Where’s Lucifer?: The Chronicles of the Nemesis of Dan

Oh how I have criticised him in the past. How I have lambasted him, sat within the four walls of my bedroom, seething at the prospect of listening to him bark just one more time. How he has led me to question my desire to live on in this world if living means having him around for just a minute longer. Needless to say, I am referring to my one true enemy on this Earth, Lucifer. No doubt, he will have surely caused a surge in my blood pressure in recent months thanks to his continued [successful] attempts to infuriate me. Make no mistake, he enrages me like no other. Yet, over the last few weeks, I have lived a peaceful existence. My apartment building has been so blissfully quiet. Mysteriously quiet… Too quiet. What brought all this stillness in the air and thus, absence of rage on my part, to my attention in the first place? After all, a lack of a particular sound to which one is accustomed to hearing hardly grasps the attention in the same way as does the sound itself. Well, as reliably and as true to himself as ever, it was Lucifer, as he personally delivered me a noise-ridden reminder of his existence.

The other night, I was subject to a particularly violent episode of cacophony, in which I wondered, as ever, what it might take for him to show me mercy. I know Lucifer to be ruthless at heart, so the idea of him ever relenting does not strike me as a dream that is one day likely to come true. With that in mind, this most typical of outbursts of his, which I must now – taking recent proceedings into account – describe as an isolated incident, makes this whole period of relative calm all the more difficult for me to understand. Clearly he still is and has been around, as illustrated by the latest debacle, but he could surely not have decided to spare me by granting me this momentary respite. That is just not his style. Which is why so much of this makes so little sense. My default stance at this time is to exercise caution, for he may simply be toying with me; lulling me into that sense of security, so oft referred to as false, and for good reason. I am letting him get in my head, I know, but at least I am aware of it. But then again, maybe he knows that himself and wants me to know that he knows that I know that he is in my head, thereby working his tricks on me further. These appear to be the musings of a mad man, driven to extraordinary lengths by a life-long adversary. This, I think, illustrates just how far I have been pushed by nemesis. However, to my bewilderment, it is that same nemesis that has afforded me the period of tranquility of which I speak. What is his play here? And just where has he been? What has he been up to? Where many questions remain, few answers lie…

The thought has just come to mind that perhaps some of those reading will not have the faintest idea of what I’m going on about. For their benefit, let us recap briefly. Lucifer (an alias; his real name remains a mystery) is my unconquerable opponent, weighing in at around 15kg and standing at just over 1ft tall. He is, as of course many will know, a dog. A suspected English Cocker Spaniel, no less (pictured below). Now, Lucifer has spent much of his adult life tormenting the residents of my building in suburban Barcelona with his indomitable and clamouring spirit. He is, by a country mile, the loudest dog that I have ever come across and seems to hold my inner peace, most disappointingly, in the lowest of regards. I came to the conclusion some months ago, based on the countless instances of him making a racket outside my front door, that he had it in for me. Flatmates have come and gone over the course of my stay here, which has left me as the one permanent inmate to which Lucifer has been able to subject his fury. As such, long ago began the classic tale of Dan vs. Dog in which I have been driven to the brink of insanity and have yet done very little, if anything at all, by means of retaliation. I mean, what can I do? My nemesis is a dog! But my nemesis Lucifer remains, nonetheless. And he is a nemesis, in every sense of the word. And, mark my words, he knows it.


The English Cocker Spaniel – forever more ‘The Lucifer Breed’ as far as I’m concerned

Why then, that when I bring it to the attention of my dearest readers that I have been living in relative peace of late, thanks to some time spent in blissful ignorance of my adversary’s continued existence, do I do so as if to suggest that there might be something missing in my life? Should I not appreciate the lack of Lucifer’s woofing? Should I not be positively joyous in this most victorious of moments, when I can finally enjoy some much-needed quiet in the comfort of my own home? Yes I should be and, to some extent, I certainly am. But what this period of calmness has taught me is that this war of wits that rages forever strong between myself and Lucifer, that which has suffered something of a lull, might just be a necessary evil. Like Quorn, for example.

In the same way that I count him as my nemesis, the fiercest of all the foe that I have encountered in my lifetime, including Mike Dean and that wasp which once, unprovoked, stung me in the face in the middle of Leicester Square and then proceeded to go about its day, I regretfully count Lucifer as the yin to my yang. The darkness to my light. The evil to my good. One does not exist without the other; he is the unstoppable force hurtling towards me, the immovable object, the two of us forever locked in a battle from which no man, canine, or otherwise can ever emerge the victor. Whereas once I would think of the question, ‘who shall prevail?’ with regard to my ongoing rivalry with the canine opponent, I am now resigned to the fact that there shall be no prevailing. I am forever condemned to be taunted by a noisy animal, intent on going for a walk and barking until he is granted his one request. Dan vs. Dog. Good vs. Evil. These are all but synonyms for the cogs of the clockwork that constitutes the same perpetual cycle. This is my life now.

Lucifer’s recent placidity remains, and forever will remain, a mystery to me. Who knows why he decided to play it cool, operate on the down-low, only to spontaneously spring back into my life by returning to his usual woofing ways, as if to say, “I caught you enjoying that quiet time, didn’t I?”. Honestly, yes he did. But with my enjoyment came the understanding that this novel business of quietness was a temporary gig. I could not expect for it to last, in the same way that I cannot expect the sun to never set and for darkness never to take hold. I knew that Lucifer would some day return and, for that reason, I could not enjoy the fleeting victory with quite as much verve as perhaps I should have. Naturally and so true to form, Lucifer did return this week as I was left back at square one, fighting the good fight, containing my rage as best I could, as he went about doing his best impression of a pneumatic drill. Just to make it clear to anyone that might be overlooking the glaring truth of the matter here; dogs cannot do impressions of pneumatic drills. Dogs cannot do impressions of regular drills. In fact, dogs cannot really do any impressions at all. As such, Lucifer made a lot of noise, doing his best to sound like a power tool, but succeeding only in sounding far more like a dog, and so resumed the war…

He has since slipped off the radar once again, no doubt planning his next act of retribution, the sly bastard. Who knows when he will launch his next attack. I lie in wait, living in a state of apprehensive anticipation, with Lucifer’s movements becoming ever more difficult to read. I would describe him as a wily old fox were it not for the fact that he is a dog. And dogs are rarely regarded as wily. Yet that is how I would describe Lucifer. He operates with a guile that leaves me, more often that not, second guessing. Thus, I could easily think of myself as doomed to an eternity of torment at the paws of a rowdy hound. However, I can at least clutch at the solace that, soon, I shall be leaving Lucifer behind. Soon, I will be interrupting our feud as I move out of the building in which we both currently reside. Perhaps true to the saying, this Catalan apartment building ain’t big enough for the both of us, although I must emphasise that I did have this move planned beforehand. I’m not moving out as a means of throwing in the towel when it comes to the spaniel.

Indeed, I will soon be on my way, leaving Barcelona and venturing to the capital to see what opportunities await me there. At the end of the month – how time has flown – I will be heading to Madrid as my Year Abroad regrettably draws to a close. I reassure you, fair readers, that this is not how I will be ending my account of my time in Barcelona. I will be sure to write a glowing appraisal of my experience of the city, using superlatives aplenty that will never quite do it all justice. But, for the time being, my mind is on Lucifer and what he might make of me legging it to Madrid. He may well think of my departure as a definitive victory, the nail in my coffin that pronounces me defeated once and for all, but I know the truth. I know that, one day, our paths will cross again and we shall continue to wage the war that has had me so preoccupied all this time. I don’t know how it will happen but I know, as sure as am I that the sun will set tonight, that I will see him again and that he will somehow find a way to piss me off. Do I look forward to the day that we meet and reconvene our conflict? No. But I do acknowledge that it will come and, for that reason, I must ready myself and hone my steely resolve in anticipation of this unfortunate reunion. Whilst he is undoubtedly the rival I most loathe in this world, equally he is the one which I most respect, given that it is his name which comprises my full list. Until next time, Lucifer, you provocative, exasperating mutt. Here’s to many more years of epic warfare.


The Rain in Spain: David and Dan in Tarragona

* Cats everywhere… No cats in Barcelona. Conspiracy theories? *

Well that is certainly an interesting way to start to an account of my exploration of Cataluña. The above comment is a note I left myself some time ago – when I originally intended to write an entry on my visit to Tarragona – to ensure that I did not forget to mention the cats. The all-important cats, of all things! Take into account my previous tale of a mischievous dog and the mention of a cat absentee conspiracy, and this all starts to point toward one seriously misplaced set of priorities on my part. I do wish to make some assurances; I am not obsessed with cats. Promise. Why did I not just delete the original comment and save myself this protracted explanation? Well, I say, the people need to know the truth. They both want it and – I believe – can handle it. The very simple fact of the matter is that there were a lot of cats around in Tarragona on this particular occasion. Right, is that understood? I do hope so.

OK then, that is the cat situation covered. Consider yourselves updated. On to the real subject of today’s entry, then: my expedition to Tarragona. Prior to this trip, I had had ample opportunity to get to know the Autonomous Region of Cataluña a bit better and yet, up until that weekend with my Spanish compadre, David, I had just about fully neglected that option. However, that’s not to say that I hadn’t been enjoying myself here. I developed a fascination with kettles when I first arrived, lest we forget. So then, there we were late one Saturday afternoon, the intrepid adventurers, described as such regardless of David’s mum hailing herself from Tarragona and him having spent much time there for that very reason. Quite frankly, for David, this trip was about as much of a novelty as it would be for me if I were to pop over to Essex to visit my family in Southend. Nonetheless, he seemed excited and hopped on a train that ran along the seafront – a pleasant route – although not before I took my chance to mess something up. In a moment of pure absentmindedness and outright foolishness, I managed to first turn up at the wrong station, waiting there, shifting about anxiously as David somehow failed to appear before me outside, as we had agreed. Predictably, he had gone to the correct station and was, therefore, the one waiting for me. He can be so irresponsible like that sometimes…

With David reprimanded for his failure to remind me to go to the correct train station and then having the cheek to not even turn up at the wrong place, we were on our way to Tarragona. We sat and chatted, as friends tend to do, catching up and discussing David’s careless antics until I was served up with my first real sighting of one of Spain’s many wonders; the Spanish answer to the UK’s beloved ‘chav’: the cani. Canis, my dear friends, are quite simply incredible. Prior to my first experience of them sat on a train in Cataluña, David had on numerous occasions told me tales of their legend, showing me YouTube videos such as this:

The cani really is a sight to behold, and a social phenomenon that really lives up to the stereotype. During our journey and after pulling up at a station about halfway to our destination, our attention was quickly caught by a group of youths stepping onto the train, who – and I never normally use this expression – stank to high heaven of certain memorabilia. The carriage was instantaneously filled with thick fumes of a herbal variety and soon I could see the eyes of fellow passengers beginning to glaze over. Elderly onlookers were not best pleased, mind, visibly huffing and puffing at this outrage, crossing their chests in the fashion of a crucifix, evidently looking to have a word with the Lord Almighty to both pardon and prevent the misbehaviours of these rapscallions. As for myself, I sat in my seat in amazement as these kids of surely no more than 15, in some cases, periodically began to fulfil each and every one of the ‘Cani Criteria©’.

It was amazing. Firstly, each of them, without fail, was dressed in the appropriate attire, the sportswear so characteristic of the canis (please consult above video documentary). All of them spoke in a near incomprehensible, slang-ridden manner that had me struggling to understand a single word and had even my Spanish companion straining rather more than usual to grasp the meaning of the animated chatter. Yet another stereotype dedicatedly adhered to: their choice of listening material, projected from mobile phone speakers for added quality and enjoyment. The ‘music’ they played can quite accurately be described as some of the worst known to man. It was brilliantly awful, delightfully terrible. ‘ElectroPop EuroGarage’, you might call it, but you’d most likely be wrong. You simply had to sit back and smile at the thought of their musical taste. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, they were all clearly high as kites!

Onlookers sat back, passively inhaling the haze, looking disgruntled and yet, somehow coming eventually to feel decidedly more comfortable in the company of their younger peers. The heavily observed group of youngers was not aware of its majesty, of course, but these guys and girls were proving to not only provide me with my first experience of their legendary urban myth of a kind, but also an education. They were fascinating to observe. David Attenborough, as I have it according to my most reliable of sources, has recently spent considerable time in Spain pursuing footage for a new BBC documentary based unquestionably on the cani. They deserved all the screen time available to mankind ever. I really can’t recommend highly enough taking some time out in your busy lives to travel to Spain with the specific task in mind of observing this mysterious bunch. It is quite the experience.

Most disappointingly and altogether too quickly, our time with the canis did eventually draw to a close, with both David and I utterly enchanted. He seemed to have enjoyed the encounter nearly as much as I did. Not quite, though. Mere moments after bidding farewell to our social unicorns, with the both of us still reeling with delight at our recent sighting, we were in Tarragona. There, we were met by some blustery winds and the mission of finding our hostel for the evening. Leaving the station in our wake, we strolled off into the night. Now, I must highlight at this point that I regard myself as something of a rookie when it comes to staying in hostels. I have yet to dabble in a touch of inter-railing or something equally cool and so my experience with hostel stays is limited, at best. Thus, as David and I stood at a turning that led down a dark and narrow alley, along which he insisted our room for the night was to be found, I was sceptical and wary. The scene was quite frankly sinister. There was great potential for us, along this alleyway, to be assaulted, molested, robbed or killed, and probably even all of the above. We decided to tread with caution.

Now, I invite you to consider that I have watched and enjoyed many of the films of the Wrong Turn franchise. Typically in these ridiculously written ‘slasher’ films, the cast ensemble consists of a group of less than 10 and, by and large, there is only one lone survivor who remains at the end. The critical juncture in the case of each and every Wrong Turn film is, predictably, a crossroads or a fork in the road, one route leading to the guarantee of safety, and the other, to inbred cannibalistic hillbillies with a thirst for 20-something-year-old blood. Guess which route is always picked. So, with our party consisting of two on this dark and windy night in Tarragona, I ranked both David’s survival chances and mine as unfavourable, based on my viewings of Wrong Turns 1-5. Yet, as the naïve cast members always do, we ventured down this poorly lit path full of bad omens and suspense. The mood was not improved much as we reached what appeared to be an abandoned reception at the end of the alley. We opened the door and rang the bell. No response. We rang again. Nothing. I knew then that the time had come for my untimely demise via some poorly executed hacking of an axe from a bloodthirsty lunatic. I stepped outside to see if anyone was around – a rookie error by all accounts in such horror flicks. We had split up. As I waited in the courtyard, my eye was caught by what turned out to be a group of black kittens, the four of them huddled around something that seemed tasty as they all crouched together, gnawing away at an unknown object. It was probably David’s little finger by now, given that we had been apart for all of a minute and, if I was still alive, then surely the same could not be said of him at that point. Unnerved by the tiny felines, I stepped back inside.

Our prospects for the evening

Our prospects for the evening

As it turns out, we were not to be cast members of a gritty horror that night, as we did indeed survive without so much as an ordeal. David was alive and unharmed and a normal-looking man soon came and greeted us at the reception desk, handing us our room key and wishing us a pleasant stay. I did for a moment though, I must admit, make eye contact with the man in question to check for signs of depravity or murderous tendencies. Thankfully, there were none. Nothing doing. So with that, we dropped off our stuff and headed out for an evening of heavy drinking at, among others, a bar furnished inexplicably with furniture on the ceiling; a dinner of pinchos; and the company of a gay, naturalised Spanish Ukrainian man, his Argentine-Italian boyfriend and girlfriends of theirs who looked impossibly old in spite of their ages of 18 and 15(!) respectively. It was a fun night, indeed. We returned to the hostel, caring decidedly less about the sinister feel to the place, and agreed to set up with the sightseeing in the morning.

Early afternoon came. With our eyes bleary and heads aching somewhat, we stepped out into the light of day and slight drizzle of rain, found ourselves a restaurant and proceeded to enjoy a [candle-lit (lacking in candles, I just wanted to emphasise the ‘bromance’)] three-course lunch. I say enjoy, when really I mean endure. The fallen soldiers were suffering slightly from the night before. But that did not dampen our spirits. We were determined to the see the sights of Tarragona and nothing would stop us in our quest to do so. Nothing, that is, apart from the weather, which had taken something of a turn for the worst. It was bucketing it down with rain. Yet, dear readers, did this prompt us to call it a day before it had even begun? Did I lead us to thoughts of ‘oh well’ or ‘better luck next time’? No it did not. Bravely, we stepped out in to the falling water – the most dangerous of substances – and began our day of damp sightseeing.

Were it not for the rain, it would have been an excellent day. As it was, it was an amusingly different one. The streets emptied as the rain continued to pour, leaving David and I the town to ourselves. Onwards we walked, refusing to admit defeat at the hands of some precipitation. As it just so happens, Tarragona is a really nice little town; very picturesque and very Roman. David, being the well-read individual that he is, proved an excellent tour guide as we passed Tarragona’s port – which, according to David, often has moored one of the many yachts in the fleet of one Roman Abramovich – the amphitheatre and the cathedral basilica, all of which were simply charming. After all of this, we were absolutely soaked through. Dryness soon became a distant and abstract concept, illustrated as follows:

IMG_0866 IMG_0856 IMG_0865 IMG_0846

Indeed, there would have been glasses of water dryer than us on this rainy Sunday afternoon! Yet, on we went, still refusing to give in to the conditions until finally, David asked me if I wanted to get a churro, to which I replied that I most certainly did. Sat dripping in a café, and by that I mean dripping, as small puddles formed around the arms of our coats, we ended up ordering chocolate waffles and generally loving life for being out of the rain. Thankfully, as we made our way back to the train station, it subsided slightly and we were able to begin the drying-off process that would prove to take some days to be completed. The funny thing is that I’m not even exaggerating slightly when I say that. Nevertheless, as we sat speeding towards Barcelona, cold, tired and oh so very wet, we sat and laughed at what had been a great trip in Cataluña. So now we know, readers, the rain in Spain does not fall mainly on the plane. Rather, it falls mainly in a small Catalan town named Tarragona.


Castelles – a statue of Catalan tradition


Freight ships sailing out from the Tarragona port. Still no sight of Abramovich – updates to come.



Dancing with the Devil: An Update on the Nemesis of Dan

Fair readers, the title of today’s entry may come as a shock to you. Rightly so, as I doubt many of you will have been aware that I have troubles on my mind. You all must have assumed, from reading how delightful my experiences of Barcelona seem to be, that my life here is plain sailing. Well, the fact of the matter, sadly, is that all is not quite that straightforward. I do, indeed, have a sworn enemy. An adversary who I cannot overcome and yet cannot overcome me. Here in Barcelona, I have landed myself a nemesis. For those of you who have browsed the archives or, rather, the second page of Dan Makes a Friend Called Spain, entitled ‘Thoughts and Rambles‘, this entry shall serve as an update rather than an introduction to my nemesis. For the majority, it will be just that; an introduction. However, in order for my blood pressure to remain at favourable levels, I invite you to have a quick peek at the thought entitled ‘Animal Cruelty’ to bring yourselves up to speed with the current state of affairs. I really do think it would be better for us all if I were to avoid launching into another full-scale rant regarding my nemesis, who shall hereafter be referred to as Lucifer due to his flagrantly evil spirit.

Right, so I imagine you’ve all done as I have asked by now and read up on my fierce feud with Lucifer. For those who haven’t, just for you to enjoy a bit of perspective, Lucifer is a dog. A real bastard of a dog, at that. He looks very much like this – deceptively cute – which leads me to believe that he must be an English Cocker Spaniel (of course his would have to be an English breed):



Due to my very infrequent sightings of Lucifer, I have yet to capture him on camera – which, in any case, would surely perplex his owners. Why, after all, should I want to take a picture of their dog? For depraved purposes, they would likely suspect. Might I add it to my shrine to English Cocker Spaniels, per chance? I don’t think so. The last thing I need is having my neighbours think that I’m a shifty and peculiar character whose life purpose is to take pictures of strangers’ pets. Hence, photographic evidence of Lucifer remains unavailable for me to add to the blog. Anyway, I decided to write an entry dedicated to him because, the other day, after updating the blog on my experience of tequila not breaking my Spanish (see previous entry), I suffered an encounter with him. Now, suffice it to say that he has caused me much anguish and, for that, I do not much care for him, to put it lightly. Again, if you after a more scathing critique of his character, please refer to Thoughts and Rambles, to the thought dated at 03/02/2014. He certainly does know how to enrage me with his barking, does old Lucifer. In fact, ah yes, there we go. As I sit here writing, I can hear his wild howling that so often causes me to cultivate a mad fury deep in the pit of my stomach, reserved solely for him. Today, I clock his incessant yapping at 18:55 – a very acceptable hour by his standards.

Indeed, I ran into Lucifer this week. Heading out into town, I bumped into a number of my neighbours in my apartment building, which for some reason is also a rare occurence. As I strode down the stairs, I was encountered with a gentleman dressed fully in lycra – a cycling purist – wheeling his bicycle in the opposite direction towards the stairs, necessitating a moment in which I would have allow him to pass. And then, I saw him. There he was marching confidently through the door at the bottom of the staircase as if he owned the place. There was Lucifer. He was being ushered, along with another canine companion, into the hallway by a black gentleman I have seen around only a handful of times. I only mention the man’s race, by the way, because it seems that him and the elderly Catalan woman who lives next door to me must share that flat. This comes as a pleasant surprise, simply due to my past experiences of Spanish people of her generation harbouring unsavoury views toward those of other races and ethnic backgrounds. All the better for these two that they are embracing a more progressive approach to life by living together (I am, however, totally speculating at this point). Regardless, that they are sharing an apartment by no means excuses them in my eyes from owning Lucifer.

Dan rages as he thinks about Lucifer

Dan rages as he thinks about Lucifer

Back to the case at hand, then: there we all stood, 3 men, 2 dogs and a bike, doing our best to navigate the staircase. There I stood, my eyes locked on Lucifer, realising who exactly I was staring at and feeling an anger beginning to bubble inside. We all smiled at each other (apart from the dogs and the bike, obviously) as we tip-toed around each other until I was directly facing Lucifer, as the man with the bike squeezed past me. In that moment, I contemplated dropping to my knees and desperately pleading with him to, please, shut up or, at the very least, to keep it down just a little bit. But I refrained, and kept my white flag safely guarded in my pocket. Instead, I smiled at the man holding his leash as, all of a sudden, Lucifer jumped up at me, resting his front paws on my legs, and stared intently into my eyes, as if to say, ‘I will break your spirit. If it’s the last thing I do, I will. Your card has been marked’. I matched the gaze of my nemesis for as long as I dared. We shared a moment of disdainful respect for one another until his owner tugged him off my lap, made his apologies on Lucifer’s behalf and disappeared up the stairs. ‘Well’, I thought to myself, ‘Lucifer is on to me. Game on’.

Except this is no game. Lucifer and I have endured a savage feud for many months now. He refuses to back down and I simply have to put up and shut up with his perpetual barking. This brings to mind a favourite Spanish expression of mine: ‘ajo y agua(which translates literally as ‘garlic and water’), abbreviated from a joderse y aguantarse. This crude turn of phrase, for which I will refrain from providing a direct translation, but is essentially the Spanish equivalent of ‘put up and shut up’, describes my options perfectly in terms of dealing with Lucifer. He will one day be the death of me. Indeed, my mind was on him for most of my time spent out and about following on from our confrontation. That was, until I returned home.

Dear readers, I must now assume in earnest that my apartment building is home to demonic spirits, which serve solely to possess its canine inhabitants. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, evil forces are at work. I have reached this conclusion having witnessed another dog, upon my return, going batshit crazy. Just as Lucifer howls vociferously as he is about to leave the building, the dog I saw as I walked through the hallway was scampering dramatically towards the door and practically choking herself with her collar, such was her determination to go for a walk. The problem for the dog in question was friction. With the hallway of my building furnished with polished marble floors, the poor pooch was attempting to make for a swift exit but, hindered by her lead and a distinct lack of grip to the floor, she (assuming, as I am, that it was a ‘she’) achieved little progress. The result was her scuttling along with her legs in a wild blur, as she covered the most minimal of distances with her preferred technique. If she had simply walked in an orderly fashion towards the door, she would have easily halved the time spent sliding around the hallway that she did. The demons clearly wanted her to behave in a frantic manner to put the rest of us at unease. All of us, that is, apart from the dog’s owner who, again, appeared unfazed by the antics of his pets. These people! They simply must be in cahoots with the evil fiends that possess their pets. My next step must surely be to call an exorcist in order for us to be rid of this wickedness. If not, Lord knows what might happen.

It is in times like these that I miss my cat! Coming to think of it, where are all the cats in Barcelona? Maybe I am just beginning to make a discovery; beginning to uncover the tip of an iceberg. The iceberg that is the mission to exile all cats from the Catalan capital! Who knows how far this operation extends. Maybe I am too late, and maybe the cats are long gone. Then again, who knows if the plan really even exists… This could all be Lucifer’s doing. It probably is, you know, such is his treachery. He is a worthy adversary, alright. My tormentor. My nemesis… I will be back to you all shortly for updates on our antagonism if and when they develop.


Tequila Does NOT Break Dan’s Spanish

… But it has broken my spirit. Actually, yep, screw this. I am hungover as hell. Certainly too hungover to be blogging. I will tell you about it tomorrow…

31st March 2014 (some 8 days later):

Dearest readers, I am sorry that I lied to you. In my desperately hungover state, I boldly claimed that I would tell you about my latest of experience of tequila ‘tomorrow’ (see above for any clarification). As you may have taken note by now, I did not tell you about it that following day. Nor did I spill the beans the day after that, nor the day after that, etc., etc. … For this, I wish to apologise. Yet frankly, you didn’t miss out on much. As the title suggests, even in my sorry state that developed ferociously soon after waking up on the sofa of my favourite Venezuelan friend (of which I have a grand total of 1), I was able to converse with her in Spanish without too much trouble. Well, not so much converse as complain of an aching head and great regret for having drunk so much the night before. In fact, the volume of alcohol I consumed on the night actually had a fair amount to do with Luz – translated as ‘Light’ in English and pronounced more or less as the word ‘loose’ –  who is something of a tenacious little latina lady when it comes to convincing me to drink far more than I should.

After preparing her housemates, friends and me a delectable meal, such is typical of her generous nature, she proceeded to ‘pop bottles’. Birdman and Lil Wayne would have been proud. The contents of a couple of tequila bottles were quickly depleted thanks to the dogged determination of my South American companion to ensure that all in attendance knocked back shot after shot. The lemon, liquor and salt were all out in force. After time – an alarmingly brief period – as the wells of tequila began to run dry, Luz was able, with some considerable cunning, to trick us into downing further shots, presented as ‘tequila’… Tequila, they were not. She had us downing shots of vodka (which she had poured into an empty tequila bottle, somehow without anyone seeing). Worryingly, it took a number of us more than one attempt with this latest concoction to realise that our barmaid for the evening was pulling the wool over our eyes. Thankfully, I soon wised up to the deceit and stemmed the flow of booze to my system. Not before, that is, Luz was able, finally, to delegate me the task of seeing away some red wine left over from dinner that she had at least in principle intended to drink herself, or so she said.

The end result, needless to say, was a drunken group of individuals, which constituted of 2 Swedes, 1 Englishman, 1 American, 1 Venezuelan and a Pole (a Polish person – we didn’t form an international gang and wield a sole weapon between us of a pole as our means to instil fear in our rivals). It all sounds like the makings of a terribly poor joke. Without discussing the details of our punchline, we soon left Luz’ flat to go and wreak havoc on the streets… or rather, just to go to a club. An entertaining evening, for sure. Followed by a diabolically unpleasant headache the following morning, as is both deserved and to be expected. Regardless, the hangover is a familiarity, most regrettably, which never becomes more bearable. It did, however, on this occasion provide me a lesson (no, not to stop drinking for good): I can now say with conviction that my Spanish has notably improved since I first arrived in Barcelona way back when. I have the scientific evidence to prove it and everything! Well, er, sort of. I now have the pseudo-scientific evidence to prove it. Cast your minds back, if you will, to September 2013, during which I went out for tequila-filled night. The result was this.

Indeed, at that time in my fledgling Catalan career, equipped with an apocalyptic hangover having drunk a toxic amount of tequila, I was simply unable to string two words of Spanish together – let alone a sentence. I remember giving in to the pain fairly swiftly on said occasion and accepting that words were not destined to leave my mouth that day, in any language for that matter. I was well and truly hurting. Yet, back to the present day – or thereabouts – and I now have a barometer of sorts to measure the quality of my spoken Spanish. My capability to speak the language after my recent night of tequila consumption dropped far less than on that initial occasion. Therefore, with the independent variable of my consumption of [an unspecified amount of] tequila and the dependent variable of my level of spoken Spanish, I can accurately conclude that my Spanish has improved. All I have to do is look to the results! Whether or not I specifically needed the independent variable of tequila-drinking to formally examine the extent of my improvement is a question which, for the time being, remains unanswered (does it, really, Dan…?). What I can at least say for sure is that, in terms of the tequila and its attempts to foil me in my own attempts of speaking decent Spanish, I have come, I have seen and I have conquered.

My vanquished foe

My vanquished foe

The sad truth for me is that this merely represents a victory in a minor battle in what is sure to be long and hard-fought war against this vicious Mexican beverage. I am almost certain to continue drinking it, despite my better judgment, and it will no doubt leave me in a sorry heap on each and every day after the night before. So this is a victory that I will savour and will be sure to look to with fondness in my more desperate of moments, when all points to tequila holding the upper hand. The war rages on but, for the time being at least, I have the spoils of my triumphant battle to enjoy.


Dan Reaches the Top of Barcelona

DISCLAIMER: In the latest instalment of Dan Makes a Friend Called Spain, Daniel writes in a far more sentimental fashion than that to which he is accustomed. Snide remarks come at a premium and he may even make the odd comment that is commonly regarded as ‘cute’. For this, he can only apologise but he did really have a very nice day on Sunday 9th March 2014. That which follows in this blog entry is a detailed account of a walk that Daniel took around the city of Barcelona. And some other stuff. On a side note, he would like to inform you that his legs now somewhat ache. Soon, you might just understand why…

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I had a truly excellent day yesterday. A very tiring day at that, but my fatigue did not at all detract any enjoyment from what turned out to be a fine Sunday in Spain. As I opened the blinds of my bedroom window in the morning, I noticed that the weather was great; the sun was shining, the passers-by were out in force, donning T-shirts and sunglasses, and there was but a cloud in the sky. Having spent all of Saturday sat at home watching football – a perfectly good experience in itself, as Chelsea thrashed an amazingly hapless Spurs side at Stamford Bridge – I knew that today would be my day. Today I would leave my flat (and return at a later hour, I don’t mean to imply that I would be gone forever). Quickly, I decided upon going for a walk. Now, generally speaking, I do not ‘go for walks’. If and when I walk, I do so with purpose, with a destination in mind. I have never been one to simply step outside and see where the wind blows me. But on this Sunday morning, that is exactly what I did. Oh, how Spain has changed me.

So off I went to see the wind would take me… albeit initially with a place in mind: el Parc del Guinardó. I had previously heard that some excellent views of the city were up for grabs at the park in question, so, with the weather as good as it was, I took off on my solo mission to find myself some breathtaking views. And breathtaking views I found. I ambled through the characteristic streets of my Spanish home and, after a lengthy stroll, reached the park. Only then did I appreciate that, in order for me to enjoy the views for which I had gone there, a little bit of hiking would be required. It was certainly a warm day for a hike but I thought myself up to the task. Off came the jacket and on came the steely determination to reach the ‘top’ of Barcelona. I can now confirm that the reports are true, that the views from the top of Guinardó are simply astounding. The park stands as a lone mountain of sorts in the middle of the city, meaning that an extensive view of Barcelona can be enjoyed from practically all angles, regardless of where you are stood. And I must say, it is just lovely up there.

The beautiful view of the city #nofilter #quiteobviouslyafilter

The beautiful view of the city #nofilter #quiteobviouslyafilter

At the ‘summit’, joined by my fellow hikers and tourists, I hopped over a low fence to sit atop a raised platform that overlooked the city in an easterly direction, facing the sea and some of the city’s most iconic locations. A platform, I might add, that had no railing at its edge to prevent people from falling off and hurtling towards their imminent death, or at the very least, a severe injury. Meelie, my aunt and an impressive enforcer of Health and Safety regulations, would have surely reeled at such a sight. Yet my seated neighbours around me seemed largely untroubled by this hazard and I was fairly at ease myself. So there I sat, gazing upon such renowned sites as La Sagrada Familia, Barceloneta and some of the city’s finest and most famous hotels, listening to music which was perfect for the setting: the ominously titled Songs to Break Up to is a fine piece of work from Ta-ku, an Australian producer, and is certainly an album to evoke an emotional response. I will revisit this music shortly, but for the time being, I would like to focus on a pleasant discovery I made whilst sat overlooking these majestic views.

My discovery was that I had found myself a muse, and that muse was the city I live in: Barcelona itself. The proof lies in the fact that here I sit, typing away, when typically, it takes me a good few weeks to come up with any content worth harping on about. As I surveyed the city sites in all their glory, the thoughts came flowing in, ranging from the prospective to the nostalgic and I felt the sudden urge to document them all. Barcelona had inspired me to write! It was a nice feeling, to say the least. Now, if I were an author, I would undoubtedly have jumped for joy (and probably fallen from the perilous platform to my doom) at the thought that I had overcome my crippling writer’s block. But as it stands, I am but a lowly blogger. Regardless, it was an alleviating sensation. Barcelona has become my muse, and it is a beautiful one at that.

Nice day for a stroll

Nice day for a stroll

So these thoughts of mine then, inspired by the city I live in. Well, partly inspired by the city. Beyond doubt, the trajectory of my thought process was dictated, too, in no small part by the music which I sat listening to. Songs to Break Up to is an interesting title for an album, indeed, and a thought-provoking one. Each song is titled to describe a different stage of the break-up process and captures the essence of that title most fittingly. Ironically, I would suggest that it is definitely not an album to be chosen as listening material in the event that your relationship is brought to an end. It will leave you in pieces; a gloomy shadow of your former self.  Now, here is where the music I was listening to and the sights I was seeing combined to inspire me. Naturally, they made me think of the ‘relationships’ of my short life and, thus, of the ‘break-ups’ which I have experienced. I have placed both words between inverted commas because, as you shall soon see, they hardly count as valid experiences of each, respectively. Thus, what needs to be noted at this point is that I am absolutely not an authority on the whole business of break-ups. Maybe Songs to Break Up to, in fact, should be a go-to album when you regrettably come to end a relationship with somebody. Maybe you need to allow yourself the time to be utterly miserable if you are to truly heal, and maybe that means listening to a 10-track album that will surely compound your misery, leaving you in a self-pitying and equally self-loathing mess. Then again, I could be completely wrong. I just don’t know. Such were the thoughts that ran through my mind as I sat atop Barcelona.

The experiences which for some reason were most on my mind were those initial interactions with girls, in which I would typically employ phrases such as, ‘will you go out with me?’ and, ‘yeah, I’m going out with [insert name here]’. For me, the relationships and the break-ups came thick and fast during my early days at school, spent amongst my peers of my class, 7 and 8SL. A 12-13 year-old lothario, the modern-day answer to Casanova, I made quick work of courting the attention of numerous girls of my class in my early secondary school career. I smiled in Guinardó on this most beautiful of Sundays as this thought came to me and I looked back fondly on this period, during which I spent much time thinking myself something of a player. What is so funny and so very ironic about it all was that, upon achieving my initial task of grabbing the attention of the girl that I did so ‘fancy’ the most, who inevitably topped the prestigious list of my ‘Top 5’ – an ever-changing list devised, perhaps uniquely at my school, denoting each of our five most desirable boys/girls of the time, certainly not to be sniffed at under any circumstances in those days – communications would subsequently and immediately be cut to a minimum between us. This happened each and every time that I found myself in a ‘relationship’ with such lady classmates as Lauren, Lizzie, Freya and Shadi, among others. These are names from such great times in which I was ‘going out’ – again ironically, doing the exact opposite, and not going out at all – with girls, which had my confidence brimming, as I was clearly something of a catch (what happened…?). Quite the player, Dan, quite the player indeed. Defining moments that stuck out in my mind on this fine afternoon in Barcelona were as follows:

  1. When I made the claim to some of my classmates that I liked Lauren more than peanut butter – the highest of honours.
  2. When I bought Lauren the DVD of Mean Girls and she hugged me for the very first time.
  3. In the same exchange as that mentioned above, in which Lauren gave me some Skittles and a brimming pack of multi-coloured and personalised pencils, all of which donning my name, Daniel.
  4. When Shadi and I spoke over the phone about a wet flannel she had found in her bathroom.
  5. When Freya and I lay on the carpet in her living room and shared an awkward moment of almost kissing and then wisely deciding against it (we would have been ‘going out’ for many weeks by this point in time).

These are the 5 moments which propped up my very early history with the opposite sex, when I, along with many of my other male peers, was just coming out of my shell and striking up the confidence to engage in different conversations with girls. These were the moments that I looked back on as I cast my gaze across Barcelona, wondering how on earth I had got to where I am now, having come from such an uneasy and uncertain navigation of my early teenage years. Of course, I was dumped on various occasions by my early ‘girlfriends’, who realised well before I did that our relationships were farcical by nature, that we were still so young and needed not to be tied down by such serious commitments as these, but instead just to move on with our lives. Lauren thought nothing of the sweet gesture of mine to buy her a DVD that I knew she would so enjoy (such was the rave for Mean Girls at the time) and cruelly disposed of me. We were destined to be ‘just friends’. Regrettably, on one occasion I was the one to do the dumping, an experience which cut me to the core. In a swift and brutally executed conversation, I suggested to Shadi that, perhaps, we were also better off just as friends. In grown-up world, when the ‘just friends’ suggestion is made, it very rarely comes to fruition yet, luckily for me, Shadi and I remain great amigos to this day and she has become a far more successful young woman than I could ever dream to be (although I don’t dream much of becoming a successful young woman).

What a strange way of living in those early days of school, I thought to myself in Guinardó. A way of living not only considered the norm at the time, but one which was enthusiastically encouraged amongst each and every one of us. It was as if, collectively, we had indoctrinated each other to think that there was no more to life than having an impressive set of names with which to comprise your ‘Top 5’. How funny it all was at this formative and important stage of our lives. Needless to say, it all soon passed; we grew up, matured and have all since come so far. As I descended down the side of the miniature mountain in the park, I thought to myself, ‘I wouldn’t change a thing’. At that moment, a flock of birds, which turned out to be a group of pigeons, caught my eye as they flew past me and into the sun, overlooking the city. It would have made for a great picture that would have captured the notion of ‘Freedom’ perfectly, had it not been for their refusal to a) stay in the air long enough or, b) take flight again after landing in their preferred spots, cooing away. I tried some gentle encouragement for them to give it another go but basically just ended up mildly harassing some poor pigeons, as I intruded in their congregation:

Not quite what I had in mind

I spent much of the rest of my walk (towards the beach) pondering what had been a delightful experience at the top of a hill in Cataluña. The walk to come was a long one and afforded me much thinking time, which after a while came to focus less on my early experiences with the fairer sex (or lack thereof) and more on my dropping energy levels and increasing hunger. I strolled past my old neighbourhood, which again provoked much nostalgic thinking, past my old place of work, and eventually past La Sagrada Familia, which, as ever looked magnificent in the afternoon sun – but for a few cranes and scaffolding erected for the scheduled rennovations taking place. Walking on and on, I realised that I have so many great memories of this place and I was certainly justified in choosing it as my home for my Year Abroad. I continued past La Monumental, past the Hotel Arts – where I enjoyed such an amazing dinner on my 21st birthday with my family – and finally made it down to the beach, where I promptly took off my shoes, let out a sigh of relief and walked barefoot through the sand and the sea as I thought how dreamy the day had been.

I ended up in an old haunt, a pub on the corner of La Plaça Reial, watching rugby (which I enjoyed?!) as England beat Wales in the Six Nations, eating a well-deserved burger and getting tipsy off some potent pints of beer. I decided as I staggered up La Rambla that it would be perhaps be wise for me to catch the metro home after a full day of walking, in which I clocked up about 20km. A wise decision it proved to be, as I finally got home, slumped myself down on the sofa and promptly dozed off.

La Plaça Reial looking prettyIMG_0715

To you, an arbitrarily taken photo of a standard Barcelona neighbourhood. To me, memories of summers past

To you, an arbitrary photo of a standard Barcelona neighbourhood. To me, memories of summers past.

It was an excellent day.

I walked about 20km in total, over the course of the day

My route: I walked about 20km in total, over the course of the day!

The Exclusive Account of a Fish Monger-Turned-Contraband Smuggler Pt. II

So then, where were we?

The Fish Smuggler

    The Fish Smuggler

I believe I had just successfully achieved my task of chopping up large volumes of tuna and managed to get all of it to fit into one Tupperware container, which would prove to be most convenient for shipping it over to Switzerland. I know, I know… My life can get pretty wild at times. The things I get up to. I just take each day as it comes, you know? Accept the lifestyle on the edge, accept the danger. How else would I ever cope? Anyway, back to the matter at hand: following on from my operation with the fish, I had considered the possibility of running into trouble in either Barcelona or Basel airports’ customs – or both – given that I was attempting to ferry fresh produce across international borders. Yet, I had it on good authority (again, read as: my dad) that I would run into no such problems and that there was nothing to worry about in that respect. I trust my dad but I wasn’t sure of what to make of everything he was telling me, whether he was reassuring me in order to ensure that I remained a cool customer going through security checks, or simply, as he’d said, that there really would not be any trouble with me packing fresh fish in my bag and smuggling it into Basel.

Either way, on the Friday that I was due to fly, I grabbed my bag laden with the potentially illicit tuna and rushed off to the airport. I hopped on a train, sat back and relaxed. Drawing ever nearer to my destination, I honestly hadn’t thought too much of my contraband in tow. After all, I figured, even in the absolute worst case scenario, what were airport staff likely to do; cuff me, inform me that I was ‘nicked’ and then march me off to a Spanish or Swiss prison (or both… somehow) after discovering my banned cargo? No, they would most likely give me a slap on the wrist, if even that, confiscate my contraband and send me on my way to Basel minus one Tupperware container’s worth of Barcelona’s finest tuna. That, I thought to myself, was an outcome I could live with. So, yes, in a way, I was relaxed about pursuing my new career as a smuggler. Nothing to it. Any drug lords, leaders of rings or cartels, or even small-time dealers who happen to be reading this blog and are currently looking into the recruitment of a mule: sign me up! I’ve got this smuggling business all figured out. Send me over to Colombia, Thailand (etc.) or wherever you want and I will get the package to your business associates. I’m that much of a pro these days… What’s that? You want to see some of my qualifications? Well, I’ll have you know that I smuggled some fish from Barcelona to Basel once and no one even asked me about the contents of my [hand] luggage! I’m not quite sure how I’ve suddenly started applying for more smuggling jobs from the leaders of the criminal underworld, but hey: C’est la vie, or es la vida, should I say.

Joaquín "El Chapo" Guzmán, the recently arrested Mexican drug lord, or me after a few years in the smuggling game?

Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán, the recently arrested Mexican drug lord, or me after a few years in the smuggling game?

Moving on, I did indeed manage to fulfil my smuggling duties without even so much as a hiccup. Granted, I had a moment of brief nervousness as I set down my belongings, bag included, at the El Prat airport security check and saw them all disappear behind the rubber curtains of the X-ray machine. Trying my best to appear calm and collected, I am almost certain to have failed as I could feel myself acting in a shifty manner, eager to collect my bag full of the contraband. The alarm went off as I stepped through the detectors myself and I was searched. Standard procedure, of course,  but I suspected that my card had been marked. It hadn’t. After a few nervous laughs as I attempted to exchange a casual joke with the staff member responsible for frisking me, I had made it through security. I had made it through with my tuna! Like I said, nothing to this smuggling game. The only problem which I would now have to confront was more of psychological one as, lest we forget, I am still afraid of flying.

Don’t ask me why but on this particular evening, I was nervous. That doesn’t quite do it justice, I was really nervous. Really, really nervous. Perhaps with all the excitement from the smuggling gig I was undertaking, I had let my imagination run too far ahead of me, always a dangerous idea for me prior to a flight. As usual, I had entertained thoughts of catastrophe, doom and all the others which I tend to associate with flying. Only on that day, these thoughts would simply not cease and desist, they were all that was on my mind. As I boarded the plane I began to feel deeply unhappy, as I typically would, but normally I would expect this to subside after a while. Certainly before take-off, only for me then to begin a new process of freaking out. But on this Friday night, it did not and was only confounded further by waiting a good half an hour on the tarmac in anticipation of take-off. I literally died. *Note to self: develop further understanding of the term ‘literally’*. Waiting around watching other planes take off from the very same runway which my own flying vessel would soon be using to lift off the ground is my personal hell. You may think of the Catholic depiction of Hell, with demons poking out sinners’ eyes with fiery pitchforks, but if that’s where I end up when the time comes, I know exactly what I’ll be doing. The fear I experience in the aforementioned scenario is like no other I’ve experienced. I do not like it.

Anyway, there I am on the plane, fearful for my life as ever as we finally take off, at which point – and I have no shame in admitting it – I buckle under the pressure of it all. I leaned over to my fellow passengers sat beside me, and asked them that, kindly, they take a moment to talk to me, so that I do not have a full-on meltdown. They turned out to be a very likeable Catalan couple who made it their mission to ensure that I was OK, which I appreciated very much at the time, as you might imagine. Soon, I was calm for having spoken to some rational folk who obviously knew that we were going to be fine. I thanked them for their time, slumped back in my seat and remained diligently nervous and alert, of course, to ensure that the engines didn’t fail. This is my rationale, question it at your peril. As you may have ascertained by now, flying brings out a deeply troubled, and frankly, disturbing side of me and I am not proud of that. I really must remind myself to fly less. Either that, or simply, to man the f*** up!

Cruising at 38,000ft, I was more comfortable than I had been prior to or during take-off. Still getting over how on edge I had been previously, but settling down at least. That is, until I heard the pilot’s voice come on over the tannoy, at which point, as always, I removed my headphones from my ears, leaving my music to play without an audience in order for me to devote my full attention to this most important of professionals. A note to this man and to pilots in general, for that matter, in the interest of passenger wellbeing: please, for the love of all that is holy, do not under any circumstances begin your opening sentence of your announcement with the following:

Ladies and gentleman, we are struggling…”

That was it. I knew it, I was finally on that flight! My worst nightmares had now become a reality.

“…to serve you your requested drinks and snacks as the cabin crew is running low on loose change[!!!!!!!!!!!]”.

I was most vexed by proceedings. If ever I were to seek reassurance from someone during a flight, my first option would obviously be the pilot, and for this individual to start his sentence so carelessly as he did… Well, needless to say, I died again. Literally. However, sure enough, despite my conviction that we were doomed, we proceeded safely, only for the flight attendants to be donated the change they needed from the passengers and for the next incident to illustrate to me that, surely, I had actually lost the plot; that my nerves were shot and my fear had caused me to become delusional. A brief 30 minutes before landing, the tannoy sounded again, only this time for the voice of a member of the cabin crew to be projected:

Ladies and gentlemen, with 30 minutes remaining of this flight the crew will shortly be passing through the cabin, offering you the chance to buy boutique items”, exclusive this, top-of-the-line that, the usual, blah blah blah… “Cigarettes, fragrances and CHICKEN FILLETS…” Pardon me. Come again? What had I just heard? I’ve been partial to the odd piece of poultry from time to time, but offered some on a plane??? Don’t think so. Equally, I quite enjoy the effects of the silicone breast-enhancing tools oft used by women these days but surely, there’s a time and a place! Of course, I’m sure I completely misheard but this led me to wonder what had actually been said in the first place. I was honestly ready to be cuffed by men in white coats and driven off to the nearest Swiss institute upon landing. After all of this, mercifully, the flight came to an end and I decided that, in hindsight, I thought myself quite silly for being so scared, as I always do.

Notwithstanding, waiting at a Basel bus stop to be taken into the city centre, I was sincerely shaken, relieved and, above all, confused after all that had occurred during the flight. As I stood there slowly recovering my status from ‘nervous wreck’ to ‘gratefully content’, a duo in uniform awaiting the same bus as me, I assumed, caught my eye. It soon occurred to me that these two must have been the pilot and co-pilot of the plane that I had myself just been on moments beforehand. Using my considerable powers of observation, I deduced from each of the pair’s blazers that the man stood directly to my right was the pilot, based entirely on the greater number of accolades decorating his arms. What I noticed next shocked me to the core. Bear in mind that I view the professions of pilots and flight attendants as those that, of all vocations in the world, tempt fate most. Don’t these people doing these jobs realise that they are putting their lives at risk each and every flight? I mean, I’m aware that the popular daredevil, Evil Knievel, was prone to a fair amount of danger in his life but, really, he had nothing on the brave (crazy) men and women who make a living from being on a plane all day, every day.

Onto the shocking sight, then: the pilot, the man who so daringly carries out his work, was stood casually at the bus stop with his colleague looking generally at ease – chatting, smiling and… smoking! There he was, equipped with a lit cigarette, dragging away and apparently thinking nothing of it. Well, I thought, this man clearly did not value his life as I do, as many other non-smoking, non-pilots do. What a truly audacious individual. In the initial moment that I noticed the cigarette between his fingers, I could feel myself screaming (internally) at him, “What?!” What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate as it is?” I was unsure of whether to condemn or applaud this man’s life choices. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, he must have been one crazy character, what with all these perils that he would inevitably confront on a daily basis. That was about it for me after all of the evening’s events. I officially gave up. I stepped on to the bus and proceeded to have a great, danger-free weekend with Dad and Emm.

Based on all that went on cruising through international airspace and, subsequently, at a Swiss bus stop, I consider it safe to say at this point that, perhaps, contraband smuggling may not be the career for me. Whether that contraband might be tuna and/or cocaine or heroin. What a promising career prospect that now lies in tatters. Oh well, I’m sure something will come along eventually. Maybe I’ll look into training as a pilot…


Just so you readers know, I sat writing the final sequences of the second instalment of The Exclusive Account of a Fish Monger-Turned-Contraband Smuggler (Watson, 2014) aboard a flight to London, where I am currently to be found for a few short days. A flight that, might I add, I seemed to actively enjoy! What is it with me? I have concluded that I quite simply must be a strange person. I imagine that many of those reading this who happen to know me arrived at that same conclusion long, long ago, but at least now I can finally acknowledge it myself. I really have no idea why, on one flight I can fully lose my cool and, with that, evidently my sanity and on another I can grit my teeth and bear it (or even enjoy it). I guess that’s just the way I is.

Well friends, thank you for accompanying me on my emotional roller-coaster that was travelling from Spain to Switzerland with a few lumps of tuna in my bag. It’s been a blast. Until next time… Hasta la próxima.

The Exclusive Account of a Fish Monger-Turned-Contraband Smuggler Pt. I

Dearest friends, I have a tale to tell. A tale relating to my stay in Switzerland this weekend gone. A tale of crime; a tale of intrigue; a tale… of seafood.

Allow me, if you will, to set the scene: Switzerland is a country with which I have become increasingly familiar over the past few months given that Basel is the city – a Swiss city, at that – in which my father resides and a place which I have visited various times for that reason. That, and I do quite like it there, just as I predicted I might prior to my first trip. The Swiss, as a people, seem to trundle along quite nicely in their lives, without even so much as a sniff of political scandal, for example, or a national crisis thrown in for good measure. MPs making trivial expenses claims at the cost of the honest tax-payers? Government officials accused of scandalous behaviours or corruption? The banking sector plunging the nation into dire economic straits? No, none of that, thank you. I mean, come on, this is Switzerland after all. They just all seem to be OK and they’re OK with that (obviously). But – as in all places, there is a ‘but’ – one shortcoming which my dear, old Dad has been quick to pick up on with regard to his new home is a distinct lack of supply in a particularly important area. You readers may, as well-read and learned individuals, have the thought occur to you upon reading this that, perhaps, Switzerland lacks oil reserves. Perhaps gas might be the issue, since, as we all know, these are the fuels which make the world go round. These, and of course, smiles… But no bother. The Swiss are quite fortcoming with their supply of the latter and the fuels are imported without too much trouble. So, what then, might be the commodity which they are lacking so badly? Well, as the title suggests, as does the fact that Switzerland is a landlocked country, it just so happens to be fish.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that one can purchase a fish in Switzerland. I actually have it on good authority (read as: my dad) that it can be done. In fact, coming to think of it, I have even seen somebody with my own eyes do it in a supermarket (a sight to behold if there ever was one). However, the problem for fans of fish such as my dad is that it is most difficult to get your hands on a nice, fresh bit of fishy produce. Most unfortunately, fresh fish is just not readily available in Swiss lands. I have said the word ‘fish’ quite a bit in this paragraph. Anyway, with his beloved and only son residing in Barcelona, as I do for the time being, Dad requested that I bring him some fresh bluefin tuna over from La Boquería. Importantly, he reminded me, I would need to ask for said tuna to be vacuum-packed so as not to ruin the rest of my luggage with the tuna-ish(??) odours. If anything, the vacuum-packing of the tuna was almost a more vital aspect of the transaction than the tuna itself. With that in mind, what happened when it came down to me standing across a counter in Barcelona’s most famous of markets, pointing at the tuna steaks which I so desired, can hardly come as a surprise.

That’s right, I failed. I bought my tuna steaks – all 2 kilograms of them, served to me in 2 slabs – only to ask after the euros had exchanged hands that they vacuum pack my produce for me. Some would say a rookie error, others, desperately unlucky. I count myself as a member of the school of the latter; it just so happened that, of all the fish stalls in La Boquería – of which there are many – the one from which I bought the tuna was one of an overwhelming minority which was unequipped with the appropriate machine to be able to carry out the vacuum-packing… My heart sank. Well, maybe not to Titanic levels of sinking but, using the sinking boat analogy, it would definitely have resembled a small dinghy which had taken on a fair bit of water. So, there I was, stood in the depths of the famous Barcelona market with a green plastic bag in hand, filled to the brim with two hefty fillets of tuna, hatching my next plan of action. I wondered around numerous stalls like a lost schoolboy looking for his mummy, with blind hope in my eyes. Hope that someone, somewhere might find it out of the kindness of their heart to vacuum-pack my fish. Off I went to start my strange conversations with the various vendors behind the counters of their stalls, which, by and large, went a little something like this:

Vacuum-pack my fish?” “No.”

This was a brief and blunt dialogue which took place all too often for my liking and soon prompted me to call it a night. I was on my own. I, the fish monger with a grand total of zero fish-mongering experience, would have to devise a way for the chunky slabs of tuna to be packed and shipped over to Switzerland in an appropriate fashion. This, I knew, would be no easy task. Imagine the loss at which I found myself as I walked along La Rambla, wondering what on earth I was going to do with my non-vacuum-packed fish.

Imagine two of these bad boys, each bigger than this

Imagine two of these bad boys, each bigger than this, sat on my kitchen table, presenting me problems

Fumbling with my keys as I stood at my front door, I knew that I would have to find a knife in the flat, sharp enough to slice up these sturdy steaks. I was, at that point, not optimistic. But, my heart – the same heart that had sunk moderately at the fish stall in La Boquería – leapt for joy as I found a triumphant looking utensil which, until this very moment, I had never before seen in my kitchen which would be perfect for the job. With the tuna steaks sprawled across the kitchen table, juices messing up the place and smells permeating the entire flat, my career as a fish monger began in earnest. I got to the chopping and practically doused the surfaces of the kitchen, as well as my body, with tuna juice. At first, I must admit, it was a struggle. I was out of my depth but, as time passed and I honed my skills, the process became increasingly simple and remained consistently fishy throughout. An interesting experience, indeed. My evening was spent entirely by chopping up tuna and employing copious volumes of cling film but, finally, I had amended my earlier failures and had now become an amateur/semi-professional fish monger. Now all I had to do was get my newly wrapped tuna to Switzerland…

Dan Becomes a Learned Fellow

Hola amigos! It’s been a while. Have you lost weight?

Before I get this entry up and running, allow me to address the elephant in the room which is my outright lack of words posted to the blog in recent times. I appreciate, firstly and most likely, that many of you don’t care all that much and, secondly, that your lives do not revolve around what is written in an unimportant account of one student’s life in Barcelona. However, knowing some of you as I do, I can only hazard the guess that, since you have not heard from me in many weeks via my bloggy musings, you must have assumed that I am, a) M.I.A. or, b) dead (probably the latter, let’s be honest). However, I can happily report that I am very much alive and that my excuse to you all for my recent lack of ramblings is that I have actually dedicated myself wholeheartedly (perhaps 3/4-heartedly) to my job of late.

Indeed, over the past month or so, I have knuckled down and become nothing less than a scholar in the field of American healthcare. I may be throwing the term ‘scholar’ around quite freely there… Notwithstanding, for all those of you out there who are genuinely fascinated by the U.S. health care system – its shortcomings (in abundance) or its surprisingly promising initiatives (which do exist) – and are yet baffled, frustratingly so, by the colossal complication that is the entire system: please, look no further. For I, Dan, the one who once so whimsically claimed to not have the slightest idea of what he was doing at work, have learned things. I have grasped a basic and, dare I say it, decent understanding of just exactly what is going on in health care administration on the other side of the pond. Now, with terms such as ‘Integrated Patient Units’, ‘scope-of-practice laws’ and ‘bundled payments’ to be boasted in my arsenal, I possess a long [scholarly] list to reel off to any passers-by who will kindly spare me the time of day.

The problem, as I have always known and fully appreciated, is this: who really cares about any of the things that I have learnt? Needless to say, I applaud each and every effort, wherever it might be made, to improve health care, a subject which I have now read about extensively. But I will be the first to raise my hands and admit that my newfound subject of expertise is hardly a great one for capturing the imagination. Nevertheless, I do have a great idea for an advertisement to get your pulses absolutely racing, which goes as follows: “Are you troubled by your lack of understanding of a health care system which has little to no effect on your daily life? Do you desperately need to learn more? Are you convinced that your only feasible option to better yourself is to ingest truckloads of information about American healthcare? If so then, boy, do I have the guy for you: Daniel Watson!”

In all honesty, I do my work an injustice by writing so snidely about it (‘snide’ being the tone which I have found, worryingly, to come most naturally to me). It is meaningful work I am doing here and I am very much enjoying myself doing it, despite my best efforts to make you believe otherwise. I have been dubbed, affectionately so, as ‘El Consentido’ by my colleagues which roughly translates to ‘The Spoilt One’ and I have even taken a step closer to fame during my time at IGS:

A number of weeks ago, I was given the responsibility of narrating an introductory Institute video into English. Hailing from the blustery shores of the UK, as I do, I have become something of a prized asset in the office, given my superior handle of the English language amongst all of us (groundbreaking news, I know). With my impressive skill just about mastered over the years, I was quickly entrusted with this narrative task and subsequently met with the appropriate powers that be to get the production of my narration underway. Feeling like an artist who recently had signed a multimillion pound contract to a world-renowned record label as I was led through the doors of a fancy studio, I sat down, put on my headphones and let the magic commence.

No sooner had I finished up the recording than my colleague informed me that my predecessor in this very studio had been something of a celebrity. In this room full of expensive equipment and the expectation of the masses lay the echoes of the stars who had generously graced it with their presence, my own now to be included to the illustrious ensemble. He who sat in the chair (read as: throne) before myself, I was told, was kind of a big deal. This was no ordinary man. This was a man whose legend needed no introduction for it was none other than Pepe Mediavilla. The one, the only, Mediavilla; Spanish voice actor responsible for the dubbing of many works of one Morgan Freeman and the not insignificant roles of Mr. Spock from Star Trek and The Lord of the Rings’ very own loveable wizard, Gandalf. I was preceded by the Spanish voice of Gandalf, bitches! I know you’re all thinking it, but I’ll say it anyway: I had reached the big time.


My predecessor, Mediavilla

Here’s the great man at work with the classic line, “You shall not pass!” (No puedes pasar!):

So Pepe Mediavilla, eh…? His were the standards which I was expected to live up to. Thankfully, following my day’s work in the studio, I was informed by the very same, very likeable colleague who had told me about Mediavilla in the first place, that not only did I have a very ‘commercial’ voice but also that, with this commercial voice of mine, I could very well pass for a German(?!). I have no idea how that second compliment – if I can even describe it as such – ties in to what we were trying to achieve, but suffice it to say that, prior to that moment, I had been blissfully unaware of any notion that my voice could somehow resemble that of a German… You live and learn, I suppose. And with that old adage in mind, what I can report to have learnt from this experience is that I am but a few steps away from becoming the German answer to the popular and bearded wizard from Middle Earth, despite having no prior knowledge of magic and a fairly unwavering certainty that I am, in no way, a German person… Seems legit.

Further to my pursuit of fame and scholarly development, I am also becoming quite the well-travelled fellow. My struggles with the concept of flying remain forever strong, yet surmountable, as I have learnt with ongoing practice. Next weekend, I once again make my way to Basel, Switzerland to catch up with the old man and, but a few short weeks ago, I was spending a very pleasant weekend in Bristol with Abby to celebrate her 21st birthday. She seemed pleased to see me when I arrived, which is always an encouragement, and I remain fond of her myself. Upon my arrival in Bristol, and with me revelling in my new circumstances of once again being on land, we drove off into the night to have ourselves a ball of a time for a few short days. I returned to Spain all too soon, but I was grateful for the time spent with Abby and catching up with friends in Bristol who were doing their best to forget about me. Back in Spain, I was more than happy to be in a more Mediterranean (read as: acceptable) climate. My God, it is cold in Bristol (something which I had quickly forgotten)! Furthermore, on the day of my return, I had the great excitement of the match to be played between Manchester City and Chelsea at the Etihad Stadium to look forward to, a daunting game for Chelsea fans worldwide. Deliciously, Mourinho masterminded a great win for Chelsea, I screamed like a little girl to my heart’s content and the boys in blue have been going strong ever since.

And so here I am now, sat at my desk with my thoughts fixed firmly upon the day in which I have a grand library built into my home, filled with leatherbound books and stylish refinement throughout. Maybe I’ll buy myself a tiger, just like Mike Tyson did. Maybe I’ll keep my tiger in my library. So many possibilities… I think I’m letting this learned, well-travelled and famous idea run ahead of me, or maybe I’m not letting it run far enough. What I do know is this: I have learnt a thing or two since I first arrived in Spain, I enjoy every minute of it and I am determined to get back on to the righteous path of blogging. Looks like I have work to do yet… Hasta luego, people.

Dan Rekindles the Spanish Friendship

Hello friends! Happy New Year!

The year is now 2014, a 4 now rests upon the mantle previously occupied firmly by a 3 for a total 365 days. For the Christmas period, I returned to the UK for a limited time only, enjoyed festivities aplenty in London with my dear family before seeing in the New Year in Salisbury with Abby at a dinner party of which she was the host and which captured the essence of sophistication effortlessly; I got drunk and spilt red wine over a family friend’s leg. Soon after the clock struck midnight, we esteemed guests – her nearest and dearest – took to the streets of Salisbury, generally got pissed and had ourselves a good time. With that it was 2014.

Not much has changed in my life during the early days of the New Year. I failed to see The Hobbit during my time at home which a very good friend of mine took as a personal betrayal, rightly so, given that we had planned for weeks to go together upon my return to London… Sorry, Richard. I developed a ferocious addiction to GTA V, ate copious volumes of chocolate, drank too much with(out) friends and went to see Anchorman 2 (about which I had mixed feelings) before defiantly going out the night before my flight back to Barcelona, returning home at nearly 5am and promptly attacking a full wheel of Camembert with a only single accomplice. One day, I am fairly certain that I spent over 12 hours straight playing GTA and had my meal of the day of a sole Jaffa cake (to maximise playing time, obviously), just to gauge the intensity of the addiction. ‘Why let yourself get so addicted to a game?’, I hear you ask. I see your question and raise you: ‘Have you played GTA V?! It’s GTA f***ing V!’ Yes, it was a healthy trip home that could well have killed me had I been back for a full month!

En route once again to Barcelona and somewhere between fairly and critically hungover (see above for ill-advised night out followed by excessive cheese consumption), I contemplated vomiting merely twice; once in the car on the way to the airport and once, far more earnestly, upon my arrival at Gatwick. Most fortunately, I managed to avoid all vom sessions, much to my relief. Proud of my accomplishment of not throwing up, I triumphantly hopped on the plane back to Barcelona and managed to survive the entire flight, feeling much better at that.

Anyway, not much has changed in my life in 2014 in Spain either. I experienced a short spell of insomnia, I have begun to lead a healthy lifestyle once more, living mostly off salad and paella, and a few days ago, became an exam invigilator, strangely enough. I really have done it all! People should come to me in an attempt to soak up all the wisdom I have to offer from my 21-year life, with all of this life experience of mine… I took a break from Spain, through no fault of her own of course, and I intend to enthusiastically rekindle our budding friendship. Picture us, me and the entire landmass of Spain, that is, strolling hand in hand down a beach somewhere exotic, chatting, laughing and having a good, old catch up as we walk into the distance and eventually out of sight. 2014 shall be a good year. Spain told me so.

A Broken Promise: Dan Returns to Switzerland

Yes, good readers, I am making my grand return to the least aligned of all places in the known world, and indeed, human history. Switzerland shall be welcoming me once again with open arms tomorrow evening. Herein lies my broken promise: a matter of a few short weeks ago, I was experiencing Basel, the tranquil Swiss city in which my padre resides, for the first time. During my stay, I drank beers aplenty with him and my boy, Phil, who had flown over from London. Phillis, the name by which many know him, including myself, took quite nicely to Switzerland, as I felt I did too. On a side note, he is fully aware that ‘Phyllis’ is, in fact, the correct spelling of his chosen name technically, but equally feels the need to distance himself from association with the stereotypical old lady who goes by the same moniker, sat at home in a poorly upholstered armchair, sipping her Earl Grey tea from a china mug, surrounded by her 28 cats who provide her with her sole company. By the end of our trip to Basel, Phillis (spelt with an ‘i’) and I made the promise to each other to never again return to the nation of Switzerland, for reasons that shall soon be made known to you. Phil, all I can say is that I’m deeply sorry for what I am about to do: I am about to break that promise. I am about to go back to Switzerland…

My friend, who is not and never will be a cat lady (he hopes), and I, as a duo shared the purpose of the trip to Swiss lands; to venture to Sankt Jakob-Park, the home ground of FC Basel to watch the home side take on the mighty Chelsea, that team in blue which remains forever closest to our hearts, in the Champions League. Of course, my primary goal in Switzerland as a lone traveller and son, was to visit my daddy-kins. A goal which I accomplished with aplomb, might I add. Funnily enough, the language employed between myself and my taxi driver upon my arrival in Basel airport was Spanish given that my knowledge of the German language stands at the impressive total of ‘fuck all’! Thankfully, this helpful fellow, hailing originally from Algeria, boasted a passable level of Spanish in his arsenal, occasionally confused with Italian, which I ever so generously overlooked as I was truly glad of his ability to determine my destination in this unknown city. Of course, I would have simply pointed to a written address on a smartphone screen if I had simply had said address documented somewhere that day, which, as you have probably ascertained by now, I did not. Technology, namely texting services, failed me on this cold evening. I digress… I shall, however, be mentioning the cold again shortly.

IMG_0438 IMG_0440 IMG_0441

The time spent with mein vater (check that out, I wrote something in German!) was short and sweet, for he had to jet off to Nottingham for work a few days after my arrival in Basel. We shared glasses of port and juice (on separate occasions), the latter of course blended by our fair hands, he showed me his technologically kitted-up flat, around the city, what to do, what to see, and by the time Phil was due to arrive, I felt that my dad’s Basel orientation class had served me well. At the city train station I picked up my trusty companion who had inexplicably decided against travelling to Switzerland without a coat (a truly foolish decision). After a dinner of pints of lager and pretzels and a night of spooning Phil on a sofa bed in my dad’s living room, not out of choice I hasten to add, he and I were left to our own devices in Basel. We scarcely ventured outside, due to the subzero temperatures on offer in the great outdoors, other than to frequent local bars and, on one snowy evening, for Phil to happen upon a water fountain into which he wisely opted to dunk his face and, moments later, a nipple (don’t ask). Strolling tipsy through the quiet streets of Basel proved quite enjoyable, as it is an attractive place to visit, despite the bitter cold which plagues the city at this time of year. For example, views of the Rhine are rather nice at night:


A word on this cold: it is really is freezing. Literally. Below freezing, in fact. And without any of the sweet nectar we commonly know as lip balm at hand during my stay, my face did suffer severely. With temperatures reaching lows of -4ºC on the night of this European football match, I cannot remember a time when I have been colder, other than perhaps atop an almost 20,000ft mountain in Africa – that was just obscenely frosty – but at least then I had the appropriate attire to combat such conditions. I hold it on good authority, too, that these kind of winter temperatures are typically considered as mild. MILD! Winter has apparently yet to truly arrive… Interesting, to say the least. Sat freezing my nuts off, so to speak, I would have surely perished had I spent much longer in FC Basel’s stadium, which to the befuddlement of myself and my friend seemed to be a shopping center that, perhaps by chance, happened to contain a football pitch within. Exaggerating, I am not. Pop in for a bit of Christmas shopping in this neighbourhood of Basel, buy yourself a nice wooly scarf and ‘Hey, while you’re at it, why not come and watch this match, happening right here, right now?!’ It’s quite fun, really. That is, apart from this spiteful cold which did seem to actively want to damage me so.

By this point of my thrilling tale of Basel, you must be wondering why Phil and I would decide to make the extreme commitment to never return to Switzerland. Before you begin to frantically ponder what atrocities we could have been subjected to that would provoke this reaction, let me assure you that this was a decision made purely for footballing reasons. For indeed, Chelsea lost. The loss we can reluctantly accept through gritted teeth, but it is the manner in which Chelsea lost which troubled us. On this bitterly cold evening (I think I have conveyed that it was cold, right?), Chelsea could not muster a single chance on goal. They did not shoot once! For much of the game, Chelsea played on the back foot, with Basel enjoying a home advantage boosted by admittedly excellent home support; these people do like their time over there.

In what turned out to be a fairly uneventful game, we had a fantastic view of the pitch sat practically next to the pitch, opposite the centre circle, thanks to the ample generosity of my dear father (Danke schön, vater – look, I’m at it again!). Bravely, we sat amongst the passionate and vocal Basel fans, and to our utter delight, Chelsea posed absolutely no threat to the Basel defence! Oh well, at least we had the consolation of seeing Chelsea qualify for the knockout stages of the tournament and, far more importantly, making our first TV appearance on Sky Sports (woop!), according to friends sat watching the game at home, looking cold and most likely disgruntled due to the evening’s proceedings. As minutes of play passed, Phil and I began to notice that not only did Chelsea look unlikely to score on this particular occasion, but they looked unlikely even to create chances. Not just chances, at that. Chances to shoot. And so comes half-time. No shots registered. No worries, we’ll surely step up the tempo in the second half. The game proceeds. Said stepping up of said tempo does not materialise. 75 minutes pass of minimal attacking threat from the boys in blue and it quickly dawns on the two of us that Chelsea are simply not destined to score tonight. We begin to hope for a shot on goal. Just a shot, one teency shot, anything on target. Sod it! Off target will do. Just something. Please. Clearly, this was too much to ask as Chelsea responded to our wishes for an attack on goal by conceding one of their own, clocked at the 87th minute, which was successfully converted by Basel’s Egyptian winger, Mohamed Salah (a very good player), as he dinked the ball over the Chelsea keepr, Petr Cech. Good! They lost the game and with that, so too did Phil and I lose the opportunity to see a Chelsea player kick the ball on target, between the posts of the Basel goal. 


Another brave Chelsea comrade sat in front



Great home support

Strolling home in the freezing cold (I’m sure I must have mentioned that it was cold at some point!), we began to theorise that maybe the reason for Chelsea’s failure to shoot was that the manager, Mourinho, had actually instructed his players not to, as shots on target could result in goals, and goals could result in wins. And Chelsea would not want that. Either that or it was simply someone’s fault. We needed a scapegoat. Naturally, we soon landed on Switzerland. Of course! It was all Switzerland’s fault. Thus, we completely rationally and fairly agreed that if Chelsea had lost because of Switzerland, as clearly they had, then we simply had to boycott this country forever… On my part, this boycott has lasted all of a few weeks (sorry, Phil) as I recently booked another flight to visit my dad again this weekend, to be accompanied by my sister and for the three of us to celebrate Christmas together early. Phil’s efforts against the most neutral of nations remain successful. It goes without saying that for me to return to Basel, this once again means flying, which I am slowing coming to accept is quite a safe way to get around. Quite safe. I am yet to be fully convinced. My good friend, irrationality, reminds me that I am probably still doomed. Thanks buddy!

So, with my betrayal of Phil executed and my promise to him lying in tatters, onwards I march to Christmas in Basel.