Sabbatical in Spain.: Catalunyallie

Not sure what the blog protocol is for frequency of posts, but when it's Sunday night and your friends are all gone that's justification enough right?

Hi. I still live in Spain. I'm really enjoying my sabbatical. This week is basically vacation.

Wednesday was a wonderful day. This was the day I found out I have to get a Spanish bank account. The registration process at my university makes no sense to me. I sent them a million things and was told I still had to appear in person and then appeared in person and they had everything and I basically just had to re-fill out the same things, but in hand. I got a great university themed folder to really look like I fit in, so that was plus. But paying the university directly appears not to be an option. I somehow have to pay via bank which either means I have to open an account or make a one time payment, both of which require an NIE (foreign identification number). So this means I'll be spending all day Tuesday waiting in line at some glorious admin office reminiscent of the DMV, but in Catalan doing a bunch of admin things for only four months. It's enough to make me consider graduating in 2016 and just staying another year and a half.

But the good thing was all of the university waiting time meant I got to make friends with other lost and confused souls. They call study abroad "Erasmus" here, which I still don't really know what it means or what language it's in. But I now tell people I am that. A lot of the students in my classes are actually erasmus, since fourth grade is when you're heavily encouraged to go abroad (basically it's a requirement for a year of your studies and something the USA should force because of how many kids still live in the bubble). I met a few students from Holland, France, and Cuba. I met a really sweet French girl named Esther and think I spoke to her entirely in Spanish, but remember the conversation as if I was speaking English. So maybe that means I can think in Spanish and just translate it way later?

After that wonderful registering experience, I became a complete tourist and signed up for a Paella Cooking Class. GUYS. Best thing I've ever done. I'm selling all my possessions immediately and buying paella dishes. The only things I will ever cook with again are paella pans, my wok, and my raclette. Heaven is here. The class was with a small angel named Marta who has lived in Barcelona for her forever. She was the sassiest teaspoon of a woman but captivated my everything when she made me paella with extra seafood. And it was SO EASY. Paella is a Sunday dish, so everyone is welcome to my house on January 11 for Sunday Paella.

Thursday was WOW so interesting. La Diada, or National Catalunya Day. I attended my third international protest. In contrast with a rather exciting experience in Santiago, Chile, this manifestation of regional pride was the most well-organized, peaceful, and colorful group of 600,000 (give or take, depending on which government you quote) individuals. La Diada commemorates the fall of Barcelona in 1714. Catalunya holds extreme regionalistic pride, and especially in light of the economy, is currently pushing for independence from Spain. Last year, they made a 400 km long human chain from France to Valencia. This year, two converging streets filled with people in alternating lines of yellow and red formed a giant V, signifying "via" or "way"-- their desire for autonomy, and "voto" or "vote"--their right to hold a referendum in November (WHILE I'M HERE). Guess where the point of the V was? My house. The night before was also filled with free music concerts, street theater, and roaming millions. I went to a Catalan choir concert, and happened by a street play with my roommates about the "machista" culture in Spain. I feel like a sponge.

Friday was Park Day. That meant I marched for at least 2 million miles all over Barcelona exploring their parks. This is another thing America could sorely use. The people here just relax in parks and play classical guitar and accordion and bless your ears just because. One park had a section with a sign that said "Zoo." So I got excited and was going to send Grace a picture of a Spanish Gorilla, but all I could find of the "zoo" was a few metal lizards and a large, concrete elephant. So that was weird. But then this old man came up to me with his cat on a leash and proceeded to bless me in Spanish as if he was from the Old Testament. Like actually. To make the day even better, another stranger ran up to me and profusely begged to take pictures of my feet. If you know me well, you know my feet rank in the top two of Allie's Favorite Body Parts, so FINALLY SOMEONE ELSE RECOGNIZED IT TOO. I expected to see them feetured in the Louvre.

I took a bus on Saturday to a baby beach village an hour north called Tossa Del Mar. It's basically a village of castle slash Roman ruins that plop you into the ocean and I found the secret beach cove without the 48000 tourists.

Today, I went to a Spanish church held in some random warehouse basement. But I think all but four of the attendees kissed my cheeks and introduced themselves. I've never been to a more welcoming and friendly church. The worship band was everything you would picture of Spanish Pop Stars and the pastor was a complete squirrel, but I understood everything. And, I learned, pronouncing Spanish words, and particularly "r" is 11 times easier while singing. My only fear is my dreams for travel may mean I don't get to go to this church regularly, regularly, but Jesus is real and brought me joy there at least once!

So that was long. But PSA: This is for my Grandma and for sixty five year old me if the internet still exists. But if anyone else made it to the end, bless you, you're probably someone I miss a lot, and email me and tell me about you!

LOVE.

Here are some pictures: