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.


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.


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.

Turning to the Dark Side: A Weekend in Madrid

Three weeks ago, I turned to the Dark Side.

Despite standing in good stead on the noble path of the Jedi (read as: Catalans) in Barcelona, I did the unthinkable last month and embarked on a journey not dissimilar to that of Anakin Skywalker (a.k.a. Darth Vader), towards becoming a Sith Lord… Darth Daniel… Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, but I’ve started this post with a good number of Star Wars references, so I’ll continue as such for the time being. ‘How exactly did you turn to the Dark Side?’, you may ask. More likely the case that the title of this post has completely given that away, as indeed, I did go to Madrid a while ago to spend a weekend with my Dad and my sister. Assuming, as I am for the purposes of this blog entry, that the Catalans represent the Jedi in this Star Wars setting and the madrileños, (i.e. citizens of Madrid) the Sith, then I did just about the worst thing that I possibly could, venturing to Madrid, towards the Dark Side. A cardinal sin; the one big no-no that the Jedi are meant to avoid at all costs. From the Catalan point of view, Madrid is bad. From the Jedi point of view, the Sith are bad. I suppose it works, more or less.

The convenient and albeit biased comparison to be made between citizens of Cataluña and Madrid was part of the reason for me mentioning Star Wars today, but my real inspiration originates from my initial journey from Barcelona to Madrid: I had a train to catch and I missed it. Did I not leave myself enough time? Was I running late? Was I even vaguely concerned about the prospect of missing my train? No, no and no again. On a sunny Friday afternoon, upon reaching Sants Estació and a queue therein that, as an Englishman, caused me to despair (it was a full circle, snaking round the entire waiting area, with the end of the line starting where the front finished, at the ticket desks), I was feeling relaxed in spite of this flagrant lack of queuing prowess. With a good 25 minutes to spare before the train was due to leave, I hadn’t a care in the world. 20 minutes passed. No movement. Slightly more concerned, but soon thankfully passengers began to be let through to board the train.

But here began my strife. No sooner had I arrived at the ticket desk than I was turned away on the grounds that I had bought a young persons’ ticket (which allegedly I was not entitled to purchase) and needed to pay the difference between the price of this ticket and that of a standard fare… Most infuriatingly, having bought them online, I had seen on numerous occasion during my purchase that there was NO difference between the price of these tickets. Did I make this point repeatedly to the station’s staff? Absolutely. Did that fly with them at all? Of course it bloody didn’t. My complaints were met with blank expressions and resolute stubbornness in their refusal to accept that what I was saying was true. In sum, they made me miss my train and didn’t seem to care too much about it.

This incident, my friends, provided me with the inspiration to loosely base this post on my trip to Madrid on the iconic Star Wars franchise. Cast your minds back to the classic 1977 film, ‘Episode IV: A New Hope’, to one of the first demonstrations of The Force at work, and all shall become clear. On the planet Tatoine, Jedi Master Ben Kenobi, accompanied by one Luke Skywalker and his two droids, C-3PO and R2-D2, is held up by some meddling Stormtroopers. At this juncture, Master Kenobi uses the Force to subject them to mind control, allowing himself and the crew to pass freely. Oh how badly I needed his skills in Barcelona on this particular afternoon, confronted with this uncooperative staff! This is the fancy mind trick from Obi Wan which I’m referring to (3:00-3:45):

A quick wave of the hand and the utterance of a few words to be repeated by my subjects were exactly what I yearned for in face of this adversity. Manipulating the mind of one outrageously unhelpful man, the staff supervisor, would have provided me with much satisfaction after he all but offered me a giant ‘F you!’ as he ushered me out of the queue, helpfully reminding me on the way that if I didn’t get a move on I’d miss the train, which I subsequently did… Hijo de puta. His sarcastic comment of ‘Better luck next time!’ twisted the lightsaber in an already fresh and open wound, and stirred much hatred within me. Yoda would surely become deeply disturbed upon learning this.



