While strutting down the Ramblas with an amigo last week, baguette and Don Simón at hand, our discussion turned to bizarre things witnessed only in Barcelona. One fine day, I found myself standing in shock as a well-dressed businessman climbed into (yes, into) a communal bin, emerging with saucepans and cardboard. The flashy attire of the homeless folk and their exquisite diet of fresh baguette, Serrano ham, and red wine made me wonder how bad life as a Barcelona vagabond could be.
My experiences as an Erasmus student here have altered my (admittedly shamefully stereotypical) views of Spanish culture. Yes, I eat paella, have siestas, go to fiestas, and drink sangria. However, after envisaging lazy sunny afternoons floating in the sea, I was shocked to learn how hard the Spanish work. Being used to four hours a week in Manchester, I was utterly horrified at my 22 hour timetable, not to mention having to learn Catalan, the language of the Catalonian province in Spain. The desire for an autonomous Catalonia seems to be as strong as ever here; walking into my university building today I was confronted with several graffiti messages promoting a Catalonia autonomous from Spain.
Although difficult at first, (I cleverly arrived with no accommodation and spent the first 24 hours crying, desperately trying to find a room with electricity and a bed), once accustomed to the weirdly wonderful Spanish lifestyle I have had to accept that the end is nigh and force myself to book a flight home.
Best moments in Barcelona? Sun-filled days on the beach and in Ciutadella park, watching the Backstreet Boys perform in a half-empty sports hall with screaming grungers, standing on the patio of club Mirabé in the mountains overlooking the twinkling lights of the city, seeing FC Barcelona play at the impressive Nou Camp, and eating tapas of tomato bread and patatas bravas with a bottle of Cava for €10. Worst moments? Er… the sunburn?
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