another new york lunch

libby and her partner mick organized a fabulous lunch today at el yantar de la ribera, just a block from my flat on gran via. it's a very traditional looking restaurant, with white table cloths and castellano/catalan only maitre d's. the place had the feeling of an old new york steakhouse, frequented by 'really big men in suits'. libby's words.

we ate suckling pig and lamb, cooked in what looked like a brick oven from the outside. on the inside we weren't sure if it was wood or gas. whatever it was, the meat was tender, juicy (i only had the lamb), and minimally seasoned, served with a fresh salad. the trufas de chocolate (chocolate truffles) i ate for dessert were the best i've had in catalunya thus far. at 40 euros per person, it's not the kind of lunch you eat every day, but with the abundance of red wine that ushered me right into a really satisfying siesta, the price was well worth it.

not to mention the conversation. we had the 'why barcelona' conversation. the veterans talked about how barcelona has changed over the years. we talked about books. half of the table told me i should read eat, pray, love. the other half told me not to waste my time. one guest, a food critic talked about how he'd come to spain to travel around and eat. how in the back of his mind, he thought maybe he'd find the love of his life here, and stay. i talked about how i ran to spain to heal from a broken relationship, not thinking about love at all. i didn't say that as time has gone by, i think about love more and more and more.

and of course we talked about politics and palin. and tina fey doing palin, which i hadn't seen, and only another new yorker could have put me onto. this is why i love new york lunches.

el yantar de a ribera
116 calle roger de flor
between gran via and casp

how to change the world

my favorite italian restaurant in the borne district. a conversation with cute blond american 3 year old jake, whose father has moved the family to catalunya for business. jake and i bond immediately. he takes me as a confidante.

jake: that guy keeps taking my money!!

me: which guy?

he's whispering, pointing at the owner. tall dark-skinned italian in jeans, with a helmet of black, slicked back hair and dangerous looks. i think he's kind of hot. jake, not so much. i look from the guy to jake.

me: really?

jake: every time i come to this restaurant with my parents, that guy takes my money!

me: jake, did you eat?

he looks at me quizzically.

me: i think you had pizza. i see it all over your face, there and there and there - -

i'm pointing at the smudges of tomato sauce on his face. he begins to laugh, wiping his cheeks with his sleeves.

me: all that pizza, you have to pay for that, kid! it's his job to take your money!

he considers this. looks at the owner. still doesn't seem to like him.

jake: and his hair! it's a lot of black hair. my hair is not like that.

me: you have a lot of hair, too.

he grabs the blond curtain of hair almost falling into his eyes and tries to slick it back. it falls, strand by strand, back to his forehead.

jake: but mine's yellow.

me: true. it's very blond.

he takes his hands out of his hair. looks at me.

jake: but i like all the colors.

park guëll, perspectives

my brother is here to visit from new york and i'm charged with the task of showing him both barcelona and my barcelona in one week. i've lived here nine months, and i saw antoni gaudi's park guëll for the first time. the serb had visited just days before. 'it's too easy,' he told me, 'for tourists to just *snap* *snap* pictures, not feeling any of the emotion that gaudi felt when he designed it'. catalan architect antoni gaudi's perspective is so colorful, curvy, whimsical, but substantive, actually taking it in is a tall order. from the highest points you can see the entire city. straight to the water. from the caves, to the mosaic benches overlooking the entrance ways, to winding dirt paths punctuated by ethereal sculptures with names like 'the cosmos', it's worth a walk through with limited dependence on your camera to capture the feeling. if you can absorb it, the fullness and the playfulness, the contradiction, it's what living here feels like. really, the last time art left me like this was when i saw kandinsky at the guggenheim in new york city. i left softer, lighter, like some unspoken part of myself had been expressed. a part i didn't even realize had something to say.

the walk uphill to park guëll was a bitch, but we managed to find the energy to walk back into the neighboring hood, gracia. from the main exit/entrance, we followed the signs past the elementary school, the local souvenir shops, and the snapshots of barcelona life, to avenida lesseps. followed the signs right to metro stop lesseps, which is located at the intersection of avenida lesseps and calle verdi. at the last minute i decided not to descend into the metro. we walked calle verdi downhill. about 4 blocks in, we found a gem of a pastry shop/coffee shop/wine bar called a casa portuguesa.



flaky, buttery meat, chicken, or mushroom filled empanadas. rich cakes. quality portuguese wines. cozy, living room atmosphere and a world hip hop soundtrack. bro and i sipped sweet red dessert wine from oporto and sampled chocolate cake with after-work-locals and guiris in the know. true spanish style. i snatched up a bottle of the week's wine special, a portuguese cabernet for 8,50 euro. snapped a few pics. back out into the crisp weather, the smell of fall, and it's finally setting in how lucky i am to be starting a new year here.

