I plan to write up my notes from some of our adventures in Nepal, but will need to divide it up into bite-sized segments (so open really wide!). I’ll start with an appetizer. The trip was a little more than three weeks long — we left Barcelona on a Saturday in late September and returned on a Tuesday in mid-October. Yes, the scenery was spectacular, almost indescribable. No, photos can’t do it justice. And, yes, we had a great time. Mostly.

Would we do it again? Well, I think it would require a “discussion”. Because even for a resolute hotel-hater, even with the requisite “open mind to new experiences” and all that — three weeks of third-world camping is, actually, quite a lot… Two weeks without a shower? To say it’s “not something to be sniffed at” would be the understatement of the year..

We flew a little less than 16,000km on a total of eight flights (including two mountain flights in small planes). We drove about 150km (not including airport transfers…), although this short distance took much of one day. Most importantly — as this was the core of the trip — we walked about 200km over 19 days. If that pace seems slow (an average of little over 10km per day), bear in mind that you need to pace yourself and go slowly as you acclimatize to the increasingly thinner air. Also, we discovered what all trekkers to the region discover — that there is such a thing as “Nepali flat”. That is, when your guide tells you it will be a “flat” day, this merely means that you will end the day at roughly the same elevation you started. It has nothing to do with the endless up and downs you may take to get there. So if we technically only climbed 300m in “net” terms on a given day, I suspect often we often climbed at least that much again, but lost those gains as we descended to cross a river, for instance.

I probably ended the trip is better shape than I’ve been in years. More tanned, too; at least with a serious “farmer’s tan” on the neck and arms. As the days are so short and cooler now in Barcelona, it won’t last long (neither the tan nor the fitness). I was grateful for whatever “training” I’d done before the trip — a few major hikes in the Pyrenees as well as lots of walking up and down, either on the hills outside our house or ascending 500m on the 15%-inclined treadmill at the gym. I had no sore muscles or physical problems to speak of (just sore feet and a bit of near-blistering on the heels from our biggest descent days, but I’d taped them and no skin was broken).

Tired, at times, yes — many times we felt utterly exhausted. Sometimes just taking one more step up was difficult. We experienced no altitude sickness (serious headaches being the first sign of a rapid progression that can lead to edema, embolism and death), but the thin air certainly had its effect, whether physical or psychological. There were moments when I just ran out of steam, but mostly I had a spring in my step, and recovered from uphill portions remarkably quickly. For some reason, I think I have a tendency to charge up mountains, leaving me sweaty, exhilarated, and wiped out. It’s not a race, I discovered in Nepal. Here, because we were pretty much forced to take it slow on the uphills (by our guide and our physical limitations), I found the slowness enjoyable. One step after the other, just like life. It was almost meditation at times. As for my Dulcinea, she just keeps on going without complaint, a pillar of endurance. Only when we arrive to set up camp does she let it be known (this only happened once or twice) that she is on the verge of collapse…

We went from below 800m to over 5400m (that’s over 17,700 ft for you Imperialists). At the highest elevations, we had to make do with 50% of the air we’re used to breathing in Barcelona. This does not require oxygen tanks to breathe, as Everest might, but it does require fitness, patience and an absence of bad luck. (Incidentally, you might wish for that bottled oxygen when you’re walking around the polluted capital, Kathmandu.) We slept — camping, mind you, none of this teahouse/hotel luxury for us! — all the way from wet, buggy and leechy tropical lowlands to a couple of nights spent at more than 4600m (more than 15,000 ft) with snow and ice decorating our tent.

