A year in Barna already (Un año ya en Barna)

A year ago today we drove into a sunny, autumnal Barcelona, dog-in-tow, to start the next chapter of our lives. We were filled with mixed feelings. On the one hand, we were excited. This was the next big step for G in his career; we knew we were moving to a beautiful city; we were going to be living by the beach again; we already had some friends here waiting for us.

But on the other hand, just a day before we had said a sad goodbye to our friends and our life in Madrid. Seven years is more than enough time to develop meaningful relationships, both with people and places.

So how has this year been? Well if I’m honest, it’s been a little tough. Of course it’s never the same living somewhere as experiencing it as a tourist. But we knew that - it’s not the first (or the second) city we’ve moved to.

And it’s not like haven’t established a life here. We’ve embraced, with some relish, the substitution of Madrid’s (in)famous vida nocturna (night-life) for lovely Sunday lunches with friends on the beachfront and cocktails in stylish terrazas (roof-top bars).  I find myself savouring more than ever our walks along the tree-lined, architecturally rich grid-streets of the Eixample or through the narrow, crooked alleys and slanting buildings of the Gothic and Born districts. As I’ve mentioned previously, I’m left feeling privileged by my daily dog-walking ritual past the Sagrada Familia church. And G’s professional success over this last year fills me with pride and him with a sense of accomplishment.

No, the “problem” is not a lack of a life here, it’s that having so embraced our Spanish life back in Madrid, the move to Barcelona made us feel, quite unexpectedly, that we weren’t living in Spain any more!

Pic: assamblea.cat

Now that might sound a little crazy, but I’ve come to believe that what the Catalanistas like to say rings somewhat true: Cataluña is not Spain. Of course it is geo-politically, but culturally and socially it is quite different. And I don’t think that we were prepared for that.

So this is the reto (challenge) for our next year here: to really say goodbye to Madrid. To stop comparing our old home with our new one and just enjoy Barcelona for what it is: a shimmering jewel on the shores of the Mediterranean with stunning architecture, sensational weather and way of life and a culture that is its very own.

The laid-back Australian, and other myths (El australiano tranquilo y otros mitos)...

Mum has just been to visit us here in Barcelona.  It was a pretty long visit I suppose – six weeks  – but I actually got quite used to having her around the place.  The dog certainly loved having grandma here too, as his extended, sneaked-extra-snacks-girth is testament to. As for Giovanni, well the poor guy got some rest when Mum and I headed off to visit Paris and Pompeii...

During Mum’s stay, I was quickly reminded of a particular trait in us supposedly laid-back Australians, which then got me thinking about how living abroad for so long has led to a change in that “quality” in me. I’ll explain with examples.

A couple of days after Mum's arrival, my phone company, by error, restricted my overseas calling – not a small thing for an extranjero at any time, but pretty huge when Mum is visiting and needs to call home to check on the cat!  A couple of weeks later, the power company hit us with an extraordinarily large estimated power bill, for which they had sucked the money out of the bank before the bill had even arrived. And a little while after that, the phone company was at it again, this time an avería (fault) knocked out the phone and internet all together.

These events solicited exclamations of "disgraceful", "disgusting", "unbelievable" from Mum. Worse was to come when subsequent calls to said utility companies were met with apologies but a total inability to explain what went wrong or why. To Mum this was "inexplicable", "appalling" and "sheer incompetent customer service" (ouch).

And there was also the impatience. A few too many minutes seated in a café or restaurant or standing in a shop waiting to be served and I could feel the agitation rising as Mum's eyes darted around the place, looking to grab someone’s attention.

Now I realise that this makes Mum sound like a ferocious old dragon (sorry Mum); she really isn’t.  And anyway, it’s not just her. I was in Stockholm with my brother last year and he almost had a meltdown in a little bistro when told they had run out of his first two choices from the menu.

But these incidents did shock me: such impatience and indignation simply arising from everyday things not going quite as expected. Then I thought back to myself and what I was like when I first moved to Spain. I realised, back then, far from being shocked I would have most likely jointed in!

I remembered how often contact with a utility company or government department would leave me red-faced and fuming, spouting expletives that make Mum’s outbursts pale in comparison. Letters were written, hojas de reclamaciones (complaint forms) submitted, poor customer service agents berated.

My God, I thought, my whole family is a bunch of raving ratbags!

That’s not true of course (I promise). It’s just that in Australia we expect decent service and for things to get done correctly. And we tend to get rather annoyed when they don’t.

When I think about it, it’s probably an anglosaxjón thing. I remember in London, apart from service with-a-smile (which you’re pretty lucky to receive) and of course the Tube, people expected things to run smoothly too - and whoa-betide if they didn’t.

And I'm reminded of a dear friend from Los Angeles recounting to me his ire at the lack of action of the cabin crew to a group of drunken passengers on a recent flight from Ibiza to Madrid. I believe a letter was written to the airline.

So it’s me. I've changed. I must have become resigned to waiting a while to be served (without a smile) or rather regular utility company stuff-ups. I no longer move to indignation as a first port-of-call and I now notice when others do. I’m not so sure whether it's such a good thing (to accept things done a little shoddily), but hey, I think I’ve saved myself several strokes in the last few years.

Of course to Giovanni, who is as cool as a cucumber always, the apple still doesn’t fall that far from the tree. But remembering how I was and how I am now, I would say I’ve acclimatised exceedingly well.