pirates, race, and sex

when i think of pirates, i think of johnny depp rocking an a eye patch. a fucked up irish scot accent. i think of the golden age of exploration, when portugal and spain were running shit. i think of treasure chests, treasure maps, and marco polo. maybe it puts me in mind of napster or bootleg dvds. but piracy on the high seas? really 18th/19th century, no?

well, no. piracy on the high seas is not a thing of the past. a group of somali bandits are straight jacking boats off the coast of africa these days. last week, a ship carrying arms left the ukraine headed for kenya. a somalian pirate ship intercepted it only 200 miles off shore. they're holding about a dozen hostages, and the arms, well, somalia's rogue government has long been suspected of harboring al qaeda terrorists. insert elevated terrorist alert code here.

as the boat originated in the former soviet union, and kenya is a staunch u.s. ally, both the yankees and the ruskies have sent fighter boats after the pirates.

wait, seriously? russia and the u.s. on the same side? PIRATES???

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/27/world/africa/27pirates.html?ex=1380254400&en=301d925667be78df&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

almost as old school is the word 'miscegenation'. i'm totally banning this fossil of a term that was used to reference interracial relationships and marriage when the shit was illegal. i've heard this word way too often lately, in comments sections on other blogs and strange-but-popular 'dating outside of the race is treason' youtube clips. the next time you hear someone using that word, act like you didn't hear it. better yet, just play dumb and be like, 'i'm sorry? what does that mean?' it has been legal to fuck outside your race for many years now. we should start using language that reflects that. the word 'sodomy' (with the exception of rape cases) is next on my hit list.
Making Out Is Legal

on immigration

june afternoon. about five young catalan women, dressed casually in jeans and chucks and lugging some serious electronic equipment, stop me on the palm tree-lined roundabout at plaza tetuan, just a block from my apartment:

catalanas: perdona! perdona!

i turn around. look down. smile. they are all very short and earnest.

catalanas: where are you from?

me: i'm american.

catalanas: do you live here?

me: yeah . . .

catalanas: would you mind answering some questions about your life in spain for our documentary?

me: not at all. what's it about?

catalanas: immigration and racism.

me: in spanish?

catalanas: of course! can we put you on camera?

me: okay. but let me see the questions first . . .

a few minutes later, on camera--

catalanas: have you had any trouble finding a job here?

me: no. i teach english. as i'm a native speaker, work was easy to find.

catalans: and your wages? do you get paid less than others?

me: no, we all get paid at the same rate.

catalanas: well, do you think spain is racist?

me: yes.

smiles spring to their faces. each one nods her head, having finally gotten an answer she approves of.

catalanas: you've experienced a lot of racism?

me: yes and no. it's a bit different in my case. when people first see me, they probably already have their preconceived notions about black people. but once they learn that i am american, it changes everything. i can see they are more relaxed. more open. i realize that if i were from, maybe, the cameroons, i would find life here a lot more difficult.

********

since the warehouse reggae party (see post barcelona ragga nights) run by angolans, i've been thinking more about spain's african immigrant population. it was the largest group of black people i've seen since arriving in spain, who were not selling illegal goods from carpets in tourist districts or prostituting themselves.

spain, according to a former student, is the 'gateway' to europe. this country receives more west african job seekers than any other eu country. in 2006 alone, 31,000 africans flooded into las canarias illegally. and getting an accurate count is like trying to catch the breeze as it slips through your fingers. i totally lifted that last analogy from stevie wonder (who's playing his first italian gig ever in milan next month) but never mind.

at my language academy, there is one other black woman originally from equatorial guinea. her family emigrated in the early 1980's. she speaks catalan (along with at least 2 other languages), is brilliant, and generally regarded as spanish. but there are not many africans fully integrated into spanish life, at least in catalonia, like her.

europe is not like america, a land made of immigrants. for most of europe, homogeneity is sovereignty itself. a barack obama would never be possible here.

integrated life is not even a distant dream for people for whom going home doesn't mean a successful family business, shakespeare in the park, and sunday brunches at booby's. as a matter of course, they become scapegoats for right wing xenophobic images of migrants as bringing increased crime, decreased security, disease, and drains on the economy.

and with one foot on a banana peel and the other in a full blown recession, spain's taken to paying jobless legal immigrants to return to their countries.

what, then, of the jobless, undocumented immigrants?

