Was my number up? Well, I did disappear for a while, I guess about a month… Was traveling (my first trip back to Canada post-immigration to Spain), visited with friends and family, met and spent some quality time with my wonderful, gorgeous, brand-new (okay, 10-week-old but new to me) niece…

Am now back home, in Barcelona. Had a busy week of driving practice sessions, also wrote my PER (Patrón de Embarcaciones de Recreo, aka “boating”) exam. (The Catalan acronym is the awkward “PEE” — Patró d’Embarcacions d’Esbarjo.) This one was longer and more complicated, but at the same time more forgiving than the driving theory test, since you were allowed up to 17 wrong out of 65…but I got only two wrong. It involved a wide range of of new concepts, and so I’m pretty “chuffed” to have done so well, including 100% on all the critical regulation questions, buoys, coastal navigation solutions (which are not just multiple choice; your drawn/written solution must also be right).

What most deserves a mention right now, though, was a play we went to see last night. It was in English, up on Montjuïc at the Teatre Lluire, with Catalan surtitles. [Part of Grec’08.] My favourite playwright/director by far is Quebec’s Robert Lepage. I have seen every of his works I could, include six-hour-plus epics (The Dragons’ Trilogy). This show, “A Disappearing Number” by the troupe Complicité (conceived/directed by Simon McBurney), was brilliant, and reminded me very much of a Lepage-style production. Very technical, lots of video projections, moving/adapting set pieces, innovative leaps through time and space. It was far more captivating than a movie, and the two hours flew by.

It followed several parallel stories in different times, mainly revolving around the life of Indian math genius Srinivasa Ramanujan (1887-1920). Imagine a play all about math, starting out with a whiteboard lecture that was probably above most peoples’ heads, tons of formulae, abstract concepts, string theory…and yet every person there was completely enraptured, I’m convinced. The five curtain calls the actors received at the end were proof of that (I was impressed that the Barcelona audience didn’t give a standing ovation — no “freebies” to troupes performing here, as in some cities that shall remain nameless — even though these folks certainly deserved one).

It was a brilliant piece of work. A true inspiration — the kind of thing that leaves you wishing you’d gotten involved in theatre years ago…

Here’s a neat Spanish-Canadian connection: Margaret Atwood just won the 2008 Príncipe de Asturias prize for Literature, which is almost as good as winning a Nobel (there have been a few winners of both awards over the years, such as Doris Lessing).

That 50.000€ is worth around $80,000 Canadian! Maybe not as good as the 10 million Swedish kronor ($1.7M Cdn) you get for the Nobel, but still a good bit of cash for a writer… (-; I’m sure it’s a drop in the bucket, though, compared to her royalty earnings.

Good job, Margaret!

I’m not truly “home”, since home is now in Spain…but I am back in Montreal (with travel insurance to visit my own country, if you can imagine). My three month ticket return date came up, and since all my Spanish paperwork is now in order (and thus I should be able to legally re-enter the country), I decided to take a three-week jaunt across Canada by plane, train and automobile. First to Montreal, then out west to see my sister and her new daughter, then more family. (If “more family” sounds dismissive, please — it isn’t. I’ll be glad to see everyone; it’s just that having a two-month-old niece is particularly exciting.)

It’s a great time to be in Montreal, of course: the street fair, fireworks competition, Jazz Fest (starting later this week). The place probably hasn’t changed that much in the three months I’ve been away, yet it’s undergone the spring to summer transition (which is always dramatic, and not only in the amount of clothing people wear) and all the restaurants have new menus, prices bumped up by $0.25 (best case) to $2.00 or more. Guess this is the price of oil, food…or just opportunism, with a new tourist season heating up?

The other noticeable change is the proliferation of bicycles. Montreal has always been a big biking city with great bike paths (more developed and bike-friendly than Barcelona in almost every way except for Bicing). But there are so many new bike paths this year that bikes are especially viable, even for people who need to commute to and from downtown. Bikes are absolutely everywhere. There are new links that run down avenue du Parc, along de Maisonneuve…it’s impressive (and makes me a little jealous) to see all the new developments. Hopefully Montreal will learn some things from Barcelona’s “public biking” approach, but Barcelona could learn plenty from Montreal, too.