Alas, I have yet to master the ways of the Force and his mind was left unaltered. My time will come, of that I’m sure… Two hours of waiting around in the train station followed but, after a surprisingly pleasant train journey, I finally made it to Madrid to pursue my new life as a Sith, to the despair of my fellow Catalan Jedi I was leaving behind.

Much venting occurred when I first met up with Dad and Emm, as I was one stressed guy upon my arrival. I’m normally a fairly relaxed person and so this new Dan, effing and blinding til the cows came home, both surprised and amused the other two, who didn’t quite know what to make of all my new-found stress! We marched over to El Mercado de San Antón, a cool multi-storey food market, where Dad promptly ordered beers for the three of us (or rather, Emm did, as she speaks her fair bit of Spanish too, dontcha know) as we sat down on a quaint roof terrace, full to the brim with socialite-looking folk, and where I began to calm down a bit. I had arrived 2 hours late, but the important thing was that I had indeed arrived. We enjoyed a late dinner, during which time Dad attempted to enlist my services to flirt with the clearly gay restaurant host to ensure that we received quick service from the waiting staff. A father trying to pimp out his one and only son… I didn’t oblige his request but we did enjoy a very nice meal together regardless (good service and all). After that, it was back to the Hotel Preciados for some well earned rest.

The following morning, at breakfast in a nearby cafe, I was formerly dubbed by my dad as the “Navigabado” (using his Spanglish to the best of his knowledge) for the weekend. Essentially, as I had been to Madrid before and spoke Spanish, I was the best equipped of the three of us to play the role of guide since the other two had never stepped foot in the Spanish capital. I did make the point that I had myself only been here once before, for just a weekend at that, but my protest fell on deaf ears. I was the Navigabado and that was final. I guess if I never make it as a Jedi Master, or rather, a Sith Lord, in light of my recent betrayal against my Catalan comrades, then I’ll at least have this as a consolation. And so my role of guide began…

Tourists through and through, we made our way around the famous sites of Madrid: La Plaza Mayor, El Palacio Real, La Catedral Almudena… I took a few pictures as we went:


View of el Palacio Real



Generic street – skilled photographer…

Furthermore, as is customary in the presence of my dear sis, we had to fit in some shopping during the weekend. Such a competent shopper is she, that when my dad entrusted us with his credit card for the afternoon, I feared for the health of his bank account. I say that, but I capitalised on the generosity of my padre just as much as she did and bought myself a new jacket. I left her to it after a while to go and watch Chelsea beat Cardiff 4-1, a result which pleased me. Hours later, Emm returned with not too much to show for her time spent shopping. She actively seems to enjoy it even if it doesn’t necessarily entail buying too much. A modern mystery. Soon after that, we were out the door again, heading to another food market called El Mercado San Miguel, next to La Plaza Mayor, which we all enjoyed greatly, ordering small plates of chipirones and croquetas, and glasses of dry sherry. Very nice indeed. After dinner we went in search of the mojitos served in the bar of the hotel where I had previously stayed during my first visit to Madrid with Abby, which was coincidentally across the road from our hotel. Predictably, the mojitos were delicious and we left feeling highly satisfied.

The following day was to be something of a cultural awakening for yours truly. For all intents and purposes, I am a cultural heathen when it comes to the appreciation of art. By and large, art doesn’t do much for me. Yet, in the city which is home to one of the most impressive and important art galleries in Europe, el Museo de Prado, I thought it best for the sake of my artistic sibling that we go. So off we went, first stopping off at the nearby Puerta de Alcalá:



Strolling around countless exhibition rooms, such is the size of the gallery, Dad and I held our hands behind our back, sporting inquistive facial expressions in order to blend in with sophisticated art lovers. I quietly appreciated paintings from extremely famous artists whose names did not ring many bells for me, but not to any great extent. And then it happened… I came across one particular painting depicting a Roman naval battle being spectated in the background by a large audience housed in a Colosseum. The artist’s name escapes me (much to my annoyance) but, more importantly, this piece of work caused me to actively stop in my tracks and to have an emotional reaction. How did I respond to this unfamiliar feeling?:

