Barcelona’s uncanny ability to land me in unforeseen situations that, on occasion, gift lifelong memories, surprised me again this weekend. Living here feels like being interred inside one of those folded paper fortune tellers, that, depending on your dexterity, yield up four different corners of fate on a regular basis. Whatever else it is, life here is never predictable.

In the lap of the gods

Sitting due north of the coastal town of Masnou, about 20km away from Barcelona, the Club Hípico Vallromanes is a riding school, livery yard, and hotel resort, complete with pool, gardens and the most amazing views you can imagine. I had been invited by the owner, Antonio, to come check out the facilities and see the flamenco horse show that takes place each week.

It had been a while since I’d been out of the city, and the first thing I noticed on stepping out the car was that even the air smelt different. The kind that makes you want to inhale deeply. Set in the midst of a national park, the whole area seems to have been carved out of the hillside, and Antonio tells me proudly that he planted many of the trees as saplings himself.

The next thing I noticed was that I couldn’t stop smiling. The sort of smiling I haven’t done since I wielded a blowtorch at some unsuspecting crema catalana in a Barcelona cooking class. In a sort of helpless, hapless, demented way. “¿Te gustan los caballos entonces?” asked Antonio, receiving an ear-to-ear grin in return.

Making old friends

Given my palpable enthusiasm for all things equestrian, Antonio obviously decided I was harmless enough to let loose around the yard. The show itself wasn’t due to kick off for another couple of hours, and Antonio seemed a bit concerned that I might be bored hanging around. When he clocked the fact that within the first three minutes I had actively taken photos of each horse in its box (there are around 70) and was starting to memorise their names, he quite wisely left me to it.

Limbering up Seville-style

“You’re one of the family now” said Antonio gamely. And, true enough, my guides were Antonio’s granddaughters, aged from four to 12, who were the most polite, cheerful and knowledgeable kids I have met in Spain ever. Little Aitana, aged four, eagerly appropriated her role as profe, teaching me the essential Spanish vocab and doing a great job of disguising her disdain at my ignorance.

“Sudadero” for saddle-pad. “Tijerillas” for martingale. The sort of words that don’t appear in Word Reference, and which sizzle on your tongue as you savour them. “Crin” for mane, and I start remembering some poem or other of Lorca’s, and Córdoba, distant and alone, with the olives in the saddle-bag. A whole world of associations with Spain that always bring me back to horses, poetry, and even Saint John of the Cross.

The flamenco horse show

Anyway, I diverge. My point is, the whole day was almost otherworldly.

The show itself, in the massive competition arena, would have been impressive enough, as riders from all over the world took turns at showcasing their talents. Classic dressage moves combined with displays of gaucho daring, but the common denominator that I could see was the riders’ attitude to their horses.

I had hung out beforehand in the practice arena, watching the warm-up exercises agape, struck by the respect with which the riders treated their mounts. Many ‘horsey’ people in the UK are out-and-out swines, in my experience, so to see the genuine relationship between horse and rider was a revelation.

Ying and Yang

My favourite was the plucky little Argentinean, of course.

Going gaucho

Learning to improvise

Given the setting, sunshine and equestrian derring-do, the day was already complete for me, but throw in some glasses of vino and a live salsa band in the gardens and we’re talking a whole other level.

Salsa oozed softly around us as Antonio’s granddaughters (there now seemed to be even more of them) combed through my handbag and looted my makeup. “What does this do?” they quizzed me, brandishing mascara wands into the afternoon sunshine as horses nearby failed to bat an eyelid.

Makeup perfectly pulchered, we followed the sound of the band, who seemed to segue effortlessly from one Latin standard to the next. A young woman, shoogling in her seat herself, thrust  forward her one-year-old baby, who mimicked a few steps on the table. Seamlessly, the band entered on cue: “Un, dos, tres, un pasito pa’lante María, un, dos, tres, un pasito pa’tras”.

I laughed, sat back, and counted my blessings.

Riding facilities

If you’re a rider, you will adore this place. There are two outdoor schools, both big and set against a cliff, a massive indoor arena, and an even larger outdoor show ground. The tack rooms are replete with every conceivable kind of kit, while the stalls, stables and yard are immaculate. Given the setting, as you might imagine, the club offers hacks as well as formal lessons.

Coltish in contemplation

Faith healing

While everyone was still tucking in to the barcebue, shouting out requests to the salsa band and generally having a great time, I snuck away, beckoned by a whispering Aitana in the corner of the garden.

She wanted to show me her moves. Aged four, armed with a riding hat, protective waistcoat and the fearlessness you only have at four years old, she showed off her agility, guided by her older sister on the lunge. “What do you want to do now?” asked older sis. “¡Galope!” was the unequivocal reply.

And not for the first time that day, I was transported back to a different time, remembering other ponies and other places, and Ayrshire skies of a more leaden nature.

What the smell of bales of hay can do.

Huge thanks to Antonio and his family for an amazing day:)

The post Horse heaven in the Catalan hinterland appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

After some gentle probing the next day, it turned out that Wednesday had been his one-year anniversary living in Barcelona.  He had wanted to mark the day with self-reflection. The females in the office cooed sweet things at him on hearing this. The men, meanwhile, rolled their eyes.

I smiled wryly at the sentiment, remembering my own one-year anniversary last April, and fast forwarding mentally to the second.

With mixed feelings.

A recent run of seriously dodgy incidents in Barcelona has put my commitment to the city to the test. After being attacked both in the street and inside the lift of my apartment building, it’s easy – and tempting – to write the place off as a ne’er-do-well destination. (Morten was right. These are scoundrel days.)

Sure, from up here it’s shiny…

But hell, no-one said moving abroad alone was ever going to be easy, did they?

The Spanish me

Pours olive oil over everything. Mayonnaise, when it does put in an appearance, is reified in the form of ajo-laced allioli. If it can’t walk on its own, it doesn’t count.

Has a vague idea of what’s going on in the League. (Vague, mind.)

Automatically looks to the left first before crossing the road.

Tenses up instinctively whenever she hears footsteps quicken or someone breaks into a run.

Never wears a watch. Has the feeling that doesn’t matter.

Touches and hugs people constantly, even strangers she meets for the first time.

Unconsciously veers to the right on escalator queues.

Never watches TV.

Always clutches her handbag firmly to her lap in bars, restaurants, metro journeys, parties.

Weighing up the options at Barcelona’s Maritime Museum

Has an irritating tendency to exclaim “Uff, qué frío!” whenever the mercury dips below 15 degrees. Centigrade.

Frequently finds herself questioning what day of the week it actually is.

Can not remember the last time she saw the iron.

Has seriously considered buying one of those little pull-along trolley things for the supermarket.

Has no qualms about using exclamation marks and effusive emoticons liberally in email communication.

Is inured to the chronic reek of dope on the breeze.

Never goes shopping for clothes.

Is no longer afraid of speaking Spanish on the phone.

Has packed away the microwave. Gluten-free frozen ready meals simply do not exist in Spain.

Is losing her grasp on the English language at a rate of knots.

Finds herself, for the first time in her life, questioning how to spell certain words. Responsible responsable? Cemetery cementery? Hostel hostal? Japanese Japonese?

Has discovered that it is physically impossible to eat lunch alone (some apparently deep sensibility of Spanish colleagues and friends prohibits it.)

Never saves any money. Ever.

Is genuinely starting to consider the possibility that chilly temperatures in and of themselves may cause the common cold. Despite undisputed science that says it’s a viral infection of the upper respiratory tract.

Will never get used to the sight of people scrabbling in wheelie bins looking for food.

Isn’t fazed by working with colleagues from every conceivable corner of the world.

Is, most of the time, on reflection, glad to live here.

The post Two years in – how Barcelona has changed me appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

This wasn’t the post I was expecting to write.

What I actually wanted to talk about were the best apps for living in Barcelona. That was the plan. However, for that you need an actual iPhone.

Arriving home from a night out last Saturday, having got a taxi home, about a block from my flat I was attacked and mugged. The guy came up from behind, from the shadows, from nowhere. Luckily I had just taken the (only set of) keys out of my bag a split second before, because he made off with the whole handbag – all cards, all money, new iPhone – in tow.

I gave chase but he was fleeter of foot. Something about not wearing high heels. And having done all this before.

I staggered down to Consell de Cent, a main street, well lit-up, where a few men and women were still strolling around. “I’ve just been mugged!”" I screamed. “Help me find the thief!”

Bear in mind, at this point I’m a foreign single woman, alone, clearly traumatised, on the street at night holding nothing but a bunch of keys.

They all glanced at me and kept on walking. No-one gave a shit.

Sunday

The police the next day were sympathetic and apathetic at the same time. It was quite a  feat to behold.

Clutching my passport, my NIE certificate and my insouciant Spaniel, I answered all of their questions by rote, having internalised it all already. No, I couldn’t recognise him again. Yes, he had hurt me physically. Yes, I think he was Spanish. Sorry if that doesn’t fit with the stats.

Inca was a big hit in the station. Burly policemen in uniform, passing by, did a double take on seeing her there, and stopped in their tracks to tickle her head. “Hola, perrita!”. I smiled, they smiled, everyone smiled. The pup gladly gave paws a-plenty.

The aftermath

This city needs to get its hands off me. That’s now twice in under two months I’ve had to defend myself physically, either inside my own flat or just a block away. Having got a taxi home both times.

I’m still processing the rest. No doubt in future I’ll publish something a little more coherent.

For now, I’m still jumping at shadows. Everyone is a potential aggressor. Shame on you, Barcelona. You’re changing me in ways you were not supposed to.

The post Scunnered in Barcelona appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

But somehow, having lived in Barcelona for the best part of two years, I have yet to really make friends with the Mediterranean. To be honest, at times the slick, spruced-up seafront – overhauled in the run-up to the ’92 Olympics – leaves me a little cold.

Plus, if you don’t happen to live close to the beach in Barcelona (and I don’t), it’s entirely possible to spend months without going anywhere near it. Which is a huge pity, really, when you think about it.

So when I was offered the opportunity to take part in a press trip around the Costa Brava, with a particular focus on the importance of the coastline to the Catalan sense of identity, I jumped at it.

The Costa Brava – where you don’t even need Instagram

From Barcelona to Girona and east to L’Estartit

Straddling the flood plain of the Ter estuary, L’Estartit is a small, seafaring town. A privileged wee place, its long beach and beautiful bay scintillate in the Catalan sunshine. The ace up its sleeve, though, is the enigmatic archipelago that sits about a kilometre off shore – the uninhabited Medes Islands.

The Medes Islands as seen from the mainland

Once patrolled by pirates, these seven little islets are something special.

Twenty years of protection have made the Medes Islands one of the most important marine flora and fauna reserves in western Europe. A mecca for divers from all around the world, the area boasts the largest red coral reef in the Mediterranean. I am not a diver, but listening to tales of tame rays, barracudas, groupers and scorpion fish (but no sharks – always a bonus) made me want to load up on Nitrox and delve the depths of the seabed.

Approaching the Medes Islands

As the schooner skulked around the periphery of the seven moody monoliths, I was reminded of Ailsa Craig, that hulking heft of rock that rises up out of the Ayrshire seabed. It, too, was plagued by pirates. Seeing the islands up close felt a bit like reading the region’s palm. Not for the first time, I reflected on the connections between Catalonia and Scotland…Caledonia.

If scuba and snorkelling are not your thing, there are other ways to explore these compelling crags. Companies in L’Estartit offer boat trips in glass-bottomed boats around the islands and right along the Montgrí coast.

The Spanish flag – la Rojigualda – and the Catalan Senyera

The port of Palamós

My head still conniving with cunning plans to jump ship from Barcelona and move lock, stock and barrel to L’Estartit, it was time to head south, to the less pretty, more gritty, port of Palamós.

Sorting the catch in Palamós

The Catalan coastline is 580km long and fish is a hugely important part of the local diet. Surprisingly, though, fewer than 100 of the 532 species found in the western Mediterranean are of interest to fishermen, and only 12 constitute the basis of the fishing sector (anchovies, sardines, blue fin tuna, tuna, hake, blue whiting, angler fish, sea bream, red mullet, octopus, Norway lobster and, of course, prawns).

In Palamós, the seafaring traditions of Catalonia turn into a spectacle in front of your eyes. Palamós smelled of my childhood. Watching the guys at the docks sort and unload the day’s catch, the stench of salt and nostalgia was in my nostrils.

Monday through Friday, by mid afternoon the fishermen start to arrive back at the port, and the unloading of the day’s catch begins. Shanties and shindigs don’t come into it – this is big business. Years ago anyone and their dog could fish from the coast, whereas today you have to be a professional fisherman with a bona fide licence.

For fish to carry the prestigious ‘Palamós’ label, strict criteria must be met. Staff check to make sure the fish aren’t from polluted waters before the produce can take its place on the conveyor belt, bound for the daily auction.

The famous Palamós prawns (gambas de Palamós)

The auction itself, conducted in a building closed off to the general public, is a sight to behold.

The first auction kicks off at 7am (for ‘blue’ or oily fish, like sardines, mackerel and anchovies), while the second takes place late afternoon.  The small auction room has a terse, no-nonsense atmosphere, with buyers (mostly restaurant and market stall owners) sitting glued to their handsets. Old sea dogs and their wifeys pack the pews.

Up until fairly recently, the prices were sung out, but modern technology means that things have moved on. Buyers are part of a sophisticated network, with their own Facebook groups and everything. Simultaneously, auctions are going on in Girona, L’Escala, Roses and Sant Feliu, and it’s all about getting the best price. Just to complicate matters (or facilitate them, depending on your point of view), prices are shown in pesetas as well as euros.

Although it’s an auction, there are no actual bids for the boxes of fish. The person who pushes the button first gets the lot. The price varies from day to day, with Friday being the most expensive. To give you an idea, a kilo of Palamós prawns will sell for 90€ in the market in the summer, but the fishermen only take home 27€ of this. Most of the time, all of the fish is sold by the end of the day – only flotsam and jetsam remain.

The tides of life on Palamós beach

The Fishing Museum (Museu de la Pesca) in Palamós 

Aside from the excitement of seeing the whole process up close – the smell, the a(u)ction, and yes, if I’m honest, the burly fisherman in yellow overalls – I think the highlight for me of the whole tour was the Fishing Museum in Palamós. This is a seriously well thought-out space, rivalling the best of the museums you will find in Barcelona.

Visitors are greeted by a suitably stirring 10-minute-long audiovisual presentation before being ushered through to the permanent exhibition itself.

The impressive Fishing Museum in Palamós

In laying bare the relationship between humans and the sea, the Museum takes a modern, hands-on approach. I was struck most of all by the stories behind some of the characters whose voices echoed down throughout the centuries.

“I think if I was to be born anew, I’d choose again to be a fisherman. You do the the same thing every day but it’s never the same.” – Josep Mateu, Fisherman (1923)

“When I started, there were 50 women…We mended the nets on the beach. Ouch, the sand was burning! We sat on the ground all day.” – Joaquima Brull Vila, Net mender (1912)

If you’re planning a trip to Palamós and intend to take in the Museum, my advice would be to allow yourself plenty of time. In addition to the permanent exhibition, it offers guided tours, workshops, excursions and itineraries, and you’ll want time to enjoy it all.

I especially enjoyed the cooking workshop at the end of the tour. “A country’s cuisine is its landscape in a cooking pot,” said the Catalan writer Joseph Pla (1897-1981), and this seemed particularly apt as we chomped on fresh-caught tuna fillets. If there’s a recurrent theme throughout the various exhibits, it’s that of sustainability – and I certainly left with a new-found interest in the fish I consume and the way that it’s caught.

A live cooking demonstration in the Fishing Museum, Palamós

All in all, this taster tour of the Costa Brava left me desperately devising ways to spend more time there. If I can pluck up the guts to hire – and drive – a car in 2013 (the wrong side of the car, the wrong side of the road, the wrong side, no doubt, of the law) I will be hotfooting it north from Barcelona the first chance I get. See you there.

Craving the Costa Brava? Dive in.

The post Coasting the Costa Brava appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

Here, the three wise men disembark at the docks and gift the city its second Christmas, at the very point when most people in the UK are packing away their tinsel and baubles. The troop of colour and chaos is a welcome, uplifting start to the year, defying grey Catalan skies.

Procrastination thy name is January

But apart from that, and the Sant Antoni district’s Tres Tombs festival (where Inca got rather unceremoniously baptised this year, along with some pet chickens), January sees the city in subdued, hunkered-down mode. There’s a prevailing sense of inertia about the place, mirrored in my own inability to get my finger out. God forbid I write a blog post, while poems are just getting started before they skite to a stuttering halt.

“This is the city where fickle folk flock.
Which suited me fine – it was time
to up-end the tenable.”

Right, and then what happened?!

Resolve, goddammit

I’m not a fan of new year’s resolutions (if you really want to do something, shouldn’t you have done it already?), and as for ‘bucket list’, that seemingly mandatory feature of any blogger’s online arsenal, the least said the better. But I admit there is something about the disconcerting shoosh of January that lends itself to reflection.

It has occurred to me that in almost two years of living in Barcelona, I have never:

• Climbed Mount Tibidabo (never mind hiked in its foothills)
• Ridden a motorbike, moped, vespa, scooter or anything else with two wheels and an engine
• Attended a concert at the whimsically Modernista Palau de la Música Catalana
• Gone swimming (I did try, but got booted out for not owning a shower cap)
• Heard opera sung at the world-famous Liceu Theatre (or indeed anywhere, for that matter)
• Scoffed supper at any one of Barcelona’s 20 Michelin-starred restaurants.

And fair deuce, these are some wrongs I intend to put right in 2013. I’m also looking forward to cantering around the Costa Brava and the reopening of the long-shut-for-renovation Maritime Museum (Feb 16^th, it’s free – get it in your diaries).

Dodging through doorways

Then again, a creepy incident recently left me appreciating humdrum monotony as an underrated circumstance.

I’d been round at a friend’s flat for dinner, and seeing that it was quarter to two in the morning, decided to call a taxi to get home. The taxi duly dropped me off just one block from my flat, and I unlocked my building’s main door, no headphones on and to all intents and purposes pretty sober.

I got in the lift and punched in the code that would take me to the back door of my flat. Just at that moment, the lift door was wrenched open, and a tall (non-Spanish) guy jumped in beside me. I was taken off guard (I was sure he didn’t live in the building) and remember exclaiming mindlessly “¡qué susto!”

Frightful it turned out to be. In what felt like an eternity, but was doubtless only a matter of 30 seconds, he proceeded to try it on, hands everywhere and probing questions in pidgin Spanish…“Do you have a husband? Do you live alone? Qué guapa eres…”

Still fending him off, I stepped out onto the balcony of my flat, and as I exited the lift he made moves to follow me out.

Pure instinct kicks in at these moments. You know there will be time for hindsight, instants, days and weeks later, but at the vital interstice itself, you react. Or don’t. I learned that my voice falters when under threat. But by god I can kick like a mule.

Thankfully he retreated, apparently thinking better of the whole thing, and I was left shaking on my balcony, fumbling around for keys. The pup greeted me in a dervish-like dance, and I clasped her tight for the next X amount of hours it took me to get to sleep.

The flip side

But Barcelona is not a city so easily dismissed. Or pigeon-holed. Doorways work both ways.

As I was reeling, and swapping the tale Monday morning with a colleague whose visiting mother had been robbed the same day in broad daylight outside her rental apartment, resolve of a more gritty kind was making itself felt.

Do not give up so easily. Remember the bigger picture.

And half an hour later, I had an out-of-the-blue invite to a Barcelona Burns’ Supper. That Friday, reeling around for real to plangent bagpipes, haggi-a-plenty and with Fergus calling me out in the middle of Tam O’Shanter (just at the line that goes “Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpassses/for honest men and bonnie lasses“), the breathtaking spontaneity of my life here was brought home to me.