The exciting news from today is that I bought my annual supply of underwear and socks at the St. Laurent street sale (wonderfully named La Frénésie de la Main). But it had a nice Spanish(-language, at least) touch — I bought them from a latina shopkeeper (hablamos español). Meanwhile Spain was playing Italy (two emotional forces of La Main, especially now that Portugal is out) on the big screens in every bar and restaurant around. Spain eventually won the Euro 2008 match in a kickoff, so it’s into the semi-finals for them (I mean, for us).

I guess I must adjust to new situations quickly, because although it’s really good to be here, I’ll be glad to (when the time comes) go back to Barcelona. In Spain, probably I go on too much about how great Canada is for this or that. But here in Canada, I don’t find myself saying: “Phew, finally I’m back in a land where things makes sense,” but instead going on about how great it is…back home.

To keep my poor readers from bursting with suspense, I’d better mention that…I won the jackpot! That is to say: I passed my written driving test, with only two of the 30 questions wrong on the examen teórico. You may recall that I was allowed at most three wrong, and so I was officially declared: apto (though I’m not so sure about that, myself).

In the previous post, I forgot to mention one more step in this process… I had to have a physical exam before applying to write the theory test. This involved paying a large lump sum (50€) and going to a medical clinic approved for driving licences. I’m starting to wonder if this whole game isn’t just a front to keep Spain’s thousands of driving schools (and medical clinics) in business…

I’ve read some ex-pat driver’s-licence-seekers joking that as long as they were able to open the door and walk into the medical clinic, they were deemed fit enough to get the doctor’s seal of approval. In the same vein, I’ve been told by several people (including the driving school receptionist): “It’s a bit of a joke.” In my case, there was a basic vision test (just the ol’ wall chart — no depth or colour tests as we have in Quebec), a few health-related questions, and a co-ordination test. This last was videogame-like, in a 1970s kind of way. I had to two rotary (pong-like) controllers, and I had to dial them independently to keep two (pong-like) green blocks inside a pair of scrolling “tracks” on screen. It wasn’t as easy as it sounds, because it gradually got faster, and you had to be looking in two places at once, controlling two “unlinked” things. All those years spent pumping quarters into arcade machines in the 1980s paid off nicely.

Finally, the doctor (was he a doctor, or a technician?) had a few questions for me. To my surprise, these turned out to be questions about English language usage: what is the word for someone who gives interviews? “An interviewer.” Is an interviewer, then, the same as an emcee? “What? No,” I insisted. Then what was the difference? Perhaps he was confused about interviewee and emcee? I explained it all. Besides this strange obsession with interviewers, the doctor wanted a few corrections of his pronunciation. He was beaming. This apparently was not part of the licence validation, merely the unbridled excitement of a man finally having a native English-speaker at his beck and call.

I joined a great gym last week (DiR), and one of the requirements — for their insurance — was that today I had to go for yet another physical exam. (Yes, of course I asked, but they weren’t at all impressed that a doctor had just given me the once-over for a driver’s licence). Once again, there was a huge lump sum to pay (54€ this time); something mysteriously omitted in their glossy marketing.

This exam was much more professional and high-tech than the old-school driver’s physical. I felt like a pro athlete, having myself measured and analysed in all kinds of ways: at one point I had twelve electrodes stuck to my chest for a “VO2 max” test on the treadmill. (I wonder it really was a “max” test, because I didn’t feel exhausted — as if I’d been in anaerobic activity — at the end of it. They likely had to move on to the next patient…my heart rate was around 162 but I was going strong). My V02 max, according to the report, is in the Bueno-Medio cardiovascular fitness classification. “In order to reach the Bueno classification, you would need to improve your max VO2 by 1%.” Uh, okay, that should be doable.

The final report was printed in a funny mix of English and Spanish (like the buena phrase above). Other examples included: “Your blood pressure of 118/63mmHg si está en el tramo Normal.” At another point, I had to step on a pad that graphed the pressure of my feet on the floor(?). An arm strength test. They pinched and prodded, and I was informed that I have an very low (but apparently still healthy) body fat measurement: 6.4%. “Good job, tu porcentaje de grasa está en el tramo Excelente.”

