2 Hours to See the Doctor

So, we get to our appointment and waited 2 hours. After 3 minutes our doctor says there's nothing to worry about and Jett's just sensitive. Ah. Ok then. We're both feeling a tad frustrated right now.

Protests in Humble Granollers!

How cute! Slogans like 'this is not crisis this is capitalism', 'we are not anti-system, the system is anti-us'and a display of a manifesto for real democracy now.

Bikini Season Farewells

I guess it's no surprise to you, but I like to eat pastries. You can see cheese cake above. I finally had to admit to myself that the 2 or 3 stops at the bakery a week was more like 5 or 6 and I truly couldn't fit into my old white pants all of last year- so, hence the running and the liver cleanse diet. I'm down to 53 kilos and still have 2 to lose before I'm at my optimal weight. It's going well. But its also time to say goodbye to my sweets. Though I'm sure we'll meet again, just not so frequently.

Rain for My First Half Marathon

We're on our way to the race. Its pouring! Once we start it won't be a problem. It's just the getting wet part that's the problem. Wish us luck!

Yep. I said it was Boring.

This man fell asleep!

The Leaking Ceiling: The Saga part IV (?)

So this morning I was suppose to meet the insurance man so he could take a look at the ceiling. I totally forgot and slept in. Luckily I had my Japanese dressing gown handy so I could rush down the hall, all of my hair fluffy in all directions and answer the sounding door bell. 'Sorry dude,' I said, covering my awkwardness with extra brashness, 'I don't understand you. You'll have to speak English.' 'Good morning. I'm here to see the roof.' Oh. Well then. I swished around and opened the door to Albert's bathroom. He looked at it for a moment, wrote something on his folder, called Albert, made some measurements and left. We'll see what happens in the next episode of the Leaking Ceiling.


This all started on December the 10th. 

Protocol for Casual Meetings in Catalan

There isn't any.

What typically happens in my experience, is that we will be approached in the street by someone I don't know, and that someone will barely look at me, and will talk to my Catalan partner. Then, after 2 -10 minutes of pretending I don't exist, the person leaves, and may or may not throw a glance my way as a 'goodbye'.

The first time this happened, I took it personally. Now I see its just a cultural atrocity, I mean, difference.

In English speaking countries, and I'm going to generalize (forgive me), if I was the person greeted, then it would be my duty to introduce my friend/parter to the other person. Especially after the 2/3 minute mark of conversation. I would feel uncomfortable for my friend, standing silently beside me, not knowing who the other person was.

In Norway, you throw your hand out and say your name. Its that simple. And they are not even that friendly.

I am going to study the situation in more detail and discover a way that is a positive solution to both parties. That is, one that will not offend the reticent Catalan, and will not provoke rudeness in myself.

Photo: Montserrat, the meeting of the elephant and the sphinx, Tiffany Jones

The Shame of Santiago de Compostela

 After 22 days of walking, we arrived on Pentecost, May 23rd, at 2.46 pm at the front of the Cathedral where it is said the Tomb of St James the Greater is kept.

We’d started off from Logroño, in the Rioja area of Spain, well known for its wines and festive spirit. We’d suffered 12 days of cloudy, rainy and unfriendly weather. Even suffered under a hail storm in the beginning of May. We’d put up with sore feet, sore shoulders, snoring people of all ages (don’t be fooled into thinking snorers are just old men), and finally arrived to the resting place of Saint James.

When we first arrived into the city, we noticed a stench rising up from the streets. Other pilgrims told us that the garbage collectors had gone on strike and the city stank.  There were piles of rubbish on every second corner and sudden shifts of rotting smells.

The pilgrim’s hostels were double the price of anywhere else we had been to, and the souvenir shops were abundant. Suddenly from dedicated pilgrim, we’d turned into dirty and unkempt tourists who were gently laughed at by the ‘clean’ and ‘fashionable’.

It was uncommonly hot for May. The square was littered with tourists and day trippers, and the only shade to be found, to rest under, was on the opposite side of the square. It was polluted with empty water bottles. We sat there, the wind taken out of our sails, and I gently tended my blisters.

We watched the constant arrival of pilgrims and then their confusion and dispersion.  What was there to do, but follow the next sign to the pilgrim’s office? Receive your Compostela with your name in Latin, and head to the nearest bar?

It came upon me, again, that the arrival meant nothing. I wasn’t convinced that St James was buried in the church, and I certainly didn’t walk about 600 kilometers to see a cathedral. It was the journey that counted, as we are so often told. The destination seems trivial in these moments.

We decided to immediately leave for Fisterra, and shake the dust from our feet. But we returned again in 24 hours, and finally received our piece of paper to prove we’d walked the last 100 kilometers of the Camino, and we entered into the cathedral.

As I said, I have no idea if its true that St James is laid to rest here, but I do know, that when we walked into the cathedral, it came upon me we were indeed on sacred ground. The earth shook beneath my feet, and the spirit rose strong in the body.  I couldn’t see details, only shapes.