Wait, I grew up in Ayr, and I swear it wasn’t that sunny…

It might have been the eye-watering effect of the whisky, but stripping the willow in the middle of the Ramblas, acompanied by bagpipe wails that wouldn’t have been out of place on the Royal Mile, everything settled back into place again. Here’s to a safe and successful 2013:)

The post Barcelona and the two faces of January appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

I like the winsomeness of the word.

Its sound, its capriciousness, its way of conveying so many things at once.

It invokes a butterfly in full flight mode, flaking out in transit, a fledging fleeing, flailing, flotsam flouncing, flamenco-flaunting for a fleeting moment, full-on flux, failing outright to finally sit still. To flit is to flux, to toowit-toowoo, to flex your muscles, test your tether, flunk out and come up flippant.

It is to flock Elsewhere.

Moving on up

I have spent the last six weeks in the most protracted flat flit known to humanity. (Even the above description refused to get to the point in under 100 words.)

After a year and a half living in Poble Sec, it was time to crawl out from the protective underbelly of Montjuïc and venture forth…Elsewhere.

I cut a beleaguered figure every evening for those six weeks, dragging an outsized suitcase behind me in my right hand, bags stuffed with books, budgie feed, the odd porrón, incense sticks and toilet roll strapped over my shoulders, while out in front pranced Inca, enthralled with her new self-appointed mission as husky-esk guide to the official flitting process from one barrio to the next.

I doubt she knew its full significance. No longer would we be able to claim status as Poble Sec-ers…that downtrodden neighbourhood that most Barcelonans love to diss, dismiss as a hotbed of immigrant activity, not quite the Raval but precariously close to being the next pretender.

We had lost Rosa the pet shop owner, the one who hugged me (and Inca) when I finally got out of hospital, the one who spoke not a word of English but who went out and bought a Spanish/English dictionary with the specific purpose of being able to communicate with my poor mother when she came in to point plaintively at dog food and ask which brand, how much, please help.

We had lost a good friend and neighbour Eva, a Poble Sec-er de toda la vida, who was always on hand to help and offer insights into barrio life, including what the hell that noise was that sounded like metal being browbeaten into life every Saturday afternoon (the butanista banging on his metal drum, announcing the arrival of butane gas cylinders in much the same way as an ice cream van prowls the periphery of the poorest neighbourhoods in Glasgow).

God dammit, we had lost hard-won local knowledge.

Of where to buy the only edible gluten-free bread, the best place to get Canary Island salt-wrinkled potatoes, where to catch a sneak peek at the human castle volunteers limbering up before they took centre stage in their skyward corporal prayer.

Or whisper it, the secret spots, the ones that don’t feature in any published travel guides, where locals leave clandestine messages that give voice to community sentiment. The in-jokes you have to have earned the right to laugh at.

Settling in Sants

But we were moving on.

Poble Sec had played its part, had called itself home for longer than anyone had ever given it credit for. One rented flat had given way to another rented flat, prompting a glut of  those well-intentioned questions that only ‘expats’ are ever subjected to: “How long do you plan to stay here for? Wouldn’t you rather buy somewhere? Have you thought what you’ll do if you have kids? When are you intending to move Home?”

Traipsing northwards to the beckoning barrio of Sants, where the new flat gleamed in all its new-year promise, I was ill-disposed to bother answering. There will be time for all of that.

For now, fluctuating between Here and There and and contemplating the flocks that fickle overhead was as much as we both could muster. Home is where you say it is. That will do for now.

The post The Big Flat Flit appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

Here’s my take on the best green retreats for when you need some nature/nurture.

“Pining for greenery

…it has to be said, if there’s one thing that’s at a premium in this city, it’s grass. Having grown up in Glasgow (aka “dear green place” – you see the predicament) I have come to expect a certain amount of turf and topiary in my life. Throughout most of the city, there’s isn’t a blade of the green stuff in sight (Ciutadella Park is the notable exception, but the grass there is like week-old stubble, sprawled on by sunbathers and to top it all off, jaggy).

If you too are craving a little bit of nature, without doing anything as extreme as hiking Barcelona’s surrounding hills, the parks and gardens of Montjuïc are your best bet. Most of them were designed back in the 1920s for the International Exposition that was to take place, and then overhauled again in the run-up to the Olympics in 1992.

Don’t be fooled by Montjuïc, though. Its size is deceptively doable on the map, but it’s a very large area which has some brutal slopes for added calf kick. Here are some of the gardens I think are worth seeing if you’re tackling this Olympic mountain.”

Read the full article on the Spain Scoop

The post Mastering the parks of Montjuïc – guest post at The Spain Scoop appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

5am

An inner evacuation process has begun. The pup whines, looks confused, and licks the back of my leg in sympathy.

3pm

I cannot stop being sick. The retching is happening every five minutes. I am puking blood out of my nose. I no longer have the strength to get out the bed and make it to the bathroom, and have resorted to leaning over the edge of the bed and vomiting onto the tiled floor.

Surely this has to stop sometime soon?

11.30pm

It’s not stopping. After 19 hours of hawking up my guts, I admit defeat. And immediately I realise I have no idea of the equivalent of 999.