So that’s it for now…no more tests, please! The next big thing, I guess, will be my driving sessions and practical test, but likely not until after I get back from an upcoming visit to Canada. It may even have to wait until September, since so many things (driving schools, traffic departments) shut down over the summer — or at least August — here.

Speaking of shutdowns, right now (you may have heard on the news) there is a massive truckers’ (technically, transportistas) strike. It’s amazing how quickly things disappear: many gas stations are shut (although yesterday police were escorting some tanker trucks), and yesterday at the supermarket I was shocked to see plastic curtains covering large sections of empty shelves. Let’s hope it doesn’t go on too long, or things will really get nasty. Already, someone was killed in Granada, when a picketing trucker was struck by an angry blocked driver (who, thankfully, was subsequently caught). Another trucker in Alicante was badly burned when his vehicle caught fire (looks to have been intentional). Most of the protests are due to the huge increase in diesel prices in the last few months.

…Oh yeah, really can’t wait to get that driver’s licence…

(The title is from a spam I received today, which poetically reminded me: “Long ago did fashionable wrist watches become an integral part of image!” Ah, long ago…)

Yesterday, I sat with dozens of nervous people in the waiting area outside the DGT (Dirección General de Tráfico, aka Dept. of Motor Vehicles) theory exam room. I hoped for “unexcelled precision” in my answers. After all, I did not want to repeat this experience.

After my intensive 16-hour course of two weekends ago, I spent the past week pretty much entirely focused on studying for my examen teórico. I realized that although the course carried me forward a long way, and I was (artificially) boosted in confidence by getting a perfect score on a couple of practice exams, there were still many things I didn’t know. A book of sample test questions came with my course manual, so I wrote a computer program that would randomly pick sets of 30 questions from the list (without any repeats), and started slogging through them. The goal was to cover every question, and also to make a table of ones I didn’t know or wasn’t sure of, to help me know where to focus my last-minute efforts. With 460 questions, that gave me 15 1/3 tests (I also did some of the tests on the DGT website). It usually took 15-20 minutes to do each one, plus around 15-45 minutes more to mark and go through the book to understand ones I got wrong or wasn’t 100% sure about. Plus, I kept reading or re-reading various sections of the book. I learned a lot, but also forgot plenty that I’d read (in one neuron, out the other). And the book was awful: very user-unfriendly. Even when I asked my “Dulcinea” for help understanding certain sections, she’d often have a hard time deconstructing the complex wording.

When I finally finished all 460 sample questions (Thursday night), I discovered that on average I got 12% wrong. This was not a good sign, because you are only allowed to miss 10% (3 out of 30) on your test. So it would be a bit like gambling in Vegas, where the house has a marginal edge over the long term. In my case the house edge was 2% (although the whole point of going through every question meant that I should learn from my mistakes — hopefully getting some of those right next time around — thus cutting their edge and swinging the balance in my favour). In reality, this meant that although for some tests I got zero, one or two wrong, for many of them I missed four (occasionally five, and once even six!). As in Vegas, it felt like it was going to be partly (or largely) down to luck of the draw — would they ask things I knew really well, or things I kept getting mixed up on (like whether a ciclomotor de tres ruedas was comparable — in road rules — to a quadriciclo ligero)? Would I continue missing the odd question that, although I knew the answer perfectly well, I was tricked by the Spanish wording? It turns out, too, that each person in the exam room gets a “unique” test, because we are all handed three question sheets (questions 1-10, 11-20, 21-30) which are all different. Of course, although there can be no copying, neither can there be comparing of answers once you get out of the room. (”Did you put ‘a’ or ‘c’ for that one about highways within city limits?” “I don’t remember seeing any question about travesías…”)

A few questions are almost laughably easy (especially if you already know how to drive). A few things (like signage) are fairly different from North America. And they can also be very tiquismiquis in the detail demanded. I mean, do I really need to know all the regulations and restrictions that apply to commercial trucks, if all I want to drive is a turismo? A few tricky examples include knowing the generic speed limit for a car towing a “non-light” trailer (i.e. more than 750kg maximum allowable gross weight) on a highway with 1.5m of paved shoulder (80km/h). Or how much a truck’s load can extend beyond the front and back projection of the vehicle (not at all if the load is “divisible”, otherwise up to 1/3 off the front and back if the truck is 5m long or less, otherwise no more than 2m front and 3m back, but in any case, never exceeding 12m total — whew, that’s a mouthful!).

