker’s kindness to another who ran out of cigarettes at three in the morning. The third time, I was at Fuencarral on the way to meet some friends and he was just emerging from the metro with his Tambal instrument. The journalist in me rose up and I asked him if I could do an interview.
We met up at the Chocolateria and chatted over a “cafe con leche templada”.

32 yr Gelle Marian Cocos, a Romanian metro musician, lives in Hostal Rubio. We communicated in Spanish, Italian and my elementary Romanian vocabulary (which surprised him). Being the oldest son, it is his responsibility to maintain his family back in Romania. He returns to Romania twice a year to see “la mama” and his family. His eyes tear up when he mentions “la mama”. I see a gentle soul in him. Due to the poor living conditions and economic crisis in Romania, he has had to come to Madrid to earn some money to sustain his family back home. The story of many immigrants here in Spain. He comes from a family of musicians. His dad plays violin and his 15-year old brother plays the accordion. He plays the “tambal” that looks like a portable type of xylophone. In actuality, the tambal is a Romanian instrument that is a trapeze shaped soundboard with 20 to 35 courses of strings which are struck with two wooden hammers and hung from the shoulders by straps. In English speaking countries it is known as the dulcimer. It was popularized in 20th Century Romania when it was taken up by the gypsy musicians.

If we are to believe him, he earns $300 Euro a day. He added that it was money earned honestly. At the time of the interview I did not have any preconceived ideas of Romanians. I have since learnt, as a result of the shocked responses I have received when I tell this story, that Romanians have a bad reputation in Madrid. They are perceived to be “gypsies, tramps and thieves”. However, my pockets weren’t picked (in fact, he paid for the coffee and bought me a pack of cigarettes) and I didn’t get my camera ripped off (although I was asked how much it cost).

As far as earning $300 a day, is that possible? It certainly is more than many English teachers earn. Well, if you go from one car to the other on the metro and work 12 hours a day as he does, it is conceivable that you would see at least 300 people and if each gave you an Euro….hmmm, maybe I’m in the wrong field.

by Sonia Pathmedevan

Taking a cigarette break from my classes, I am out in front of the school. An elderly white haired man walks by and says “guapa” and though I don’t have eye contact with him a smile escapes me. He passes me and in my peripheral vision I see him stop. “Oh no, he saw that.” I panic. He then back tracks his steps and approaches me from the right, I still am facing left. He repeats that he finds me attractive. Having being brought up right, I respect my elders and I politely thank him and say “you’re too kind”. “Quiero hacer el amor contigo”(I want to make love to you) he continues. My mind does a quick assessment of the situation since I am shocked that this white haired elderly elegant gentleman is actually saying this to me. Am I standing on the corner? No. Am I on Gran Via? No. Am I wearing provocative clothing? Only if you find black jeans, black sweater zipped up to the top, cigarette in one hand and other hand on the hip(due to an aching back) provocative.
“That would be impossible” I say with an attitude.
“IMpossible?” he asks incredulously?
“IMpossible” I repeat.
“Where are you from?” he asks. I tell him and he changes his leering attitude and says “Ooohh, I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“You did!”
“I did?” he persists to inquire.
“Yes, you DID!”
Then he breaks down to a profound “I’m sorry, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, please don’t take offense” and makes a hasty exit.
After my initial insulted reaction, my journalistic curiosity wishes I had role played the conversation out, just to see how much a “lady of the night” earns in Madrid.
I am told that brown skinned women, usually from South America or Africa are the usual “ladies of the night” since they migrate to Spain in hopes of a better life but then fall on hard times and resort to any means to sustain themselves. Also, judging by the pornographic magazines at the news stands, it seems brown skinned women on the covers seem to be the preferred flavor,if you will. But then those women that you see selling themselves make no doubt about it. They dress provocatively and they maintain eye contact for any prospective client. I was also told, by a Spaniard, that due to the economic crisis some Spaniard women have had to resort to the oldest profession to make ends meet but the Spaniard women were fetching more monetarily since it is such a rarity.
In recounting the experience to an American whom I chatted with in Plaza Mayor, she showed me her tourist guide book that addressed the issue and advised women who were traveling alone not to maintain eye contact with strangers since it may be perceived as an invitation and in a footnote indicated the “going rate” was $35 Euro an hour. We both thought that would be on the low side albeit we had no knowledge of the “going rate” in the United States.
Then I came upon an article in QUE( the daily rag that is distributed at metro stations) that answered all my questions about the profits of the world’s oldest profession. If you didn’t catch it ladies, take heed. Apparently the much bolder and vigilant reporter had staked out the going ons and was able to calculate that at 5 Euros per visit(15 minutes), the ladies of the night netted 900 Euro’s on a slow day. Calculate that! And following that basis the net earnings, since there are no taxes to be paid, would be more than 3 million Euros annually. Certainly no small change. Definitely more than most of us earn.
Personally, I will not be maintaining any eye contact with any seemingly harmless elderly gentleman.