We did a portion of the famous Annapurna Circuit, from Besi Sahar to Jomsom, with a week-long detour in the middle — a trip back in time — to the rarely-visited “lost valleys and villages” of Naar and Phu. This isolated region is very close to Tibet, not only physically (just across the Chinese border) but also culturally, linguistically, religiously… To go there requires a special trekking permit (maybe several hundred are granted each year, compared to the hundreds of people at any given point on the Annapurna Circuit each day). It also requires a camping expedition, since there are as yet no teahouses along this route. And so, even when we were in the towns of the Circuit, we slept in a tent — often in the field behind a guesthouse. Our own cook prepared all our meals (in a tent, shack, or using the guesthouse’s kitchen, if they had one to offer). Not always wilderness camping, but self-sufficient nonetheless. And it guaranteed us a place to sleep, which is not something all the other tourists were finding…

The isolation is partly what attracted me to the Naar/Phu area in the first place. If something goes wrong, you’re far from help. Helicopter evacuation insurance is a must; we saw at least one other group making use of it. The place has been largely cut off from the world for centuries. It was never on a major trading route (Phu in particular is at a “cul-de-sac” amidst high mountains), so it received little commerce or other traffic. This remoteness appealed. It probably changed very little in the 20th Century (admittedly, some homes now have solar panels powering small lights). Not only have few Western people have had the privilege of seeing the region, but I’d heard it was supposed to be spectacular. It did not disappoint. I’m afraid to tout it too much, for fear it will simply become like the rest of the Circuit in the coming years (yes, I have an inflated sense of my impact on the world ;-).

This year, the monsoon rainfall broke records in many areas, and although it was wrapping up when we arrived, the abnormal year continued with unusually early snow at higher elevations (more than a month early!) changing our plans. The original idea was to make another deviation from the Annapurna Circuit later in the trip, going from Manang up past Tilicho Lake and over the Mesokanto Pass to Jomsom. In the end, we did not take this route (for weather and safety reasons). Instead, we opted to go over the more certain, easier (and infinitely busier) Thorung La (”La” = “pass”).

I was very disappointed, because with a more technical guide and porters we’d have been able to do it anyhow. I’m from Canada, and it really wasn’t that much snow (ha ha). Our main problem was lack of information: even a weather report. There seemed to be little communication between the various ACAP (Annapurna Conservation Area Project) offices, and there was no way to know what lay ahead without actually going there. Also, we had time constraints on our trip; we couldn’t spend days waiting for the right conditions. Our hardy “gang” claimed to be willing to give it a try — obviously not wanting to disappoint or anger us, the clients — but the uncertainty and anxiety of our guide was obvious. We felt we made the right decision; Tilicho would be left for another trip.

As the trip began, however, we were the ones feeling anxious and uncertain…

[To be continued…]

Well, we arrived back safe and sound, if a little groggy, from Nepal (via India) on Tuesday, and have been adjusting slowly to life in the “real world” again. Hmm… Is this world really more real than what we experienced there? Or is it the reverse? Anyhow, adjusting mainly means shifting our eating schedule back to after 9pm (rather than being asleep by that time, as we generally were for the three weeks in Nepal). And trying to cope with being so darn clean all the time; sitting rather than walking all day; being at a table — on a chair — to eat; not having someone bring me tea at 6am every day.

I’m finding Barcelona to be rather snow- and mountain-free, after so much time spent in such alpine grandeur. At least I can amble up a few hundred metres to my favourite viewpoint, as I already have done twice this week. A bit different from a country where a 5,000m peak is literally called a “hill”! But no signs of altitude sickness here, unless longing for altitude counts (in the same way that homesickness means longing for home).

I have tons of notes and photos from the trip, and the plan is to write up a bit for each day of our trip. This may be overly-ambitious, but it’s, well, the plan. Be prepared to be deluged, monsoon-style, with facts and figures, observations and pithy anecdotes. On second thought, I’m known more for my “ramble” than my pith, so maybe brace for pithless, rambling anecdotes. A deluge of words, at least.

I was sad to learn that, just as we were ending our trek on the other side of the world, my maternal grandmother ended her “trek” here on Earth…she passed away last Thursday after more than a decade of Alzheimer’s and, generally, the frailty of old age.