Unlike in Canada (at least when I did my driving test nearly 20 years ago) or California (where I got a licence over ten years ago), we also had to know first aid, and basic vehicle maintenance (Q: “what might it mean if your car is emitting black smoke?” A: “that the air filter is blocked or dirty and needs replacing” — I actually understand why, now, and it has nothing to do with my intuitive guess that the dirt might be somehow getting into the engine).

Never mind the fact that all this studying and test-writing was done in Spanish, which multiplied my difficulty. Apparently you can do a translated (English) version of the test, but I wanted to learn this stuff in Spanish — also, I’d heard that sometimes the bad translations make it even more confusing! I’ve learned many, many new terms, but still sometimes got the occasional question wrong because of “language difficulties”. At times, even the verb usage threw me off — in yesterday’s test I lifted my hand twice to ask them to clarify things for me — it so happens that in one case I would have gotten the right answer regardless (I thought extravío might mean theft, while it actually means a loss/misplacing — either way it wouldn’t affect my answer to the question about driver’s licences). In the other case, though, I truly was unsure of whether they were asking whether I (3rd person singular; that is, usted in the question) or the cyclist (3rd person singular; that is, él) should yield the right-of-way. It’s an easy question, but it’s kind of important to know which of us they’re talking about! Luckily, one of the examiners confirmed what I suspected, that it was asking whether I should yield to the cyclist. For a non-native speaker, some such questions are quite trickily worded.

I have to admit, though, that although the process is a bit ridiculous (rote learning and all), it does probably give the traffic ministry the desired results. You really have to know the stuff inside out. With bad luck, you may fail when you “should” pass, but it’s quite unlikely you’d pass, purely based on good luck or guessing. The confusing wording is quite clear if you’ve seen it before and really know it. The problem (especially for this guy, who wanted to compress what should be a three month course into a couple of weeks!) is that it’s hard to remember it all.

I won’t have my results until Monday, but I think (fingers crossed) I passed. I know for sure I got at least one wrong, and there were a few others I wasn’t 100% sure on, so we’ll see. Sometimes I surprise myself (in a bad way) on the sample tests. So, you never know: I may be back…

Overall, I have to say I enjoyed the experience. Even though I (like most other guiris) moan about this trial by fire, I really do enjoy learning new things. I enjoy the challenge. It’s a double-edged sword: I hate being evaluated, but on the other hand I love being able to prove myself. Of course, I’d rather not have to do any of it, but, being obliged to do so, I find I enjoy learning more about this new country and its rules. You have no idea how much stress it relieves to be able to read all the signs on the road (and to discover they have a satisfying kind of logical consistency — in most cases). Not to mention learning more of the language…I mean, how would I otherwise have ever learned what a salpicadero was, catadióptricos or the luces gálibo? (good luck looking that one up in the dictionary)

A few weeks back I enrolled in an autoescuela (driving school). It has the unlikely name of “Racing School” (something you’re not likely to be doing on the busy streets around here). Although I got my first driver’s licence 20 years ago, and have no demerits or anything…my Quebec licence is worth, um, nothing, here. Ironically, I can drive with it (and an international licence) for up to three (or six?) months, but after that I need a Spanish licence. And this means going to school — there’s no way around it.

And you can’t just flip through the rulebook (the one I have here is 350 pages!), take a theory exam and then take a driving exam. In California I did that all in one day, for something like $25. There’s no such thing as a learner’s licence here, either. Nope, you’ve got to spend a fortune (300-500 Euros at least in Barcelona) to enroll in a school, take some classes, and then you can do your theory exams. After that it’s into the car for practical sessions, until you’re ready for the practical (in-car) exam.