Mentally berating myself (who lives alone in a foreign country without knowing such information?) I call my doctor’s surgery, thinking there will be a recorded message saying what number to phone in an emergency. There is a message, but it babbles out in Catalan, with no Spanish option. I get the gist of it, but am sure they haven’t mentioned any number to phone in out-of-surgery hours.

I’m loath to bother anyone at this time of night, but, getting slightly desperate, I text my friend Chris. The message is tersely dramatic. “I think I need help.”

Midnight

Chris has phoned for an ambulance but the official response is for her to put me in a taxi and head to the hospital on Numància Street. My heart sinks. I’m now extremely dizzy, can’t stop puking, and am balking at the very idea of putting one foot in front of the other, let alone going out in public.

I drag some clothes on and clutch the now fetid basin to my chest.

Chris and her husband loom like phantoms at the bottom of my stairwell. Or it could just be that my vision is swimming. They flag down a cab and we take a tortuous 20-minute ride to the recommended hospital. As the taxi speeds off, something doesn’t seem right. Chris’ husband bangs on the door of the dimly lit Casualty department. It’s shut.

Go away – we’re shut.

On any other occasion I might have cursed the cutbacks and incompetence of the emergency services, but instead I collapse to the ground, and start to close my eyes. I just need to make it all stop.

Chris’ husband runs down the street, looking for a passer-by or any form of help. Amazingly, he comes across a lone ambulance, with two paramedics at the end of their shift. They are clearly reluctant to assist. But he’s Spanish, and persuasive, and after about five minutes of conversation they come over to eye me up. Finding out I’m in my mid-30s, they tell Chris to put me in a taxi. Needless to say this doesn’t go down well. Chris and her husband plead in Spanish. It works. I don’t have the strength to tell them how grateful I am.

Stumbling into the ambulance, I know that what I really need is an anti-nausea injection and the hydrating effect of a drip. “Please put me on a drip,” I croak in Spanish to the 20-something paramedic. “I don’t have any” she says brusquely, and busies herself with filling out a form. “They’re up there” I reply, motioning to a shelf containing around eight of the plastic glucose bags. She looks irked, and snaps “I can’t understand you”.

I try to quash the the overwhelming urge to start screaming. Don’t panic.

Her male partner, driving the ambulance, calls through cheerily from the front: “She’s saying that she wants a drip”. The girls’ lips purse to a point. “For Christ’s sake”, she shouts back in Spanish, “my stash is already running low!”

She reaches for a drip and starts fumbling with a catheter. She looks me straight in the eyes. “You have shit veins”, she says.

Sunday

1am

They admit me to the Casualty department at the Sagrat Cor. It looks similar to the ones you see back home – bright lights, everyone dressed in white, thin curtains separating one stretcher from another. I am glad to be somewhere whose sole purpose is to make me feel better. The vomiting is still going on every few minutes. I tell myself that once the drip kicks in, and I’m hydrated again, I will be fine and able to go home.

I spend the night on a stretcher in the corner, next to a Columbian gang member. He spends the night screaming at the nurses, singing Colombian country songs, and swearing about the vengeance he will take on those who beat him up as soon as he gets out. The only time he shuts up is when a nurse approaches with a needle, and he starts whimpering pathetically. He is, apparently, afraid of needles.

2pm

I have promptly vomited up the cup of water they gave me in Casualty, after 14 hours on a drip, and the doctor shakes her head at me. “You need to be admitted”, she says, acknowledging that they don’t know what’s wrong with me. With a pup alone in my flat, I am now panicking. As the icing on the cake, my Spanish mobile has gone dead, and I only have the UK one left as back-up. I text my Mum in Scotland, who then starts an international search and rescue operation – thank god for Google – to find someone in Barcelona who can take care of Inca.

Meanwhile, I am transported to a room upstairs, with beds for two people and a shower room at the side. The other bed is empty and I climb into mine, glad of the change of scenery.

Have we mentioned you have really crap veins?

Monday

10am

It’s official – I reek. Three days of stuff coming out both ends is not pretty. When a nurse appears to change my drip, I ask if she can please help me get washed, in the en suite shower room. “No”, she says, and I wonder if it’s because the tubes of the drip complicate things. “Just to get washed”, I go on, “not a full shower to get the bandages wet”. “No you can’t” she repeats, “now lie there and be quiet”.

5pm

“Hooliah!” My non-drip arm is being shoogled, and I groggily wake up. Two nurses inject something into my arm – I have no idea what or what for. They never explain anything. In a more normal state I would be questioning everything, but I simply don’t have the strength.

About a minute after they leave, the most god-awful pain starts pulsing at the back of my neck. It spreads rapidly up the back of my skull, till my head is involuntarily wrenching back and forth in pain. Gasping, I get out of bed and drag the drip pole to the door of the room. I call out in Spanish for help, starting to cry. It’s that sore.

Three nurses are passing in the corridor, and I recognise the eldest as the one who refused me a shower earlier today. “Please help”, I cry, struggling for breath, “you injected me with something and my head now feels like it’s exploding.” The eldest shoots me a vicious look. “Och, you again. Get back to bed”. The three of them saunter on along the corridor.