To paraphrase a favourite author of hers, and substituting my grandmother for “Christopher Robin”:

My grandmother is going.
At least I think she is.
Where?
Nobody knows.
But she is going -
I mean she goes
(To rhyme with “knows”)
Do we care?
(To rhyme with “where”)
We do
Very much.
…
Good-bye,
I
(Good)
I
And all your friends
Sends -
I mean all your friend
Send -
(Very awkward this, it keeps going wrong.)
Well, anyhow, we send
Our love
END.

I just ate my last orange, perhaps my last fresh green lettuce for more than three weeks. And I think I’m ready for three weeks of Dahl Baat (rice w/lentils). We’re off to Nepal tomorrow morning (arriving early Sunday morning), for three weeks of trekking in a rarely-visited region off the Annapurna Circuit, the Naar and Phu valleys (and their corresponding villages and yak pastures).

We’ve spent weeks preparing — finding out about visas, buying new gear (backpacks, warm sleeping bags, water treatment chemicals, boots, etc.), packing and repacking, and “training”. The training consisted of two practice camping trips and several “high altitude” (3,000m — pretty high for Catalunya) hikes in the past few weeks. We also got set for high mountain camping by nearly having our tent (with us wide awake in it) blown away by powerful winds at Vall de Núria. We didn’t fare very well, so hopefully the tent we get in the Himalayas will be a real expedition tent.

So, we’re probably not actually ready, but I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be, as well as being excited and nervous and wanting to give it a go! Whether it be leeches, altitude headaches (have you ever tried to sleep at more than 5,000m? — we’ll be trying it, if all goes well), dubious flights from dinky and windswept mountain airports — bring it on! Of course, that’s easy to say now, at the outset. We’ll see how excited we feel after twenty-some days camping…

The truth is, for all of our preparing (well, Dulcinea would say for all my preparing, since as usual I’m the one doing most of the fussing and fretting), we don’t really know what to expect. Weather-wise — will monsoon season wrap up soon? In theory, they say it ends at the mid-to-end of September. Let’s hope it finishes early this year. Will our outfitting company be reliable and safe? Let’s hope so. At the very least, whatever happens there will be a few stories and photos to share once we’re back. See you in mid-October!

Namasté!

Often, we say that “no news is good news.” But the fact that you haven’t heard anything certainly isn’t always a good thing. Especially not here. Here in Spain, it seems you really have to stay proactive; if you actually want action, you should be the one doing it. Frustrating, perhaps, to not be able to rely on others, but certainly a good life lesson. No one else (with possible exception of some family and friends?) has my best interests at heart.

I was waiting for my driver’s licence for over five weeks, after being told that it should come in about three. But the DGT (motor vehicles department) were waiting for a letter of my previous experience in Canada. I delivered this to my driving school the day after passing my practical exam, and was told all would be well, they would pass it on with the rest of my documentation. Of course, the school was closed for August (as many shops are here), but even before they left, they must have known that my letter (from Quebec’s SAAQ) was not accepted… I’d asked specifically if there needed to be an official translation or something… “No, this should be fine.” Sigh.

I finally phoned Monday (first day everyone’s back at work) and was told: “Oh yeah, you need to go to the Canadian consulate and get a letter in Spanish that states your previous driving experience.” Oh yeah? And said as if this were obvious. So, you were going to tell me this…when? Then what, I bring the letter back to you? “No, you’re better off if you go to the ministry and drop it off yourself.” (Ahem, *I’m* better off?)

Anyhow, after discovering this fantastic piece of news, I immediately rushed out to get said letter from the Canadian consulate (not an easy place to get to from where I live). Then grabbed the train/metro/train down to the DGT (not an easy place to get to, from the Canadian consulate). I made it just before they closed on Monday…phew, well done! But was told: “The letter needs to show the date your original licence was issued.” Okay, I say…here it shows that as of [date] I had N months and M days of experience. It’s the same thing. We can easily calculate the date of the original licence…I’ll do it right here and now for you, if you like. “Nope, we need the date to be written in the letter.” The man in the DGT, in an effort to console me, pulls out his own driver’s licence to show me where they will eventually need to put my date.