So tomorrow, I’m off to an intensive classroom session. 10am to 8pm, with two hours for lunch. Same again on Sunday. There goes my weekend (but better than another school, which insisted I spend three months on daily one-hour classes, slowly working through all the material). Hopefully this weekend will cram enough of the subtleties of speed limits for all vehicle types, all road types, the multitude of signs and road markings, the first aid rules, how many demerits you get for various offences, etc, so I can pass the theory exam in a few weeks.

Then I get to hop into a car for the stressful experience of preparing for the driving test. Apparently, in some parts of Spain it’s a breeze, but the various schools have warned me that here in Barcelona they’re especially picky. You have to learn exactly what they watch for (even if they’re things you wouldn’t normally do in “real life”) and learn to do them right. And for the exam, you have at least two other people in the car with you, with the examiner sitting in the back seat giving you directions. In Spanish, and likely with a Catalan accent (which I still find harder to follow). Sounds like fun.

I’m actually impressed with the driving school system (though it’s annoying if you feel you should be “entitled” to drive). What I don’t understand is why, in spite of all this great training, Spain still has such bad accident statistics!

I’ll be glad to eventually be done with all this, and hopefully without spending too much more money… The minimum you could spend, if you pass all tests the first time, would be maybe 300 or 400 Euros (if you find a cheap school). If you were learning “for real” (i.e. had never driven before), you might need 20 or 30 practical sessions in the car, which could easily reach toward 1,000 Euros.

It’s a good reminder that driving is not a right, it’s a privilege. Here, in fact, it really is a luxury.

P.S. After I finally get my licence, I’ll get to slap a big “L” (I call it the “Loser sign”) in the back window of the car, whenever I drive. For a full year. And I won’t be able to go faster than 80km/h, even on the autopistas!

P.P.S. I don’t understand why Spain refuses to accept licences from Canada and the U.S., yet happily converts licences for people from Argentina, Uruguay, Mexico, …(not saying they’re all bad drivers, but…) Obviously, all E.U. licence-holders can also just do a canje (swap) as well. I’ve even heard of people going so far as to get residency in Ireland, swap their North American licence there, then make their move to Spain, swapping the licence again. Just to avoid going back to school and tests. To me, this is a bit too much — sure it’s stressful and no fun(*), but just get on with it!

(*) Actually, it is kind of fun. My teacher (Josep) is a brusque, jovial, loud Catalan man who likes to pound the desk with his fist or a pointer, bellowing at the student who got something wrong. In my earlier years this kind of teaching behaviour would have traumatized me, but now that I’m a “mature student”, I just find it entertaining. Hopefully, his antics will make the 16 hours pass en un plis-plas.

Our last chapter left our hapless hero preparing himself mentally for a gruelling visit to the comisería. It was an unusually cool Thursday (at the end of March), and it went something like this:

I’m sitting outdoors, with frozen hands, at a police station just off Balmes. There is a large group of us (at least a hundred) sequestered in a parking garage, part of which is cordoned off and contains more than 200 chairs, about half of which are full. Full of couples, children, babies. Many South Americans are here, as are a good number of Asians, and very few rubios like myself (in fact, as far as I can tell, I’m the only one). The police gatekeeper told me to take a number, “como en la carnicería” (”like at the butcher’s”, how appropriate) and go sit in a chair. The parking structure where we’re sitting is covered, but open, and today is quite cool. And there are exhaust fumes.

It’s not yet clear to me how you know when your number is called. I’ve seen no electronic signs, heard no beeps, and no one has been calling people in. We just sit, looking mildly confused. I think you have to get up and look over a corrugated metal wall, toward the main building, when you think your time is getting close(?). I’ll go check in a bit — for the moment, I imagine there’s no rush, since none of the people around me has moved in at least twenty minutes. The buses are on strike today, so I hoped it might be less busy here. If this is less busy, I’d hate to see busy… A few people read as they wait (newspapers, the sports section of course), but many just sit, staring into nothingness, perhaps pondering the uncertainty of their immigration situation. Most are here as couples or entire families, so at least they have someone to talk to. Of course, many are talking on cell phones.