read about it here:
http://www.breakingnews.ie/world/mhqlidmhojcw/rss2/

lost in translation 9

my friend kelly looks like that british 60's model, twiggy. same haircut in a bright blonde hue. huge blue eyes. i'm me. see profile. we're walking to that big ass, super-sized party in the forum, mentioned in the post, primal scream. from behind us we hear--

a mi me gustan las mulattas!
(i like mulattas*!!)

the voice comes closer. it belongs to a brown-haired spaniard in a dark blue button down. he's walking next to us now, and has his mobile phone to his ear, but looking right at us over his left shoulder. talking louder and with conviction.

me encantan las mulattas! me encantan!!
(they enchant me, mulatta girls, they enchant me)

kelly and i ignore him until he loses patience and walks on ahead of us. when he's out of earshot--

me: um, is one of us supposed to be the mulatta here?

kelly: i was just about to ask you the same thing. but i can't imagine who.

*mulatta, for me, means biracial (one parent black, the other white). don't know what definition random guy was working with.

lost in translation 8

me: so, where are you from?

really tall guy: what do you think?

[he strikes a pose. waits]

amelie: italia!!!

me: uh, uh. eastern european. east block.

really tall guy: you're close. we are the bad guys on bbc and cnn.

me: what, you're like, iraqi or afghan or something? middle eastern? you from lebanon or pakistan or . . .

really tall guy: NO!

me: obviously not north korea. georgia? south ossetia? russia!!

really tall guy: serbia.

me and amelie: aaaaaaaaah, okaaaaaay . . .

me: but, bad guys on cnn? that was like, 10 years ago.

primal scream

last weekend an englishman in a band called freefall collective told me a story of performing on a street stage in the south of spain with the mountains looming in the background. this weekend was 'la mercé', a festival in celebration of mare de deu de la mercé, the patron saint of barcelona. i think i have never seen a country so in love with street parties like spain. last night, with two standard issue residential buildings and the antigua fabrica (old factory) as background i saw quintessential brit rock band primal scream perform, along with thousands of other catalonians sporting mullets and cheek piercings. 'baaa-rcelonaa! yeeww. ahr. one. sick. fuckin'. cit-t-yyyyyy!!!' the show was glorious, the harder they rocked. i particularly appreciated 'movin on up', which turns the aspirational theme from the jeffersons into a fuck-off-i'm-better-off-without-you break up song. from the street to the forum, the convention center where i saw deepak chopra speak in july. somehow they'd dismantled the floors and knocked out the walls, leaving only a cavern of ceilings and columns. dj's gaiser and richard hawtins played minimal to hard techno to about 1 million zombies. sweating. glazed eyes. eyes with lids-at-half-mast. perceptions of personal space, dissolved. balance? shot. which is the only way you can truly enjoy this soulless music. which is really funny (as in, a total waste of paper), given the fact that these

were distributed by really attractive youngsters at the entrances of all surrounding metro stations. 'discover the truth about drugs!,' their blue tees read. 'say no to drugs, say yes to life!,' the pamphlets read. about an hour into the set, three sweaty catalan boys pushed through the crowd to stand right in front of me. the sweatiest unfolded a little white paper, shifted its powdery contents, calibrating. another pulled a little silver instrument out of his pocket. one-by-one, they sniffed.

lost in translation 7

a large group of tall, strong, ultra-masculine blond males walk past the restaurant on the beach where i'm chowing on some really good pad thai. amelie is drinking cola light and telling me about a particularly acrimonious break up in paris. when she moved out, she decided she didn't want any other bitches sleeping on the mattress she bought with her hard earned francs. so she peed on it.

love that girl.

we notice the boistrous group has turned back and entered the restaurant. they take over three whole nearby tables, and commence to merrymaking. after a few minutes, amelie and i engage in some speculative whispering.

me: at first i thought they were flems but . . .
amelie: don't know. they look dutch.
me: no, i can hear flemish a mile away. besides, same language, different accent.
amelie: maybe more northern?
me: like scandinavian? i don't really know what those languages sound like. no, definitely not flems. maybe norwegian?

the lads are drinking more beer, getting louder, more aggressive. we're quiet, eavesdropping, trying to figure them out, when the short stocky one with rolled up sleeves, i swear, totally says-

' . . . . le muk-luk luk luk!!'

and they all break up laughing.

amelie: i think i see a v-ee-king* ship on the coast.

