My first week here in Barcelona is coming to a close. After arriving Tuesday afternoon, I’ve struggled with a little bit of culture shock (more on that later), a lot of jet lag and time adjustment, as well as little bit of boredom (surprisingly). But I’ve decided to focus on a few stories to summarize what it’s been like. So lets begin:

Leche/Llet:

My first day in Barcelona, I needed a few supplies. I found the refrigerator empty except olives, butter, tomato sauce and beef stock. So I ventured out to find a market. As I walked through the windy, narrow streets, in search of a store, I passed by numerous little corner stores. Each of these stores sold the basics, you know, milk, chips, gin and bread. Why gin, you ask? Barcelona’s drinking habits will be for another day. Finally I came upon a decently sized grocery store. Decently sized for being located in a medieval town, with six hundred year old buildings. Anyways, I walked in, and immediately was struck with paralysis. Not only was everything in a foreign language, everything looked different. The food was packaged differently. The meat was meat, but it all looked so similar that I couldn’t figure out which was what. And though most of the food was labeled in Spanish, I had inadvertently stumbled into a Catalan marketplace, so the Spanish was often hidden under larger Catalan type. (For those of you who don’t know, Catalan is a medieval language that incorporates Spanish, French and French Gaelic. So that’s fun.)

I perused the store, acting like I knew what the hell I was doing. “Ok, well this meat is read and it looks like steak. This is clearly bread. Coffee… Ok Coffee. Why is it sold in the form of a dried brick? Milk. What the hell is going on here.”

I should’ve taken a picture of the milk isle. There was: condensed, dried, soy, regular, cream. All the types you would find at a regular store. However, with no reference point, or even command of Catalan, I couldn’t figure out which one was the one I should buy. Now, I’m not the skim-fat-free-no-gluten-because-I’m-a-fake-celiac, but I do like to know what I’m getting. No time to decide, people are coming, pick the thing that’s in front of you and act like you’ve done it before. Because heaven forbid people think I’m a tourist. You know, me. The guy wearing flip flops, baggy cargo shorts and a Washington Nationals T-Shirt. I totally blend in and can’t blow my cover. Yeah…

As I walked around the store for a second time, figuring things out, I got a little more confident. And when I went to check out I even responded to the cashier when she looked at me and asked,”Quieres bolsas?”  

“Si.” I responded.

“Cuantos quieres?”

“Ummmm dos, gracias.” I made sure to add a little lisp so that she knew I was the real deal. 

She rang up the bill, said some number that I couldn’t understand and I confidently gave her 50 Euros and let her do the math. Then I took the bags, strolled out, and congratulated myself on this achievement. 

Later that evening I began to make dinner, and thought how nice it would be to have some milk with my pasta. I poured the glass, sat down to watch a movie and took a sip. You could say I was surprised to find that the milk I bought, was not what I had been expecting. It rolled down the glass like oil, and tasted much sweeter than I anticipated. Is this just what milk tastes like in Spain? I had no idea what I was drinking, or even if it was milk. Am I drinking cream? Is drinking cream bad for you? Screw it. But after a little research, my girlfriend laughed at me and said that I had indeed bought milk, just whole milk, and that in the future I should stay away from buying things with only Catalan words on it if I wanted to know what I was getting. 

So that just goes to show you what pride gets you when shopping in a foreign country. In the future I think I’m going to start asking people for help, lest I end up buying something worse than just whole milk.

Haircuts

I pride myself in my ability to do my own haircuts. I can clip my whole head to the same length like a pro. So I brought my own clippers with me to Spain. I’m not wasting any money going to a barber shop. Especially since I have no idea to say “medium fade” in Spanish.

Well this morning I decided it was high time for a cut. I laid the clippers out in front of me in the bathroom. Plugged the machine into the adapter and then the adapter into the outlet, and away I went. Though it sounded a little loud to me, I decided that it was because the bathroom was so small. 

Up and down the left side. That’s right make it all even. Now front to back across the crown of your head. Perfect. What’s that tingling in my hand…?

POP!!! SSSSSSS!!!! FIIZZZZZZZ!!!!!! PHHEEWWWW!!!!

I pulled the clippers away from my head and looked down at the smoking, dead machine that lay in my hand. The shears had turned a shade of rusty brown, and wisps of smoke came from either ends.

My gaze immediately turned from the burnt out device to my head. Half of my hair had been cut, leaving the rest about an inch and a half longer. I would’ve looked like a hipster if I had taken it any shorter.

What are you supposed to do in the situation? Any normal person would’ve saddled up, thrown a hat on, and walked to the nearest barber shop for assistance. Not me!

I rummaged through my bag to look for my beard trimmers. This should work! And it did….kinda. Finished up in double the time it normally would’ve taken. Patted myself on the back for a job well done, and for thinking with such ingenuity. Then I took a shower to wash off the excess.

But as I dried off, I spotted one little patch of hair that was maybe a little too long in the back. No worries. I’ll hit that real quick. And when I did, the realization that I had inadvertently taken the shears down to the lowest setting hit, as I carved a nicely sized bald spot into the back of my head. 

Well, I guess that’s how I’ll be rolling for the next couple weeks.

Dog walks

This is more of an observation than a humorous story. It’s been a challenge walking Taji around since I’ve been here. The streets are flooded with people, and that makes me nervous. But we’ve been able to go early in the morning, when no one is around, and I’ve found a few spots that are quieter. But what I really enjoy doing is taking her to parks. They don’t have dog parks like I’m used to. Instead, people take their down out and let them roam off the leash in open grassy areas. We found one yesterday on the side of a mountain overlooking the Mediterranean.

It’s carved into a hill on which used to reside a fortress that commanded the town. The fortress was knocked down a few hundred years ago, but part of it remains on the opposite side of the hill. The side which Taji and I stood had been turned into gardens that meandered up from the base to the top, where we found fountains, and statues of Greek gods, surrounded by flowers. 

We walked around, and that’s when it started to hit me, that this is where I live now. For the next year or so, this is where I’ll call home. It was an interesting feeling, one that hasn’t really left me yet, nor do I think has fully sunk in. But for now, all I can do is sit back and enjoy the sites, because they’re not too bad.