At least we’re in a place with natural light — curved whitewashed arches overhead with rows of small square skylights. A brisk wind blows into the parking structure, over us before being swallowed by the down-ramp. Several people wear Barça hats and scarves — an attempt to “impress” the officials (asks my cynical mind), or just genuine fandom? Surely the latter, Mr. Cynic. The chairs are light wood with black metal bases; actually surprisingly nice (considering the grim surroundings) and clean.

A lot of people, recently, have been getting up, I guess going to check the status(?). Will go do the same. [a few minutes pass] Well, there’s nothing I can see that shows the “current” number being processed, so I’m not sure why everyone is watching “the yard” so intently. Is this what prisoners do? Just watch the guards, since there’s nothing else going on.

Finally — finally! — a guy in jeans and a jean jacket came and started calling numbers: B60, 61, 62…eventually got to C0, 1, 2… Obviously they’re taking large “batches” of us into another waiting room. I wonder if C91 (mine) will be in the next batch, or more likely two or three batches later. The only problem is that each batch is being called about an hour apart.

11h00 — B60 to C10
12h00 — to C42
12h45 — C32-63
14h12 — a bunch more, and yay, I’m inside, in the WARMTH!

I got really chilled — after arriving around 9h45 in the morning, I waited outside in the cold (should have worn a thicker sweater under my “spring” jacket) for about 4.5 hours. They close each day at 14h, so I was lucky, the rest of the people (starting in the mid-”D”s) were sent home, to try again another day. There was much shouting and arguing, but Mr. Jean Jacket was having none of it. He was actually very calm, diplomatic, in control. Easy for me to say, since I wasn’t in the “sorry, try again” group.

I was in the final batch to get into the warm, (indoor) waiting room. Luckily, once there, I was one of the first people to be called forward. I was shivering uncontrollably, and my hands were like ice. Inside, at last there was one of those signs with big red letters that indicates which number should go into which office. C91, yes! — and off I go to sit in front of a matronly woman (no police uniforms here, except for the guards outside). She is quite friendly, although I think some of her co-workers are bitching that Officer Jean Jacket let such an enormous batch of us in at the last minute…by all rights, they should be going off to lunch by now!

I give her my passport, head-shots and other documents, and she asks for the resguardo of my original solicitud. I wasn’t sure what they wanted here — somehow my application for the residency was combined with the visa application (a good thing, that saved me much waiting once in Spain), but I didn’t have this paperwork. I had a copy of my original visa application in Montreal, but this was not what she wanted. In the end, after I nervously explained that I really didn’t have anything else, she shrugged and continued on processing me.

She was friendly, and at one point, mentioned the weather — how cold it had been recently! I thought she was saying this because she could see my quivering legs or blue lips, and so I made some joke about how miserable it was to be sitting outside for so long. Just then, in a very motherly way (or so I thought), she reached out and said: “Let me have your hand.” Wow, so friendly! I gently lay my left hand in hers, ready for an embrace of warmth.

She pushed away my left, and grabbed at my right. Fine, I thought, that one’s cold too. But she kept twisting my wrist in a strange way, and it took a moment of this “wrestling” before I realized she wasn’t trying to comfort me, but rather was trying to take my fingerprint. “Ahhh!” I said, laughing and blushing, finally understanding. She took my right index finger, plunked it down (in a motherly, loving way, it must be said) onto the inkpad, and pressed it into the form. Then she handed me some Kleenex to clean off the ink.

And that was it, more or less. She gave me yet another resguardo, and told me I could pick up my TIE in a month, at another indicated address. Many things had to be put on hold until then — for example, opening a bank account. But a couple of weeks ago, at the end of April, I went to another police station, and picked up my sparkling new identity card. Although we’d had some beautiful warm weather in the intervening month, this was another cool, rainy day. But this time, no line-ups, no butcher’s numbers, no delays. I walked right in (the building seemed like a ghost town, and I had to find my way to the correct floor and office), showed my passport to some other matronly women, and — just like that — got my new card. And that means that I’m now con papeles (”with papers”, i.e. “legal”).