So, next day, I make the same (very out-of-the-way) trips…to the Canadian consulate and then to Tráfico. Tuesday’s consulate letter is identical, except it now reads September 2 (not 1) and now has a sentence that states the date I first received a driver’s licence (a date I calculated myself and gave to the woman at the consulate, who simply trusted me).

Finally, all is well. Apparently I will receive my licence in about three weeks…ha ha…now I get the joke!

A couple of weekends ago, I went on a weekend trip aboard the Gran Azul (Big Blue), a fair-sized sailing yacht, to do my prácticas for the PER (Patron de Embarcaciones de Recreo — aka “Spanish boating licence”). I “passed”, if one can call it that — I don’t know if it was my school or just the general approach to certification here, but it was quite…what’s the word: easy? We were “rubber-stamped” on a lot of the required elements for certification. I suspect/hope there are more exigent schools and sailing clubs out there.

A similar sail-cruising course I took in Canada a few years ago was much more demanding — not to mention safety-conscious. That being said, this was an interesting social experiment: living on a boat with seven other men and our Captain/instructor; full Catalan immersion; practical jokes; ribbing (calling me yanquí, for instance); swimming while far out at sea; seasickness for all but me; excessive drinking (albeit not while on duty) and other shenanigans one might (or might not) expect.

Since then, I’ve been focusing my attention on a completely different topic: Nepal. It’s somewhere both Dulcinea and I have wanted to go for years. I’ve spent all my time exploring flight options (routings, pricing), trekking companies (how many are there to choose from? TOO MANY! and how to choose?), possible hikes to do, visa inquiries. This all culminated with me booking a trip for us in late September/early October. We’ll be trekking through remote areas of Nepal near the Annapurna Circuit, including multiple >5,000m passes (that’s 16,500 feet for you — ahem — yanquís ;-). Higher than any point in Canada outside the Yukon. And considering the highest point in Quebec is well under 2,000m, it’ll be quite something for me (Dulcinea has been just over 4,000m in the Atlas Mountains).

So there’s plenty to do in the coming month: immunizations (for me, of course she’s had ‘em all); visas from Nepal and India (hope this goes faster than my Spanish visa-obtaining experience); buying and breaking in new boots for both of us; gearing up; continuing our exercise routines for serious high-altitude hiking; making sure we have proper insurance coverage; you get the idea. There’s a lot.

Certainly, on one level, we’ll be roughing it. A bit more than three weeks tenting in remote regions (no Annapurna tea-houses for us this time, though we may regret that decision) will probably push beyond our comfort levels now and then (ha — yes, I’m known for the occasional understatement). But I do feel weird about the fact that we’ll have an entourage of something like ten people supporting just us! Ten people for two? Cook, cook’s boy, porters, guide, the list seems to go on forever.

It seems wrong, on one level, yet it’s the basis of much of the economy of the region. It’s a poor area, but one which does not rely on handouts. I know we’ll be shamed by how hard they work, and all that on our behalf. Well, we’ll have to see — I’m curious to see how it feels once we get there. In my fantasies we’ll have a very “authentic” experience, establish relationships and get a feel for the real people who live there. At the same time, I doubt this will happen: dropping in for a fully-supported trek strikes me as quite artificial. We don’t belong. Or do we? Hopefully, more come on that topic, in a couple of months!

For years, I’ve had an enigmatic response to the question: “What are you doing?” With certain friends, at least, I tend to reply: “I’m making soup.” (Regardless of what I’m actually doing, you understand.) It became a kind of inside joke. But until now, I never knew what it meant.

Dulcinea and I went to see a great documentary film at the Verdi Park cinema yesterday: “Cómo cocinar tu vida“. Here, it was subtitled in Spanish, but the original English title is: “How to Cook Your Life” (it’s in English, although it’s a German production).

The title comes from a book written by Kosho Uchiyama Roshi, which expands (or distills?) the philosophy from Japanese Zen Master Dogen’s 13th-century text: “Instructions for the Zen Cook”. Roshi, in turn, passed on his wisdom to chef and disciple Edward Espe Brown, who is the central focus of the film. What an interesting, complex character — quirky, anxious, short-tempered…in short, human. But also wise, witty and caring. In the film, he teaches people (at a retreat centre in California) how to cook, and at the same time, a great deal about how to live.

