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Volume CXXXII, Number 19 |
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At home in Barcelona
KITTY SULLIVAN
ORIENT STAFF
"Make the noises go away!" I beg silently. My plea, however, is not directed at little voices in my head, but at the almost 100 students in my dorm, who, for the past three nights at exactly 10 p.m. have been banging pots and pans in the streets below, in the hallways, and out their windows to protest the war. This culinary cacophony is complemented by various chants of the anti-American sort. While this obviously makes for some awkward moments walking down my hall, it is also an impressive sight to see.
Catalans are among the most politically minded people of all Spain, and often the students are more knowledgeable about U.S. foreign policy than I am. Everywhere we American students go, we become ambassadors of our country-in cafés, the park, and even the pubs in Ireland I could not escape the question every abroad student dreads: "What do you think of the war?" Regardless of our own opinions, we know that we will get an earful. While it can feel burdensome at times, it seems as though people are relieved to let America know how they feel, even through such tiny avenues, because they feel as though their protests, ideas, and suggestions are being completely ignored. Almost everyone in Barcelona (91 percent of whom oppose the war, according to a municipal survey) can differentiate between the U.S. government ("assassins" often likened to Nazis) and Americans in general (mostly harmless, with unfashionable taste in shoe wear and a strange penchant for baggy jeans).
This, of course, is very fortunate for me as it is often painfully obviously how un-Spanish I am, from my disinterest in 70s polyester to my breakfast preferences. Along these lines, I advise anyone visiting Spain to bring their own maple syrup if they plan on making pancakes. I did not anticipate such difficulty finding it here--but when the phrase isn't in your dictionary and all you can manage to say at the supermarket is "tree sauce," it can be pretty hard to come by.
However, for all the strange foods, nocturnal habits, and intense political activism, the longer I am in Spain, the more I realize that our cultures really aren't that different, and that, underneath those 80s legwarmers, they're not so different from us at all. An illustration: I was staying with my Spanish friend's family for the weekend, and while reading a magazine and enjoying the views of the turquoise Mediterranean against swaying palm trees, all of the sudden I hear (in Spanish), "man, Trapped in the Same Day is on T.V. again!" I turn around, and see the all-too familiar image of Bill Murray as a cranky meteorologist in Groundhog´s Day (the title got somewhat lost in translation). After the cumbersome chore of explaining what a groundhog is (does anyone really know?), I realized that this scene has been played out in my house too, be it with Dogma, A League of their Own, or even Ghostbusters II. Often it is easy to get caught up in the minor things different from home, but sometimes all it takes is a cheesy early 90s movie to make you realize that Barcelona isn't quite as foreign as it may seem at first.
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