*viking. she's french.

could you be with a david bowie?

i was sitting with my own [former] argentine in my favorite café many months ago, watching youtube clips of argentine soccer god, maradona on my laptop. this was his idea of a date. we came upon some anti-maradona videos that claimed he was gay, or at least bisexual, and pictured him kissing colin farrell and some other unnamed men. the argentine said something like, 'maradona's not gay. i'm sure he's tried different things, but he isn't gay'.

he asked if i had experimented with women, but i was afraid to ask if he had experimented with men. didn't want to know. because i knew it would change the way that i thought of him. in some strange double standard that should make any progressive ashamed, i knew my having experimented with women would never make him question my preferences, in the way that his same sex experimentation would make me question his.

recently, a lover confessed that he had been with a man before. a man who is in fact, one of his best friends. i am no shrinking violet when it comes to sex, so his confession did not effect our immediate situation.

it did, however, effect how i saw him as a long term partner.

we continued a torrid sexual affair for a few weeks longer. i loved that he was honest, and that he trusted me with some very personal information. information that others in his circle weren't even privy to. at the same time, his trust precluded any thoughts of a lasting relationship, cause i'd always be wondering if he wasn't in fact, more gay than not.

david bowie became the face of sexual freedom in the '70's, carrying on public relationships with both sexes. legend has it that he and his ex-wife met while they were dating the same man. when she became the ex, she took revenge by telling the world that bowie and mick jagger had had a sexual affair.

bowie has since said that he regretted publicly admitting to being bisexual, because americans were less accepting of sexual ambiguity than europeans. he surmised that his confession kept him from the kind of stateside success he'd intended.

still, we all know that the rules are different for rock and roll, for celebrity life. and that at that level of society, eccentricity and experimentation are permitted, if not expected.

and we all know that sexual orientation, like race and gender, are socially constructed. that there are no heterosexual or homosexual people, just heterosexual and homosexual acts. i know the theory.

but could i be with a david bowie? he and iman seem to be happy, committed, with kids and all. but the disconnect between theory and lived experience still exists for me when it comes to masculinity and sexual orientation.

and in the end, i decided, for more reasons than the bowie thing, to completely end our relationship. yesterday.

ché, el argentino

as i watched benicio del toro wheeze through his portrayal of ernesto guevara in steven soderbergh's ché, el argentino all i could think was, when were asthma inhalers invented?

benicio del toro's ché is stoic and inscrutable, with none of the earnestness or naiveté of gabriel garcia bernal's young motorcycle diaries ché. he's also very vulnerable, struggling to breathe through the 3+ years of the cuban revolution, and 2+ hours worth of film.

mostly, soderbergh's ché is a principled, capable, effortless guerilla, handling canons with ease, gaining the trust and loyalty of the cubans from all walks without persuasion, and when he's not wheezing, he's catching up on his tolstoy and jose martí during lulls in the march toward the decisive battle at santa clara.

far from the blood-thirsty totalitarian of today's critics, but we do get a glimpse of just the bare bones of what would become the cuban death-by-firing squads, as ché orders the execution of any soldier who harms the farmers or their families (agrarian reform was to be the backbone of the new cuba).

we get a glimpse of homophobia, as ché calls deserters, 'faggots'.

the film opens with a post-cuban revolution ché in new york, giving an interview to abc news magazine host, lisa howard. in real life, howard was unwavering in her support of cuba. howard's daughter has been quoted as saying she was in love with fidel castro. though, later, as she tracks the argentine in a room of american politicians with seductive eyes and a half smile, howard-on-screen looks more like she's in love with ché.

this fictional shift in the cuban revolution's romantic lead casts ché as the heart of the revolution. in a subsequent interview, howard asks ché, what's the most important quality for a revolutionary to have? 'love', ché answers. 'love of humanity, love of justice, love of truth. i don't know any authentic revolutionaries without this quality.'

perhaps ché's more like the broken heart of the revolution, as soderbergh renders all scenes post-1959 in black and white, alternating between a dreary, distanced, hostile post-revolution new york, and the lush, colorful, fertile, albeit bloody fields of cuba during the revolution.

del toro's ché exhibits a rare show of emotion on the u.n. floor, as he takes suited delegates from nicaragua, panama and venezuela to task for sacrificing the growth and sovereignty of their nations to american imperialism. patria o muerte, he roars.

in one frame ché's stalking off the u.n. floor. the next, he's in mexico in 1955. the night he and castro first meet. as they sit out on a balcony smoking cigars and planning the revolution (which begins as casually as, 'you got a boat?'), ché agrees to help castro liberate cuba under one condition.