Ah, that sound is magic…it’s pouring rain outside. It’s the first time we’ve had any serious rain since I arrived in Barcelona almost a month ago. The entire region (Catalunya) is suffering from a drought, the reservoirs are very low, and we are always reminded to conserve water. It’s really something that’s on people’s minds here; I’d say that, compared to Canada, there’s more consciousness in the general population of (water) conservation.

The city of Barcelona “proper” (not including those garden-waterers in outlying areas of the metropolitan region) has low water consumption per capita (for a major Western city): apparently around 110 litres per person. Catalunya’s average, on the other hand, is 272 litres per person, more in line with much of North America, I believe. (Yes, I know calculating a true water footprint is more complicated, due to indirect water usage such as the water needed to produce goods, fuel, etc. Indirectly, we consume thousands of virtual litres per day.)

Of course, this year’s Expo in Zaragoza (June 14 to September 14) is focused on the theme of “Water and Sustainable Development.” Very timely…but how hypocritical will it be if they go ahead and build the mega-casino complex in the dry steppe landscape of Aragón, not far from the expo site?

In Montreal, there aren’t even water meters in peoples’ homes, so household water usage is “free” (infrastructure costs are included in the property taxes). You don’t receive a regular utility bill, so you have no personal cost associated with your consumption of water. People run their showers for a half-hour, water their lawns without conscience, run the tap for ages while washing dishes. I used to be one of these people.

As for me, luckily my Spanish “tutor” has trained me, years ago, to shower in three phases: wet-lather-rinse. The middle phase (water turned off) can be as long and luxurious as you like! (ha ha) You’re not as likely to get cold here during that phase; nevertheless, I showered that way in Canada for the past couple of years without any grief… (Someone told me in the U.S. it’s referred to as a Navy shower.)

Every weekend, we’ve been going to art exhibitions. Not big ones at the major galleries, but smaller ones (that also tend to be free, perfect for us “cheapies”). Last Saturday we went to see one at Casa Amatller, called Dones d’aigua (”Water Women”), which featured water-related photos of women and girls in Africa, alongside short essays about the problems caused by the extreme amount of time they spend fetching water each day. Imagine spending between five and twelve hours, daily, on the basic necessity of getting water — not to mention carrying 20 or 30 kilogram jugs all the way back home! And with all your time spent on this necessity, there is no time for school, fun or anything else.

It was a sobering reminder — even in Catalunya, a drought isn’t really a drought, and we’re hardly suffering from it. You turn on the tap and water comes out. It may smell funny sometimes (the Brita filter takes care of that), but you can drink it without getting sick. And if there were a real water shortage, we could always just drink wine…

Last night, after 17 days in Barcelona, I dreamed of fútbol. Sure, I’m aware of the extreme passion people here feel for their (our) team, Barça — which includes meeting them with hate-filled protests at the airport and cursing them through the fence as they practice after another disappointing loss. But I, myself, am no sports fanatic. If I were to have any sporting thoughts right now, they’d likely be about my Montreal Canadiens, as they head into the playoffs after wrapping up their season triumphantly.

Yet, there I was, on the soccer (er, football) pitch. Argentina versus Brazil. It was never clear which side I was on (hidden meaning?), but I was with my Argentine friend from elementary school, so one might venture a guess. We weren’t doing well out there, and I in particular wasn’t very effective — but what would you expect? I’m no pro (besides, I don’t have the right hair to be a soccer star). What on earth was that coach thinking, putting me in?

So far this may sound like an anxiety dream, but I don’t think it was: I was really enjoying myself. It was exhilarating to run up- and down-field with all these soccer greats (even if we couldn’t seem to put the ball in the net). And everyone, on both teams, was very supportive of me. (Hmm, I should have realized I was dreaming, because it’s not like that would ever happen…least of all between those two nations!) Anyhow, what’s the message I’m supposed to take into my waking life from this? Perhaps: the ball is in my court…so what am I going to do with it? (Or perhaps, as a friend of mine would say, it was just random neurons firing.)

Question: is fútbol so much “in the air” here that you can’t help it seeping into your skin (and dreams), even if you try not to pay attention? More likely, the dream stemmed from a minor incident in real life: a kid’s ball bounced toward me the other day, and I actually managed to stop it in mid-air with my foot. While I didn’t subsequently “bend it” like anybody in particular, I did direct it back toward him in a reasonably competent way. He politely said gracias, then went back to the serious business of blasting it off the concrete wall, to the delight of all the gran gent out for a quiet “sit” in the park.