You don’t have to be Buddhist to appreciate its wisdom. It’s a sweetly charming film. The main character, Brown, chef and Zen Master, may take a bit of getting used to, but he does grow on you… And I bet you’ll have (at least) two reactions to the film: a vague hunger (to know more, perhaps, but at the very least simply to eat good food) along with a desire to cook. Healthy, good food. Made with attention and love.

This is something I’ve always appreciated: that when I cook for people, I’m focused on them. Long before they arrive — even as I plan what to make, shop for groceries, do the preparation or cleaning — I’m thinking about them. It’s a private way of caring. I see the same thing with Dulcinea’s mother: when her British-raised grandkids come to visit, she spends all day slaving in the kitchen for them, trying to figure out what “weird Spanish food” they will eat. She is a fantastic cook. But they’re not the most appreciative guests. Mostly, they just complain about the food. Yuck. All they want are croquetas and ketchup. And their mother (her daughter) sometimes gets upset that, by spending all this time cooking, she spends no time with them when they came all this way to visit. But I understand her. She is just caring for them, in her own way.

The film gave me a good reminder that people don’t have to like what you make. In fact, regardless of what you make and how good it is to you, it’s impossible for it to please everyone. This applies to cooking, but also to everything else.

I am a perfectionist. I hate to fail, or to be seen to fail. Or to imagine others are seeing me fail (in reality, when I think they are, often they aren’t). This can apply to many things, from cooking to, say, driving tests. If I’d failed it, so what? Sure, I’d have had to pay a bit more money, spend more time doing classes and exams, wait until September to try again…all of which would be a nuisance, but so what? It would be no big deal, really. Certainly not worth all the stress and worry I put into thinking about the possibility.

And with food, there are varying tastes — perhaps some people don’t like seafood. Or your gourmet cocoa-butter-fried sweet potatoes just don’t taste enough like McDonald’s fries (sigh). It doesn’t take away from what you’ve done. Even worse — for all your hard work and “love”, it still may not turn out to be a great meal. The dough is scorched and yeasty or the chicken is too dry. Yes, you may (in fact, you’re likely to) make mistakes. Well, we’re all damaged. We’re all imperfect. Sincerity means letting your flaws show. (read that last sentence again, and think about it for a moment — do you believe it’s true?)

Apparently the film is now available on DVD (in North America, at least). Find out more (and watch the trailer) here.

To roughly paraphrase Suzuki Roshi (from what I remember in the film):

“When you wash the rice, wash the rice. When you’re cutting the carrots, cut the carrots. And when you stir the soup, stir the soup.”

For me, it was a true “ahh!” moment. Now I understand. So what am I doing, after I finish this blog post?

I’m making soup.

[WARNING: rough road long, rambling post ahead. It’s a rough cut from a mind with some sleep deficit — but I wanted to get it down before I forget…]

That’s right, today was Judgement Day. I can’t blame last night’s sleeplessness merely on the heat. As loyal readers may recall, last month I passed my driving theory test. I recently entered the next phase, after returning from a trip to Canada (where I used my Quebec licence for the last time). Over these last two weeks, I’ve had three practical driving sessions (prácticas), in a car and with the instructor from my autoescuela (driving school).

Josep, my instructor, is not an easy man to understand. Even the other students, who speak perfect Spanish and Catalan, say this. He speaks very quickly, in Spanish (for me) with a strong Catalan accent. He enjoys playing with my surname, trying out variations on how he thinks it ought to be pronounced. Since I know how to drive, the main idea was to acclimatize me to Barcelona driving, get used to possible test locations, and work out the kinks (or manias, as the school receptionist calls them). So for our first session, he had me drive around Montjuïc. This is Barcelona’s “mountain”, full of parks, a castle fortress, giant cemetery and many of the 1992 Olympic installations. It’s also where they tend to do the driving tests. The streets of Montjuïc are notable for two things: tour buses and driving school cars. You can’t miss those hundreds of practice cars, with their distinctive panels on top and blue “L” signs in the back window. (I’ve been assured this does not stand for “Loser”.) Unfortunately (for my pocketbook), mine had to be 90-minute practice sessions, since driving or returning from the Montjuïc area takes about a half-hour from where my school is located. (Word to the frugal: choose a driving school close to the Montjuïc/Poble Sec area!)