'when we bring freedom to cuba', he says, 'we take the revolution to the rest of the americas'.

as we know, not only does this (fictional?) promise remain unfulfilled, but castro (not to mention his fellow latino leaders) proved largely uninterested.

now, that's some shit i'll never understand. i, for one, was completely seduced by the last line in the motorcycle diaries, when a young ché talks about 'una america unida'. i fell harder for that vision of a borderless transnational political agenda than i did for my first love. let that pathos dictate the very way i live.

at least cinematically, soderbergh's message seems to be that the revolution and its objectives were clear. the aftermath, however, left cuba drained of its ideals; without its color like an old movie; asphyxiated like a man without oxygen. soderbergh doesn't even bother to show cuba in 1964.

and so, back to my question. when were inhalers invented? in 1956 at the birth of the cuban revolution. by some swedish doctor by the name of riker. i hear there's a part two. one can only hope that by then i'll have figured out what i really think. is bloody revolution the only way to bring about real change? was it the only thing that could have been done in cuba's case? do i think the cuban revolution was a success? was ché a hero?

i loved this film. i especially adored hearing del toro in spanish. but it didn't help me answer any of these questions.

barcelona ragga nights

when a little blonde girl from bournemouth (southern england) tells you she knows the best 'ray-gay pah-tee', yes, you're allowed to be a bit skeptical. you're allowed to keep your expectations low. so as my friend kelly, her friend james, and i walked back and forth on avenida la pau for about 20 minutes, unable to find the warehouse in which there'd be 'bands, singers, and sometimes a dj playing reeeaally good ray-gay', i wasn't annoyed. i chatted happily with james about his dub band, and the european tour he just finished, as kelly phoned some angolan called caconda to ask for directions. the spanglish communication between kelly and caconda wasn't working, so he came to the metro stop to get us. 4 blocks, multiple twists and turns, and much urban foliage later, we turned into a bustling lot of warehouses. a door opened and another very tall angola rasta greeted caconda with a dap and something in portuguese. when we all tried to breeze past him, the rasta, stopped caconda to ask why we weren't paying. caconda, whom i'd met 5 minutes before, told them i was his sister, and that the blondes were my university friends.

we finally get inside. weed smoke, twinkling lights, a grainy, but powerful sound system, lots of people, all kinds of people, dancing. to the left is a bar that seems to sell only beer and coke. all over the walls are jamaican flags, rastafarian-inspired graffiti, and concert posters of all the reggae legends who have played in barcelona over the years, from toots and the maytals to buju banton. in front is a stage, with a rainbow coalition of a band playing songs with titles like, 'this is not the babylon song'. (of course, it was totally the babylon song.) one of the back-up singers belted just a bit more loudly than she needed to, and sometimes limited english made for simplistic and repetitive lyrics, but the musicianship was skillful and creative. they even featured a man on a dirigidoo. when's the last time you heard a dirigidoo lace a reggae track? and the glorious dj's . . . because they do not understand the english patois in which reggae music is sung, the boundaries between conscious 'roots' music and dutty dancehall tunes did not exist. so they played everything. from morgan heritage to sean paul. from black uhuru to elephant man. i danced all night. i was whinin' like my ass could bring down babylon. til 8 o'clock this morning.


behold the new school dirigidoo . . .

bob would be proud.

i think i saw someone jack the buju banton poster at some point during the night.

replace the yellow stripes with white ones and what do you get? the cuban flag. this is the first catalan national flag, created in 1904 by catalan nationalists who were inspired by cuba's 1902 independence from spain.

when race met sex, part 1

sitges, a predominantly gay beach town south of barcelona. a conversation with my friend, derrick, black and gay.

derrick: did you see that? the whole table of men turned around to look at me. that makes me feel pretty.

me: what? you're not used to being adored?

derrick: no. in california that shit ain't happenin'.

me: why not? you're beautiful.

derrick: wrong color.


one hour later, lying on the beach, talking about boys.

derrick: no, i don't like to be fetishized.

me: what do you mean exactly? 'cause i don't mind being objectified every once in a while.

derrick: you know, like if someone keeps saying, 'i love your skin color' or 'your skin is so beautiful' . . . i don't like that.


one week later, at lunch with 2 african american women new to barcelona. they want the inside scoop on the city. especially the men.

sister 1: well, what about the italian men? they seem to really like black women. everyone seems to really like black women here.

me: i know. isn't it fun?

sister 2: well, isn't it fetishization?

me: how do you experience it? you probably have all kinds of strange men yelling guapa at you, do you feel disrespected in any way?

sister 2: no [she hesitates] . . . actually, the attention feels good. i never get this much attention in new york. men never call me 'beautiful' or approach me in the streets. i wanna move here . . .

dependence day?

can you still call the day you failed to become independent 'independence day'?

today marks 'la diada', september 11th 1714, when catalan forces surrendered to the spanish crown. so while the rest of the country worked, we here in barcelona observed this important? great? tragic? day from the beach. we played volleyball, drank claras (a mix of beer and fanta), and tanned. you'd never guess from today's party and bullshit atmosphere that there actually IS a big independence movement in catalonia. with their own language, customs, media, flag, and industry, the catalans remain quite alienated from the rest of spain. every year the generalitat (catalan government) negotiates for a bit more self determination, mostly when it comes to money and taxes. but somehow on this day, the 'revolution' has been confined to the trendy born district, where i just left a lone piano man in a white suit singing protest songs to a crowd of dozens. where guiris (foreigners) and catalans alike carry right on sipping wine and beer on surrounding terraces. the only signs of unrest were on the walls.

