Confessions

First, I have one. In my life traveling and living abroad, I could give a fuck about taking photos. Seeing buildings and monuments and things are an afterthought. Or at least, second to the real reason I travel: to talk to people. I decided a long time ago, as a young UN intern, that policy can only do so much. As a scholar with a fancy grant at a fancy ivy-covered institution amongst career smarties with elbow-patched jackets, i learned that theory had its limits too. But human contact, meeting people, talking to them, sharing something--a dinner, a dance, or just a cool conversation--well, those things worked every time. Not only did contact put me within the highest probability of changing a heart/mind, but I continue to be irrevocably changed, influenced, and moved by the shit I hear on a daily basis. Here's a little taste, from this week alone...

History's Pull

"Actually when I was a child, I thought of myself only as German. Both of my parents are from Uzice, the heart of Serbia, but I was born in Germany. I grew up and went to school in Munich, and I still live there. Every girlfriend I've ever had was German. I hadn't been to Serbia in 8 years before last January. And I would never move back there. But something happened when I was a teenager. I became Serbian. I started speaking the language, and meeting more Serbians in Germany and thinking about it more. And now it's the opposite of when I was a child. I used to be only German. Now, I'm only Serbian." - Cute, 30something on the beach

Race y Los Reyes
"I remember being on the metro with my grandfather and seeing a black man sitting across from me. I was 6 or 7... When I saw him I sat up straight, I didn't move, I didn't talk. Back then there were no black people here, compared to today: you can see all kinds of people everywhere. But back then, the only other black person I'd ever seen was Rey Baltasar, one of the 3 Kings. I thought he was a helper or a friend of the black king, riding the metro and checking to see if the little kids were behaving. I was afraid that if I did anything wrong that he would go back and tell the reyes, and I wouldn't get any gifts. It seems so stupid now, but back then, the 1980's, it was the only reference I had for black people.... Don't tell anyone." - Spanish Woman, 30-something

Dictators Ain't No Joke

"It was terrible. It was terrible. After the [Spanish Civil] War, my mother...she has two sisters. So there were 3 of them. My mother and her younger sister were taken away to one place; her older sister was taken somewhere else. The winners, the fascists, piled women from the village onto a little... cómo es díu áixo? cameon? A truck! And took them out. They were kept for 3 years. No one knows what happened because she didn't say anything... You couldn't say anything in small villages during the dictatorship. The teachers, the administrators, mayors, they were all fascist. If you said anything, the police would show up at your house. So for 70 years my mother never talked about what happened to her. Even AFTER Franco died, she said nothing. I found out about this only 2 months ago." - Student, works at La Bolsa, (the Spanish Stock Market); 50something.

World Style Wednesday: Swedish HasBeens

Blame it on Steig Larsson and his pierced up, potty mouthed hacker of a heroine. Or those Nordic design shops that take up more square feet of commercial real estate than Starbucks round these parts, challenging my credit card reflexes with slick ink pens and coffee table tomes. Perhaps it's the boys: tall, blond, and more interestingly, entrepreneurial. All signs point to a sort of "movido sueco"--culture-wise, Swedes are on the move.

Now, I was on the look out for espadrilles for summer, when I spotted these super cute do's at my fave place to shop in Gracia, the airy Swedish boutique, Snö. Snö was opened 5 years ago by platinum blonde Swede called Camilla. "Our idea was to stock the whole store with brands from Sweden," she says, including Filippa K, Acne, and the makers of the badass shoes in question, Swedish HasBeens. These leather and wooden cork platforms are based on Swedish tradition: the clog. Don't you just love when what goes around comes back around? "We grew up wearing them," Camilla remembers. "It's something that was so normal for us when we were young. Then these Swedish girls decided to reinvent them in a modern style with cool colors. We've tried to order more, because they sell so quickly, but there aren't anymore in stock!" And that's why I'm online now, ordering a pair of the Braided Sky Highs in pink. Camilla & co. gave me a preview of the styles they'll stock at Snö in the fall, including a Doc Martin-inspired platformed boot in in pink, orange, yellow, and lime tones so sugary that when lined up I get a Skittle craving. Equal parts femme and comfortable, handmade with natural grain leather, these pop-referential friends of the environment were spotted on Sarah Jessica Parker as early as Fall 2009. I'm already late to the party. Won't make that mistake again.

Sex On the Beach. Sort of.