I collapse at this point. The drip pole clatters down beside me. I notice that the floor tiles are cold against my cheek.

11.30pm

My roommate is a middle-aged Spanish woman. What seems like her entire family have been clustered around her all day. There’s no restriction on the amount of visitors you can have in Spain (in the UK it’s usually two at a time), nor are there any set visiting hours.

What this means is that all day and all night, I have to drag myself, my drip pole and omnipresent basin (which I’ve learned is ‘palangana’ in Spanish, helpfully) past not only another sick person, but her husband, son, nephew and neighbour’s daughter-in-law, who are generally to be found in a state of animated discussion. In a white hospital gown that barely covers my abdomen, this isn’t much fun. Nor is the fact that the visitors have no qualms at all about using the patients’ toilet.

Meanwhile, the pay-to-view TV on the wall has been blaring for the past five hours, with South American soap operas whose plot seems to centre on a model being in love with the man who killed her brother. The women all wear impossibly large earrings and the men all speak as if trying to convince a jury not to convict them.

Constantly vomiting, hunched under bright lights and full volume television fiasco, I can’t take it any more. It occurs to me that I may actually be in hell.

Tuesday

3am

The nights are the worst. The vomiting is incessant. And I feel utterly – and helplessly – alone.

A nurse snaps on the lights to take my temperature and change my drip. I don’t recognise her but I shamelessly resort to clutching her hand. “Don’t leave me, please.” She shuffles awkwardly. “There are other patients”, she shirks, “I have to go”.

Wednesday

11am

Today’s challenge: how to convince a chief psychiatrist in a foreign language that you are not insane?

The doctor managing my case has called for a psych consult, presumably because she cannot fathom how five days of puking your guts up can be anything other than psycho-somatic. I protest that I really can’t help it, and desperately want to get home to my puppy, but she’s having none of it.

The psychiatrist is a man. It surprises me to find that I am inordinately relieved at this. He’s the first man I have seen so far here – all nurses and doctors have been women. He chats to me for two minutes and quickly concludes there is, indeed, something physical actually wrong with me. “Can you please tell my doctor that?” I ask.

4pm

Mum materialises over the head of my bed. She’s flown in from Scotland on a mercy mission to save me, my puppy and my abandoned flat. She brings soap, and a sponge. It’s the first time I’ve been washed in the past five days. I have never been so happy – and grateful – to see anyone in my life.

Lady Lazarus.

Saturday

3pm

They’re releasing me. This is inexplicable, because I am still vomiting and still feel like death. “Ánimo!” my doctor breezes chirpily as she signs me out. “You’ll be fine!”

She hands me a prescription for various medicines, and I realise the chemists will be shut – Saturday afternoon and Sunday. I ask for a few of the tablets to tide me over till we can get to a chemist on Monday morning. She looks confounded, and refuses.

I puke all the way home in the taxi.

Tuesday

3pm

In a second Casualty department. This time it’s Hospital Clinic, which I’ve heard is a lot better than Sagrat Cor. After three days off the drip at home, getting progressively worse, I have a fever and am on the verge of passing out.

While we’re waiting to be processed into Casualty (this takes around seven hours), they’ve parked us in a corridor. Me perched on the edge of a stool, draped over basin, and my mother standing over me.

It’s at this point that I start to become aware of a ruccus down the corridor. A 50-year-old-looking Spanish woman, lying on a bed, is shouting and bawling, and I realise in disbelief that she’s talking about me and Mum. “This is ridiculous!” she screams, “I was here first!” The young porter is trying to placate her, but to no avail. The screeches get louder. “I’ve not had food for a day! And as for these foreign women!” she’s spluttering now, “these…Germans!”

On this, my eleventh day of endless vomiting, I resist the urge to compare war stories. But the rest I can’t let go. Managing a hoarse yelp of response in her direction (after so long puking, your throat is shot to hell), I rasp “I pay my taxes too, you know.” She snorts. I manage a final parting shot. “And another thing. I’m not bloody German!”

Sunday

11am

They’re releasing me. But this time, I am hopeful I am actually on the mend. I’ve been in the gastro-enterology ward all week, and the staff here have been consistently nice – and professional. I wish I had been brought to Hospital Clinic in the first place.

Not much has happened of note this week, mainly because the staff have done a great job. There was the time a nurse struggled for two hours to get a needle in my arm (yes, I have shit veins), and exasperated, had all but given up. Then it finally worked, and, in a nod to my Scottish background, cried out spontaneously “¡Viva la independencia!”

Or the night that I woke myself up talking out loud to a stretchered Boris Yeltsin, who kept blabbering in Russian. I sat up in bed and told him to be quiet, I didn’t speak Russian, that his words were meaningless. Slouching back down into the bed, I was aware of the stares through the curtain beside me of the other patient (and tribe of family staying overnight, obviously).

But finally, stepping out onto the streets of Barcelona, clutching my Mum’s arm, the city smelt and looked beautiful. I was finally daring to think it had stopped. Hello Citty:)

Try traversing this when you’re just out of hospital.

P.S.