'fight fascism!' huh??

because separatist movements are a family affair, we have the very youth-friendly, 'light the flame of revolution!'

graffitied onto the door of the catalan national bank, caixa catalunya, 'socialist independence for the catalan nation!'

the creepy, 'torch the crown' stencil

and the creepiest, 'destroy spain' . . .


the outer walls of the church of santa maría del mar were the only upright surfaces safe from separatist scribbles.

roots

this is the memorial for the great hurricane of 1928 that uprooted all of belle glade, florida. it's the hurricane immortalized in the final pages of zora neale hurston's their eyes were watching god. in 1999, i went in search of the site and found this relief, along with a plaque dedicated to the lives lost in that hurricane. many people i speak to here don't know that hurricanes are written into the ecological script of life in the americas. whether or not global warming has made them stronger or more frequent. for me, the footage of hurricane katrina always evokes the eerie, tales from the crypt-feeling of actual carved stone come to life. already this hurricane season has seen hundreds either dead or displaced in haiti, the city of new orleans evacuated, billions of dollars of damage done in cuba, and texas, 'bracing'. i see the presidential campaign begin to parallel the hurricane season. the disproportionate numbers of black people displaced and dispossessed by rita, hannah, gustav and friends. black candidates accused of being un-american; white candidates anointed as every american. both phenomena, natural and political, largely unsupportive of black life in the americas. is it possible to put down roots in land that literally, cyclically, and relentlessly, threatens to uproot and wash you away? who among us really belongs?

vamos rafa!!!

he won the french open. wimbledon. became the numero uno. then sank his teeth into the olympic gold. channel-surfing after beijing, i watched spanish journalist after spanish journalist all but lick this man's balls on camera with such superlatives as 'the best athlete of the century' and 'el mas grande!'. this has been the year of rafael nadal.

i watched him give interview after interview. the picture of masculinity, dark and handsome, pretty but rugged, grace under pressure, young and virile. a beast. a gentleman. a vision of spanish perfection. except, not.

rafa hails from the island of mallorca, the biggest of the autonomous community of the balearic islands, which includes party central, ibiza. their official language is the catalan dialect of mallorquí. he began playing tennis at 3 and competing in tournaments at the age of 8. he's on multiple 'youngest-male-player-to-ever' lists. a virtual prodigy, trained by his uncle, tony nadal, rafa is righthanded. on some béla károyli/richard williams strategy shit, tony trained rafa as a left-hander, so that his two-handed backhanders would be twice as strong. rafa is 6'1, for christ sakes. not so 'typically' spanish.

and this, i thought, may be what's behind all the ball-licking.

see, in europe there is a pecking order. the more northern countries, like switzerland, germany, and the scandinavian countries that own the ill-fated spanair, are considered efficient, hardworking, industrious, and entrepreneurial. more efficient, hardworking, industrious and entrepreneurial than, say, spain, italy, greece. i'm sure completely coincidentally, the countries closer to africa.

los catalanes, with their economic prosperity and shared border with france, pride themselves on having more in common with northern europeans, than with the rest of their countrymen. even spain considers itself economically and culturally near the bottom of the great union's food chain.

and in a year when the national basketball team's racist olympic antics inspired countless 'spain is so backward' comments, rafa, bright and clean in that he speaks so well kind of way, is, like, spain's great white hope.

over at spanishfootballsports.blogspot.com, i met striker, a former professional soccer player-cum-sports media strategist and super sports blogger. he echoed my thoughts:

"[rafa] is the epitome of what this country aspires to be in the modern world: humble yet proud, persistent, international prestige, hard working, cosmopolitan, a tough and calculating mentality and a great champion. these qualities are not common to the majority of spaniards . . . and rafa is leading the generational change."

i'm sure the fact that he spent his entire summer smashing the shit out of roger federer, born and raised swiss, didn't hurt either.

i write this now, in the wake of his first major loss in while, in the hopes that spain will do something quite rare in the world of modern cosmopolites: embrace their hero when he's down.

photo from yahoo!sports

the trouble with italian men, part 2

i know things. seriously. i know a lot of things before i see evidence of them.

like the time i told the genovese that he was going to die.