We started the day in swimsuit bottoms and sunglasses, watching Serbia vs. Ghana on a flat screen in a Barceloneta chiringuito*. Four frothy iced coffees, a tortilla sandwich, a plate of french fries, and mojitos in the double digits, between us, Hollywood and I. It was all so innocent at first. She got a foot massage from the Thai ladies. I bought a turquoise wrap dress from a Venezuelan vendor, and two rings carved from bone by a brother from Senegal. The Barcelona beach is global capitalist hustle at its very shiny best. And then I don't know what happened. Was the alcohol, the heat, the sugar, or World Cup fever? By 8pm, every guy within a mile radius had taken up residence at our little table. I saw grown men try to slaughter a pigeon, and a drunk Guatemalan singing/hollering "Ale-mania Dee dee dee!!" when Germany slaughtered Australia, 4-nil. Some random Yorkie's (a person from Yorkshire, UK, not a dog) penis made an appearance at around 9, unfortunately, just before sundown. And I was bitten and proposed to by a Serb from Munich, to whom, cute as he was, I had to say no. He did teach me more dirty Serbian, including the phrase, 'Yugo moze dugo", something like, 'Yugoslavs do it longer', and a particularly classy analogy involving female anatomy and airplanes. To think of it, even I blush. The photos are more of an excuse to separate myself from the straight madness, than a chronicle of it. Not to mention, it was an excuse to put my new iphone photog app, Hipstamatic, to use. The sun left. The boys gathered round like it was story time and we were librarians. The alcohol flowed, and then the laughter rang out, until 2am.

*The bars lining the beach are called 'chiringuitos'. Not sure there's an English translation.

Happy Loving Day!!

Check out last year's Loving Day post!

World Music Wednesday: Flamenco Feminista

Flamenco Feminista from ieishah clelland on Vimeo.
Os presento popular Barcelona-born flamenco cantaora*, Mayte Martin, and pint-sized powerhouse of a dancer, Rocío Molina, at the Cuitat Vella Flamenco Festival a fortnight back. At the end of their joint encore, Martin plants a kiss on Rocío's hand. A tiny gesture with a big statement. She possesses none of the feminine flourishes typical of flamenco singers: flowers in the hair, flowing dresses, dancing. Martin writes her own script for what a woman in flamenco should look and act like. Beyond the melodiousness, the subdued passion in her voice, there's her individualist take on a musical form steeped in tradition and rigid gender roles. According to one critic: Her image is closer to that of [male flamenco legends] Camarón and José Mercé than that of a typical woman cantaora. I'll admit, it took me an hour to even notice that Martin was, indeed, a woman... What do you see?
*Singer songwriter

Lost in Translation 23

Three businessmen, working for a big American tech company here in Spain. They are the new highlights of my work week.  Not only do they fall into what seems to be my demographic when it comes to men—European, 30plus 3plus, hetero, breathing—but they are just so much damn fun. Daredevils. Our conversations always revolve around motorcycles and mountain climbing. One had his motorcycle license confiscated after an accident in which he crashed into a Spanish military police vehicle and split his Suzuki in two. And we talk about women. Though two are in steady relationships, the third has player written all over him. He used to date some famous Catalan actress. He calls his BMW bike, his "black girl". And though I try to spread love and instruction equally, he’s my fave. Not cause he’s a player. But cause he’s hilarious.

Me: Ok, let’s make a list of different types of friends…

[Blank stares.]

Me: For instance what do you call a friend you don’t know so well??

Guy 1: An acquaintance or something like this?

Me: Exactly. And a friend you work with?

Guy2: Workmate. Or colleague.

FaveGuy: Or jerk.

Me: I’m sorry?

FaveGuy: Isn’t ‘jerk’ another word for ‘colleague’?

Me: Uhm, could be... depends on what the co-worker is like. What do you mean?

FaveGuy: I mean, ‘jerk’… I thought it meant someone you work with…

[A serious, incurable-by-deep-breaths case of the giggles sets in.]

Me: Did someone call you a jerk? Because that doesn’t mean…

FaveGuy: No, I used it in an interview.

[Now I’ve completely lost it.]

Me: What??

FaveGuy: Well the interviewer, he was from Vancouver, and he asked me how I’d heard about the company. And I said, ‘Oh, from this jerk I used to work with’…. Wait! No! I should say clerk not jerk, right??

Me: Dude, I don’t think you got the job.


And they've invited me to a BBQ this weekend. Down crumbles the wall between student and teacher. 

World Style Wednesday: Prints!

Aunty Lynn is my mother's best friend from high school in Georgetown, Guyana. The refrigerator at her riverside home in Miami is covered with souvenir magnets bought while traveling the world. Name the city. Name the country. Name the continent. She's been there. She allowed me into her closet on Christmas Day 3 years ago, where these print dresses hung. Dresses she made using fabrics collected on her jaunts across Africa. While every glossy worth her print's showing... prints for the summer season, like we never seen a kente before, sitting under headlines like 'Afrika!' and 'tribal!', I'll wrap myself in these, as full frocks, skirts with tanks, and tees, strappy leather sandals, sky high Michael Kors platforms, and shiny gold accessories.