Josep was quite happy with my driving, enjoyed chatting with/at me, although he couldn’t help his driving instructor ways, sometimes telling me when to shift gears, shouting ¡tranquila! or no corras if he thought I was going a bit too zippily in the 40km/h zones. But he said he liked the way I drove, that my driving was very suave. In spite of this, he likes to shout. Really took me back, around 20 years ago, to my first driving school lessons. Often, as we were returning back along Gran Vía or up Marina past the Sagrada Familia, he fell asleep. He kept lurching awake in the stillness of traffic lights. I asked him what time he got up in the mornings: 5am. And goes to bed (or rather, falls asleep in front of the TV) around 2am. Fortunately he gets some catnaps in during the day, too. At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about paying someone so much money to doze off… on the other hand I can’t imagine a much worse fate than being driven ten times a day (generally by bad drivers) from Guinardó to Poble Sec and back. He’s a “real character”, as they say, but ultimately he’s caring, and a good teacher (all that sleeping and smoking aside).

It’s very unlike learning to drive in North America. You can’t just get a learner’s permit and drive with your parents, for example. And even an expert driver couldn’t do it all in one day — in several weeks, maybe, if you’re lucky. In California, 15 years ago, I did a theory test, eye test, driving test, had my fingerprints and a photo taken, and received a shiny, hologram-bearing licence, still hot from the machine. All in a few hours. I don’t remember how much it cost, but I’m pretty sure it was less than $50.

I think maybe you can learn with your parents (or friends) here, but only if they’ve equipped their car with a full set of duplicate pedals — clutch, brake, gas. But who would do that? Hence the autoescuelas. Pay to install pedals in your friend’s car, or pay a driving school. Once, when we were late (due to heavy traffic), Josep told me ¡corre, corre!: floor it! He groaned when I stopped for an amber light. He said that, although it’s a “little illegal”, he wanted to take full advantage of his short (45 minute) lunch break, in a 9am to 9pm day. As I raced back as fast as I legally could, a few times I’m sure I felt the gas pedal sinking to the floor under my foot, as he pressed it down on his side.

The second session, we drove around the one-way hilly streets of Poble Sec. The third one (just this past Tuesday) involved cambios de sentido, which are U-turns. I asked if I should parallel park, and did one, but we didn’t really practice that (I’m good at it, anyhow). On Montjuïc, there are many roundabouts, strange multi-lane traffic flow structures which you need to be familiar with for the exam. In my exam today, I wasn’t asked to parallel park (the nightmare of most North American first-time drivers), but was asked to “reverse my direction” twice (essentially, find a legal way of doing a U-turn). I also went out on the autopista, headed for the airport. In fact, after all my nerves in the past days/weeks about having to go through this test (and knowing that if I failed for some stupid reason, I’d have to keep forking out money for at least four more practice sessions and wait for another exam until September), I felt quite calm. Maybe waking up at 6h20 helped — I was too sleepy to be stressed out.

There were five of us (from the school) doing the test today. We met at 7am, and Josep elected one student to drive us to the test area. Three of us piled into the cramped back seat, and one other student met us at the test location with her moto. All the others were young and nervous, a couple of them doing the test for a second time, and somehow I found it hard to be anxious with people more nervous than me around. I took on a consoling, reassuring, joking and distracting role.

The examiner was a woman, and I think we got lucky because she was very friendly. Josep had told me, when I mentioned my nerves the other day, that the examiners are “obliged” to be well educated and to be in a good mood. I wasn’t sure I believed that — I’ve heard plenty of horror stories to the contrary, but today it sure was true. The three other students went first, and young (19-year-old) Carlos and I were in the last set. He was delighted when I offered to go ahead of him; he wanted a chance to see how it plays out, how the examiner acts. She sits in the back seat, while the instructor (who cannot give any tips or instruction, obviously) sits in the passenger seat — I suppose to work the pedals, should something go wrong?

The first guy was told he’d passed, and the second two girls seemed happy when they got back, so I assumed they’d passed too. How embarrassing, I wondered, would it be to be this guy with years of driving experience…and the only one to fail? But the thought quickly passed, and thankfully I was not debilitatingly nervous at the actual moment (can’t say the same for some moments, lying in bed last night).

As far as having your driving scrutinized goes, it was almost a nice experience. The examiner was soft-spoken, spoke clearly in Spanish for me (although in Catalan with everyone else, and happily jabbering away with Josep during my exam). I assumed Josep had told her, but she didn’t realize I already had a licence until part-way through. We had merged onto the highway (very smoothly) and she made a comment about how I look over my shoulder a lot. It reminded her of a Canadian she tested two years ago (good memory!), who did the same thing. Apparently (she said), in Canada “they’re obligated” to do this. I told her that’s right, shoulder-checking was one of the most important things I remember from driving school. I had worried about this being an issue (people here don’t do it), but she just warned me to make sure they’re quick checks, if I was going to keep doing it. It all made sense (to her) when she finally realized that I am a Canadian-trained driver. Some examiners might have failed me for less, if you believe those horror stories (though I’m not sure I do, any more).

During the test, I figured I was doing fine, because the examiner kept saying “muy bien” whenever I made a lane change or manoeuvre. I was reassured when I saw how others in our group drove — though they’re careful and law-abiding, they’re still a little “rough” with the clutch, brake, gas. It does take time to make it instinctive — I sure remember! By the end of the test, we were even chatting away as she asked me things about driving in Canada. Still, it was a huge relief when she asked me to pull over (just a quick double-parked stop) and hand the reins to Carlos.

At the end of the exam, the examiner asked for my Quebec licence. You’re only allowed to have a licence in one place, so they’ll swap it for a Spanish one (I was planning to mail it back to the SAAQ in Quebec anyhow). The examiner hadn’t said anything, but the fact that she was asking for my current licence gave away (if there had been any doubt) that I’d passed. I couldn’t celebrate, though, because poor Carlos still had to have his turn. He did fine, and (just barely) caught a tricky red stop light about 5 metres after turning at a green light. I (or any jittery examinee) could easily have missed it and thereby failed. But, he spotted it at the last moment and lurched us to a stop in time. Yay Carlos! I felt proud of him.

When we returned to the exam starting point (where the three others were waiting), I asked the woman if I could avoid putting an “L” sign in the car window for the first year, and having the 80km/h limitation put on me. Luckily, I had enough foresight to ask for a letter from Quebec’s SAAQ (motor vehicles department) that shows how many years of driving experience I have, along with my accident/demerit record. I will submit this to the department here, and she has assured me I should be able to have those limitations lifted.

And then, with much paperwork in tow, she was off to another school’s car, and Josep was left to give us the scoop. We were shocked to hear that we hadn’t all passed. The two girls, who went in the second “batch” and had felt they’d passed, both failed (ellas han suspendido). I don’t know why they weren’t told right away. They were quite upset (one of them, who was really nervous, was on her second exam). So the three of us guys had to limit our celebrations to nonchalant handshakes and pats on the back. (around us, other groups of drivers were seen bursting into relieved, ecstatic tears upon hearing they’d passed)

Two of our group disappeared on motos, and Carlos drove the rest of us back “home”. He seemed more nervous and error-prone on the drive back than he’d been during the exam! Ah, well, that’s new drivers for you…

As for me, all I can say is, with a smile of relief so enormous you can’t imagine: ¡He aprobado! I passed!

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.