2006. he was an italian from genova, so we'll call him the genovese. he had been living in new york for 10 years on a work visa as a freelance commercial photographer. he was amazingly talented, actually. worked on ad campaigns for vespa and coach. ironically, he did a book for the MOMA on still-life's.

one sunday morning over omlettes and mimosas at a lower east side brunch spot, i told him, apply for health insurance immediately. because when you snore, you sound like you're going to die. just like that. he leisurely went about applying for health insurance, and four months later a doctor informed him that he had a deviated septum with a tumor growing in it. all the way up to and around his brain.

when the insurance company hesitated, for 3 months, to authorize both his surgery and the MRI that would precede it, i told him to call on friday, ask to speak to a manager or someone in charge of authorization and he'd be approved. that was on tuesday.

on friday night he called to tell me we had free tickets to see liev schrieber in the broadway play, talk radio. by the way, i did what you said. i spoke to the lady in charge of authorization. she'd had my form on her desk. she authorized me over the phone.

his diagnosis put so many things into perspective.

in a conversation about kids, he'd bring up overpopulation. on a ride through the mountains on his motorcycle, i'd remark on how close the stars seemed. he'd recite his theory that a meteor would bring armageddon. and the year that i helped organize a fundraiser for a program that gives at-risk new york city teens summer work as muralists, he insisted volunteerism? art as protest? bullshit! none of it changes anything! we're all fucked.

i spent a year being the light to his darkness. this is how the tuscan described me last week. the light to his darkness.

tuscan: how can americans stand by when their government is so corrupt? why is there no movement?
me: be specific now. because there are a lot of great people doing a lot of great things. just not in the march on washington-big idea-60's model. what would you suggest we do? stage a coup?

during my trek up the costa brava last weekend with my crazy beautiful french friend, amelie, i started getting flashbacks of life with the genovese, pre-tumor diagnosis. when we'd take random motorcycle trips up into the catskills or into amish country. when he taught me how to freeze a moment from a moving vehicle.

the surgery had been super-successful in '06. he's alive and kicking. so i sent him an email last sunday, saying i hoped he was well, physically and mentally. saying i hoped he found whatever it was he was missing. he responded, i'm doing some volunteer work with the obama campaign, so i'm going to florida next month for that. is this real change? i don't know . . . but it feels like it.

classroom caucasus

last week i began taking an intensive spanish course at the academy in which i teach english. i've been stuck just shy of proficiency in spanish for as long as i can remember. the classes are free for me, so i decided, adelante! ahora o nunca!

every day, four hours a day. two hours of interactive grammar and two hours of conversation. let me tell you: i freaking love it. i'm kind of a nerd, so asking my teacher endless questions about finished and unfinished time as it relates to the preterito perfecto y preterito indefinido totally turns me on. seriously. just conjugating an irregular verb makes my inner thighs tingle a bit.

and my classmates? oh, they excite me more than any of my sexual partners in spain, to date. except for the catalan. but that is a whole other story.

the two brazilians are exactly as they should be. cute, young, and fun-loving. i hear samba rhythms every time they open their mouths. this is because given the proximity of the spanish language to portuguese, they are often speaking portuguese. there are two japanese girls who are very difficult to understand, but they dress their asses off. i respect that.

then there's my favorite. libby. 50-something new yorker, living here with her english tour guide boyfriend of 2 years. used to work for the george soros foundation. she registers americans (me included) to vote absentee. she knows all the best places to eat and buy food in barcelona. she speaks burmese. she quotes lil wayne. i love her. i love her like i used to love my anthropology professors. i told her she reminds me of margaret mead. i don't think she hated the comparison.

on the first class she said, i don't like obama, but i'll vote for him. i thought, cool! a real life clintonista.

libby: i just think it's disgusting how he exploits his children. they're always on camera! sarah palin's not exposing her kids to the media. george bush didn't do it . .

me: that's because w's kids are nothing to be proud of. they're not cute. they're not smart. they're like spring break girls gone wild keg-loving sorority bimbos. he didn't flaunt them because they're not a credit to him. if palin's not parading her kids in front of the media it's probably because she's ashamed of them . . .

that was monday. tuesday, the news reached us that the one named for a horse was knocked up. we're discussing this very thing, when in walks a new student. she's very young. about 18. plump, brunette, braces, really rosy red cheeks. a bit awkward.

libby: what's your name?
girl: maria . .

introductions are made.

me: where are you from?
girl: hey-or-h-ee-a . . .

she's using the spanish pronunciation. we're all confused, so she switches to english for clarity's sake--

girl: georgia . . .

she spoke a precise but vaguely accented european english. neither british nor american.

me: wait, georgia?

as in georgia, the country being 'bullied' by russia for its own bullying of south ossetia? indeed, maria lives in the georgian capital of tbilisi with her father. she's here to visit her mother who lives in barcelona, with, from the looks of maria's bling, her new rich hubby.

i've always considered myself lucky, but this!??! too good!! i didn't care if she was like, 5. i was totally ready to grill her ass. i swear i could feel my incisors elongate a bit.

so what'd i learn?

georgians speak very good english. luckily. because though written georgian is artful, spoken georgian is impenetrable. according to maria, georgians are also very conservative and any woman whose outfit so much as hints at cleavage, is considered a whore.

i learned that maria wants to be a jazz singer, and next year she will enter the 'georgian idol' competition. perhaps if georgia makes it into nato by '09, georgian idol will be available to the rest of the west via satellite, and we'll all bear witness to her moment like this.

and i learned that georgians love mobile phones. or at least maria does. because when she wasn't talking about herself, she was sending text messages to tbilisi on a mobile with an audible keypad. furthermore, georgians are way up on the DIY-ethic that is the future of music-making, as maria has recorded her demo on said mobile, and plays her take on american standards like 'l-o-v-e' for anyone who will listen. even during class. the brazilians pretend to be interested. but libby and i are real new yawk bitches. we pretend we don't hear it.

instead we turn our attention to our communication activity, which requires us to compare spain to our home country. in spanish - - -

me: ok. so what bothers you about spain?
libby: her.

i fucking love libby. and libby should love maria. remember, libby used to work for george soros.

soros, the holocaust survivor whose mastery of economic theory ultimately made him the 97th richest man in the world; financier of independence movements from behind the iron curtain to the shanty towns of south africa.

among soros' biggest failures was when he tried to buy u.s. independence from conservative rule in '04 with obscene donations to democratic/liberal organizations like moveon.org.

and among soros' greatest successes was the effeminately named (and delicately scented) 'rose revolution' that brought mikheil saakashvili to power. you know, saakashvili the president of georgia, the country being 'bullied' by russia for its own bullying of south ossetia.

the country that gave birth to the likes of maria.

it's not only americans who should be ashamed of their kids.

in the end, shorty was totally in the wrong class and was promptly shipped back to the intermediate level.

i'm not sure if we can say the same for cheney, who's been in europe for the global economic forum in italy, and taken time out from hawking for haliburton to publicly advise russia that 'the cold war's over!'.

wtf? dude, i said that last week.

life is like a little bowl of padrones

originally, i was only supposed to stay in spain for a year. the plan was to throw myself into life here and let the future unfold naturally.

last week i woke up angry. it's been 7 months. and although so much has happened, i still have no post-spain plan. not even an inkling.

frustrated and in a funk, i went to an end of course dinner with the students from my august intensives. they were all shiny and excited to connect outside of the classroom. i had no choice but to lighten up as they subjected me to the friendliest of spanish inquisitions about my life here. i answered in the most unselfconscious spanish. they corrected it with glee.

they recalled the lesson where we sat in a circle and gave each other advice using modal verbs of suggestion and obligation, (like should, must, ought to). they couldn't believe how it had damn near turned into a therapy session; half of us moved to tears by the sincerity with which everyone shared real problems and responded with concern.

laura, the slowest in the group when it comes to the english language, was easily the most interesting in life. she told incredible stories about her travels throughout cuba; outlined her itinerary for the 7 month tour of southeast asia she'll embark on in november. she had saved for this [solo] trip for 2 years. it was my turn to ask the questions. how does a journey like that change a person?

the blue-eyed catalan in the group held the menu like a hymnal, asking about the dishes i'd already tried and making suggestions about what i should try next. in the end, he took the matter into his own hands, and ordered for me.

then these came to the table.

padrones!! grilled with olive oil and a light smattering of salt, padrones are eaten in one bite. most are sweet, juicy and clean in the way of all green vegetables. each one, one bite at a time until you get a hot one. then you stop. you probably say something like, que pica!!

just the thought of the ritual, and i lit up like the aghbar tower at nightfall. as i closed my teeth around the first padron and laid it against my tongue, i couldn't remember being happier.

it was like a sign. a tasty little green sign that spain is doing its job. changing, expanding, and teaching me in probably dozens more little ways. all of them together like barely perceptible tremors shifting the ground beneath my feet.

i bit into a another. i had no idea if this would be sweet, or if it would be the one to burn a whole in my ass.

and i decided that i liked it like that.