HUGE thanks to my mother, who ended up spending two and a half weeks in a foreign country where she doesn’t speak the language and couldn’t even put on the telly for entertainment. Not to mention dealing with hospital cafeterias that have absolutely nothing gluten free, countless Catalan shrugs of dismissal or looking after an irrepressible Spaniel puppy with diarrhoea.

Special thanks also to my friend Chris for going above and beyond what any friend should have to do.

And of course, my amazing friends and colleagues at work, who gave me such support, help and occassionally, socks. Love you all.

The post Sick in Spain (part two) appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

On the plus side, I’m two stones lighter and have plenty of material for my next blog post:)

Thanks to everyone for their help and good wishes over the last fortnight. I really appreciate it.

Salud!

Julie x

The post Sick in Spain (part one) appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.

It all started so innocently.

Although I’ve wanted a dog my whole life, it never occurred to me that I would get one in Barcelona. Living alone, working full time and living in a rented flat seemed fairly conclusive impediments to the idea. I tried to satisfy myself with hamsters (not always successfully), Java Sparrows (which even reproduced) and budgies (somewhat inexplicably). And for a while it worked. But when I found myself almost walking into a lamp-post one morning, distracted by the sight of someone else’s dog, I thought it might be time to take the idea more seriously.

I had not anticipated the canine cyclone that is a 9-week-old Cocker Spaniel puppy.

Don’t be fooled by the demure expression on her face in the photo above. What you’re seeing are the toys before they were eaten, the couch before it was filthy, and the rug before it got shat on. (Many, many times.)

Want to live like a local? Get a dog.

Apart from the domestic mayhem – I am still grieving for a beautiful, floor-length antique mirror I had specially restored, only for the pup to dispatch it into smithereens a mere three weeks later – the most interesting aspect of having a dog in Barcelona is the insights it gives you into the local character. And wow do Catalans go crazy over puppies. I mean, in a no-holds-barred full-on rugby tackle to the ground sort of way, all the while squealing “¡Qué cosita!” (“Look at the wee thing!”) in a voice so shrill it’s actually painful. And that’s just the men.

Signing autographs.

As you might imagine, children are the most hilarious – and irritating – when it comes to puppy love. It’s not uncommon for us to venture out onto the street only to be ambushed by whole crowds of the little buggers within five minutes. I have to stay on high alert at all times, in an attempt to head them off at the pass.

There we were last night, Inca almost levitating along the pavement in sheer glee at having stumbled upon a leaf (an actual leaf!), me being pulled along unwittingly behind her, when a tribe of five boys shrieked from the periphery “¡Un cocker cachorro!” and proceeded to sprint en masse in our direction. I barely had time to register the incoming danger when poor pupster was picked up and flung over their shoulders, grubby hands grabbing everywhere amid a giddying round of questions that included all the classics – what’s her name, how old is she, is she a girl, what’s her take on existentialism (OK, but at least that would have been original), and my favourite, do you talk to her in Catalan?

Frankly, no, but everyone else does, so it’s probably no surprise she’s a semi-lupine lunatic at only four months old.

Are you trying to tell me something?

Want to find a date? Get a dog.

If I thought I got enough unwanted attention on the streets of Barcelona as a single woman, I had no idea of the effect of partnering up with a young and outrageously cute female sidekick. Inca is a man magnet. I’ve lost count of the male dog walkers who have offered me their number under the pretence of walking the dogs together. (Apparently “do you want to come round and see my puppy?’” is indeed a valid chat-up line. Those government safety adverts actually had a point.)

Mostly it makes me laugh. Like at 7am the other morning, we’re standing at the kerb waiting to cross Parallel Avenue, as a guy in a van drives past, rolls down the window and issues an appreciative wolf whistle in our direction. Accompanied by a shout of “A las dos!” (“To the both of you!”)

Often, the attention is well-meaning and heart-felt. Inca has actually reduced several people to tears. The Uruguayan street sweeper who cuddled her into her bosom and told me she’d had a dog just like her, or the Catalan grandmother who kept saying how beautiful the pup was, before clutching my hand and saying “take good care of her”. The pup is utterly undiscriminating – she goes torrenting towards everyone, in whirly-gig fashion, regardless of whether they’re Catalan, Indian, wearing a veil or riding a skate board.

I’ve even befriended three homeless Russian guys thanks to her over-exuberance. They have the most massive Brazilian mastiff you have ever seen, and sleep semi-naked at the side of a nearby theatre. We’re now on first-name terms, and the dogs adore each other.

Cocker Spanish on the beach.

Walking the walk

Apart from the great company she provides, one of the best aspects of having the dog is being forced to get out and about on walks. Thankfully I live in the skirts of Montjuïc, so we’ve got easy access to the parks, woods – and most importantly, leaves – of the Olympic mountain. Never thought I’d see the day, but there’s something strangely calming about early-morning walks up Montjuïc, just me and a questing canine, wood pigeons wooing in the trees and peace to think. A much-needed hiatus from the heat and hassle of the city.

And even more time to reflect on how long it’s been since my last blog post…

The post Dog days in Barcelona appeared first on Guiri Girl in Barca.