In other news: my crate of worldly possessions has finally left Canada (a week late). Actually, looking at the information from the shipping company, I was disappointed to see that it seems to have actually departed from Halifax (must have gone on a truck from Montreal; sigh). I had romantic notions of a port-city-to-port-city delivery. At any rate (or, more precisely, at an average rate of 19 knots against a strong headwind and 6m waves), it is now on voyage 14 of the ZIM Haifa, in the mid-Atlantic (track its position here!).

Dulcinea and I arrived at the Oficina de Extranjeros, near Estació de França train station, around 11h30. There was a milling and frustrated crowd of immigrants outside, wanting papeles and work permits. There was a metal gate with a guard checking the credentials of everyone wanting to enter. I stepped forward and showed him my documents. Luckily, I had an official printout indicating that no appointment was necessary for me, and the specific hours I should show up (between 12h and 14h, Wednesdays only). It was too early yet, so he didn’t let us in. We went to a nearby café for a hot drink, watched a gang of suspicious youths “almost” rob someone (but the smart girls, sitting at the same café, hugged their bags close to themselves and made it clear they were “onto” the boys’ tricks). Dulcinea and I went back to check out the (now-bigger) milling crowd shortly after 12.

There was a new guard, and he let us both in after checking my papers (I’d heard some people have the experience that their Spanish partner — even a spouse — sometimes isn’t allowed to go in with them). We went through a metal detector (inactive?) and followed the directions the guard had given us. We entered a miserable-looking waiting room full of hopeless people sitting on shoddy chairs. We walked in front of them, bypassed them all to open a door (all while being far from certain that we were doing the right thing). We found ourselves in a big office with three desks, and an official behind each one. We stood by the door until someone motioned us over. I did as much of the speaking as possible, but it was great to have Dulcinea there as an extra set of ears, and as a far better explainer than me, if things got confusing (in a couple of cases, I misunderstood an explanation completely). There was the usual document-showing, the nice woman made me a photocopy of a page I hadn’t brought (a grumpier official would have sent us packing, to make our own photocopies; lucky again!), and then off we were to the next place.

None of the government agencies accepts payment of fees (by any means); they give you a modelo para el pago de las tasas (basically, a bill), which you have to take to a bank and pay it there. You then need to bring this proof of payment to the next place in the bureaucracy chain. For example, you may have to pay a processing fee or a card-issuing fee. In Canada, you’d normally just pay it right there, to the official.

Another key concept here is the resguardo. In the Oficina de Extranjeros, they gave me a handy list of all the things I needed to present at the comisaría (police station), to apply for my TIE (foreigner’s identity card). One required item was a resguardo from my application. I asked the woman what this was, and she said it was the original form I submitted. “You mean, my application for the visa, at the Consulate?” “Yes, it’s whatever you had to submit.” Hmm. (In retrospect, it seems that my situation was not the normal one I’ve seen described on the web: I didn’t have to apply for a residence permit myself, but had it filed “internally” and approved before I actually got my visa, which saved me some complication here in Spain…but it kind of confuses the process since later, I didn’t have the resguardo de solicitud for the permit. Luckily (again — I suspect being blond and Canadian has something to do with this “luck”), at the police station I was allowed to continue on with my application for a residence card, even though I was lacking the appropriate resguardo.)

After paying the latest set of fees (typically 10€) at a nearby bank, we caught another bus, back up town to Gràcia, to a major police station closer to our neighbourhood. Arrived around 13h15, but were told they weren’t allowing anyone else for the day (the processing part is only open 9h-14h every day).

So, that was it for “officlal business” on Wednesday. Since Dulcinea took the day off work, we took a late-afternoon trip to IKEA to look at storage options for “my room” — the small place where all my crap from Montreal will have to be housed. Snacked on albóndigas suecas (Swedish meatballs), then returned home, somehow exhausted, from having actually done very little “work”.

[to be continued]