And after a moment, I became aware of the buzz of the people. The talking, the noise, the photos, the curiosity – people pushing past me to get a better look, the swish of hair, the click click of cameras, the absolute irreverence. And it was ok.

But what was not ok, in that moment, was the hypocrisy of the Church leaders allowing such nonsense in the ‘House of God’, in the sacred space, where they are suppose to be guiding their flock with love and kindness.

 

Do you know what the tourists come to see? A huge ‘urn’(botafumeiro) filled with burning incense, that is swung from side to side. Do you know what that was for? Because when the pilgrims of old came to the church, they were so filthy, so dirty, and they smelt so much, that they used the incense to overpower the smell of the dirty pilgrims. And today, tourists come in with their cameras (Albert and I included) and take photos of our Holy men trying to take the stench away from the pilgrims. Ohh, click click click, look how stinky we are… click click click – it was madness.

Holy, sacred, reverent – these are lost words. Words dug under the hypocrisy, lies and abasement of the Church through all the years that their people believed. Now the people take photos of their stink and marvel at their rottenness.

But the whole city stank.  It was not just the pilgrims.

My friend said to me ‘but what do you expect?’ And he’s right. With a history like ours, of constant lies and corruption of power, what is there to expect?

But you know what – ‘Like dust, I rise.’

(This is a personal account of my experience of Santiago, and in no way represents what all pilgrims feel/felt. I met several people who arrived early in the morning, after sleeping at the Mount of Joy, and they greeted their fellow pilgrims, and enjoyed the pilgrims mass.  Some said it was the perfect ending to their pilgrimage, and I’m gladdened to hear it. )

Post script 

I wrote this yesterday. On re-reading it, I can see how the reader might think I am over reacting. That, yes, that's life. Who really expects Churches/Cathedrals to be holy places anyway, right? 

But remember, apart from the preparation time, all of the signs, all of the talk, all of the direction is towards 'Santiago' - to Saint James. Its a constant movement forward to 'something', that as it approaches through our daily trudging, and small problems, and blisters, as a moment in time, that is going to be 'special' in some unfathomable way. 

I don't know what I was looking for. I don't know if I wanted a pat on the back. I don't know if I wanted someone to say 'you did it' - but what I didn't expect, was the foul smell of poor communication between local government and their workers, and the reminder that politics and human systems have replaced all that is kind and good and sweet smelling. In that moment, it felt as if I'd reached the pit of stink, not a sacred destination at all. And my pilgrimage was and could only ever be my internal movement towards trusting the inner Self, rather than the designs of power hungry stubborn old men. 

Amen

I'm a bee gus - or otherwise entitled 'Pronunciation Problems'

Sometimes, they are hilarious and other times, just plain irritating. I admit, before you point the finger at me, that I am the last person with perfect Catalan accent – but let’s push that aside for just a little bit and have a good laugh at Albert – no, no, I mean, at some random Catalan person.

‘I’m a bee gus.’ He said, looking pleased with himself.

‘What?’ (I forgo the correct ‘pardon’ when speaking with Albert. He responds faster to a more direct language.)

‘I’m a bee gus. You know, you can’t pin me down. I might, and I might not.’

I hit my head on the table and muttered to myself ‘Ambiguous.’

‘Yes, am bee gus.’

This is not the first time, I’ve written about pronunciation problems. I wrote about the big braun in Byron Bay too, way back in march 08.

I guess the most irritating problem is the G that is placed at the front of W’s for some reason. The people say ‘gwhat’, instead of what. I totally accept the heavy h’s, and I understand missing the final letter of words like ‘tent’, but my ears have a problem with the Gwat. I even accept the Alvert Bila B/V mix ups. But the Gwat… is a hard one.

I must admit I have trouble saying just about everything in Catalan, so you can laugh at me as much as you want.

Photo credit - Thanks to Ana and Tania for the photo of Albert.

Buttocks in Bookstores

To have buttocks in bookstores, or not. That is the question.

Today we bought a book in the local bookstore. As we were leaving the store, I paused to contemplate some posters of teenager nymphs with perfect silicone implants and body piercings.

I began to walk down the stairs only to be confronted with the shop assistant’s buttocks, facing the glorious air and Albert and Jett.

I stopped in my tracks. My mouth dropped. Albert, knowing better, was obviously looking the other way. Jett was too little to see behind the counter.

I continued down the stairs, and joined my family. The shop assistant (did you picture a man or woman?) turned her blank stare towards me with such a display of in your-face-rudeness my head nearly popped off.

There is, in my opinion, a time and a place for buttock displaying – and a book store is not one of them. Unless its adult books you are searching for.

Yes. I do think there should be some basic dress code for retail shops. I think, considering the issue further, that I understand displaying the buttocks in a shop selling fashion. But I do draw the line at the bookstore. Indeed I do.

Granollers is looking for a tourist trap. How about ‘behind every great reader is a great bottom – buttocks and books in Granollers’.

I think that’s rather catchy.