Barcelona

Barcelona is easy to fall in love with. Her elegant facades, warm sunshine sprinkling on the alleys of Barri Gòtic, xurros for breakfast, lunch and dinner (!), blocks and blocks that feel like miles and miles of the shiniest names Gucci, Prada, Hermes, then the beaches, shorelines that light up at night, transforming the city into a different place than what you would have seen in daytime. She’s so edgy and blunt, but also pretty and shy.

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It’s easy to fall in love with Avinguda Diagonal, the broadest avenue in Barcelona where cars coast down non-stop, blasting music and rushing to find parking, but still leaving space for bikes and pedestrians to enjoy the space as well. Bikes aren’t afraid of cars! They co-exist in such spacious networks of avenues and carrer’s (streets), decorated by homes and apartments that unapologetically carry the breathe of Gaudi. Or maybe being a tourist has imprinted Gaudi into everything I see and hear in Barcelona!

Even when it pours down on Barcelona, there’s paella stores, mango mojitos, even McDonald’s that never sleep of course, supermercats that offer an astounding range of hard liquors for the night crawlers, a tucked away bar owned by Norwegians serving tortillas (the egg kind). Perfume is in the air, everyone seems to be walking in leather shoes and wear Massimo Dutti. Of course that’s the shopaholic in me speaking, but being in Barcelona makes me want to look and feel cool, stylish, trendy. Because the city is. And if you had walked down the street and saw a girl or boy like that, how can you not take a second glance.

And then there’s the Catalonia independence day – which I mistook for a football game, super offensive to the Barcelonians – when the streets that are normally so busy, become three times as hectic and loud. Try making it through Les Ramblas without stopping and pondering if you should spend a few euros on a scarf that says BARCELONA, or get inside La Sagrada Familia without waiting a few hours and then realizing that inside the church doesn’t feel like a church with the, seemingly, tens of thousands of selfie sticks pointing against the beautiful colours of heaven. The city seems to never sleep, or rest, or go home.

It feels like half of Barcelona is tourists. Who is a true Barcelonian? I could only guess that they would be one of those people waving the Catalonian flag, but then they are separatists, and only represent one part of Barcelonia. I don’t think there was a part of the city that isn’t crowded with guests from everywhere – and I love hearing undiscernible sounds of languages – but something tells me I didn’t actually experience Barcelona.

So they city I fell in love with at first sight is probably not the city I saw. But if I did find Barcelona in its true form – whatever that may be – I could love her as well?

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So I tried to look for the ‘real’ parts of Barcelona – in a bookstore, Laie, at el placa de la cultura. Three hours in there and I hunted for books, publications, texts, colouring games, maps, atlases… whatever that can explain the city to me. How is it so urbanized? When did the city start planning for bike lanes? Which part of the city survived the wars? What is authentic Gaudi? I eventually found a book, ‘A new urbanization  metabolism’, that I hope will let me see Barcelona away from Barcelona, away from the boutiques and lines of tourists, so I can understand the city for what it is.

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In the end I don’t think you could experience Barcelona without knowing its affairs, past and current, and fully comprehend the eagerness of the people. What are they thinking when they march down the streets with the flag of Catalonia? Hopefully the next time here I won’t be hypnotized by the colours and excitement – but learn about the city, for real.

The ocean is not blue

The ocean is not blue.

It’s gold in the weight of the sun, sparkling the dust of fire and gilded in the heat of summer. It’s dark black where the waves fold and curl, hiding itself from the gaze of sunlight. It’s also white – of clouds, day dreams, drifting thoughts.

The ocean is continuous – like calculus, or finite element analysis. Just like how a derivative breaks down at a discontinuity, the ocean wouldn’t be the way it is if it wasn’t ever flowing. Funny how thoughts of math would creep into my contemplation.

But then, if you think about it, who doesn’t desire continuity? What else are we wishing our friends when we send them off and say “safe travels”, “hope you settle in quickly”, “hope you’re doing fine”?

Earlier this summer while I was sailing between Jericho and Holly Burns, I watched the water move and the clouds drift. I thought, how easy would life be if it was more like the ocean. Then we could apply calculus to everything and solve the meaning of life! As complicated as math looks, it is nothing compared to the uncertainties and sudden changes of life – discontinuities. A violent break from the flow and our hearts are broken; and it takes so much time to heal from that disruption.

The ocean is not blue; it is sad from the predictability of its routine: waves on waves and waves. But sometimes, I wouldn’t want to have it any other way, because though smooth and flowing, it is never the colour it seems to be.

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And that will sum up my first week overseas: like the ocean.

This city

I didn’t like Vancouver when I first moved here. It was a staunch place. Old but new. Cold. Eccentric. Mean. Sophisticated. Graffiti. Layered with miles and miles of hidden corners. Folded. Trapped in between ocean and mountain. Flooded. With faces I can’t read.

People argue on the bus about being too close the door and therefore the bus driver can’t close it and move on. People cutting each other off during rush hour, but also yielding to jay-walkers and backing up traffic. I see young people out desperate for a fun night but all they get it something they don’t remember. It’s the continuous talk about the weather, cold or hot. Smell of coffee in the morning commute and the yoga mats. You’d see a lower income neighbourhood slowly breathing into a hipster quarter.

But about five years later, I started to see this city from its different corners. In 2011 when I volunteered at an inner city elementary schools, I got to see Strathcona and its historical marks, the Chinese culture that has cultivated this city, built this city and transformed it. Another inner city school was near Commercial Drive, so I got to meet children whose parents are not here, or are movie directors, or are too busy making a living. How different, I realized, are the lives of the people in this city. I followed a blog by a Vancouver Police who works in the  Downtown Eastside and through his lens I saw the city in its darkest hours and darkest corners. I bike, walk, drive, take transit. I have seen Vancouver when she is angry and pissed off at work, then merrily drinking her life away over posh cocktails in Yaletown. It’s so different everywhere, every time. Coming back from New York City after a 3-day vacation there, I noticed for the first time the First National art pieces at YVR, and thought about how I am on unceded territory, and how this city is struggling so much to acknowledge this.

Being at a job that relates to urban planning, I get to see the behind the scenes of how the ‘hardware’ of Vancouver changes. If it takes me years to finally appreciate a city, how am I going to do that in 4 months?

 

 

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35 more days of summer

“Girl it’s nice to see the way you be working hard
Don’t nobody really notice you be on your job (job)
Overtime, overtime, overtime, yeah”
Overtyme – Mishon

That song pretty much sums up my 53 hour work week, which still hasn’t ended.

I have 35 days left in Vancouver before I go away for 4 months, and I am spinning like a wheel. Between my two jobs and seeing friends and SailBot, I am barely at home. I don’t have the time to read, and when I do I am too tired to start a new book.

I just realized recently that I will be gone for my favorite season in Vancouver. I won’t be around to see the heat slowly fade and the drops of sun turn into drops of rain. I will miss the local streets blanketed in that warm colour of cartenoid revealing itself. Lund will probably have the same colours! But autumn in Vancouver will always have a special place in my heart.

I remember last year in October, I took my sister out for a bike ride. We biked along Midtown/Ridgeway to Fraser St and came back, and that’s when I looked up in the rare clear sky and thought my life was perfect. I think I will start making a list of moments when I am unhesitating happy. Then probably I will see the best pictures flow through that string of memory.

These last two months feel rushed and squished, like when I’m making a poster and forgot to put in the last paragraph so I try to edit it, shrinking the font, taking away the margins, picking a different font maybe… I try to take in as much work as possible at my job, and then see as many friends as I could, scheduling to see them after dinner or between events. I have different messengers to talk to different people, making promises that I don’t know if I can keep. I’m making plans to travel for September, anxious about the little time I have to study and see places. There’s a long list of cities I want to go to. There’s also a long list of things I won’t get done this summer. Dance, karate, swim, road trip.

I hope I don’t sell out. I hope I won’t trade meaningful experiences for a pretty profile picture in Spain showing off my bikini. I hope I don’t give up studying so I can drink some weird beer in a place whose name I can’t pronounce. I hope I get to see places as souls and not as space.

I also hope the rest of my year will be on overtime. Never standing still even when I am still.

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