So I guess I’m an art enthusiast now. An art enthusiast and a Sith, just from being in Madrid for a few days. Not bad. I’m even getting to grips with my use of the Force too… After saying my goodbyes to Dad and Emm on Sunday afternoon, I headed to the train station to see what troubles awaited me this time. To my pleasant surprise, I found no such troubles in passing security and hopped on to one of those moving walkways – the ones you typically get in train stations and airports – in good spirits. Until, that was, those in front of me abruptly began backing up for unknown reasons. It then soon became apparent that an elderly lady had run into considerable problems up ahead, as there she was, lying flat on her back and being carried along by the conveyor, at the end of which she got completely and hopelessly stuck. Being carried towards her myself by the conveyor, a collision between my feet and her head seemed inevitable. At the precise moment that I was practically stood over this poor woman, I was forced to hurdle her to avoid such a trampling whilst simultaneously grabbing frantically at another senior woman beside me who was in the process of losing her balance and about to fall directly on top of her prone companion. It was a slapstick moment and crisis was averted as I successfully caught hold of the falling woman whilst narrowly avoiding her friend on the floor, all the while using the Force, of course. This woman in question who had first fallen and had consequently sent luggage flying in the process was thankfully unharmed. A bit shaken up as she was helped up by concerned passengers, but alright… thanks in no small part to my mastery of the Force. We all safely made it on to the train and I spent the majority of the journey home, funnily enough sat next to a Catalan priest (read as: Jedi Master), thinking of all my excuses to get back into the good graces of those dear old Catalan Jedi.

‘Twas a good weekend.

Look how much fun I had

Look how much fun I had!

Dan Becomes Public Enemy #1

Three weeks to the day have passed since I last took to my blog about making friends with Spain. Rest assured readers, Spain and I are still on very good terms and we are very much still friends…. But three weeks without what has recently been compared by a friend to a fix of crack cocaine (i.e. one of my blog posts) has to be tough going. Thank you to that friend who once so aptly described them as such. But I must also simultaneously apologise, for at that time I did so irresponsibly claim, staying true to the drug-related comparison, that I would ‘never let you go cold turkey’. But I have failed him! I let him do exactly what I said I wouldn’t. Having allowed nearly a month to pass me by without so much of a muttering on the blog, I can only envisage a man at his wit’s end, hopelessly struggling to battle his cravings, yet to no avail. He must have succumbed to the addiction at this point and ventured to pastures new in search of another dealer (read as: blogger) who periodically will provide that which he yearns so badly: the crack (blog posts). He has surely by now metamorphosed into Ewan McGregor’s character in ‘Trainspotting’ and taken up a nasty heroin habit too as he struggles to come terms with life as an addict, the poor bastard… Lord have mercy on his soul. Let this be a lesson to me.

Yes, on a serious note, I have not been great in the writing department of late. I have selfishly deprived all you kind people of news regarding my life, and for that I will be forever sorry. The trend which I have noticed when it comes to Year Abroad blogs is that the initial enthusiasm for writing fades dramatically quickly as the novelty wears off and us bloggers set about, getting busier with our lives.  A problem which I have come across, too, is that I am lacking sufficient anecdotes with which to adequately entertain. If I were to write on a more regular basis and inform you all what I’m planning to have for dinner, that actually, I have run out of food and need to go shopping or that I skipped breakfast this morning because I was running late for work, it would unlikely make for a good read (and yes, before you say anything, I am fully aware that I once all but dedicated a blog entry to a kettle!). So time goes by with me at work during the week, writing my report (or at least attempting to) and coming home feeling tired and not much in the mood for writing.

I do, however, have a post lined up which is to be published imminently and I hope shall be enjoyable. But in general, I am happy to report that life goes on swimmingly. I am still alive and well, still friends with Spain and having a great time with said friend. I’m going to Switzerland in two weeks’ time, which should be rather fun. I’ve never been to Basel before, which is my specific destination and where my papa lives these days, so I will be sure to report back on how it compares to La ciudad Condal, that’s Barcelona to you and me.

The purpose of this blog entry has been primarily to provide a quick update, but then how, you must wonder, did I land upon the bold title of ‘Dan Becomes Public Enemy #1’? This is how. What follows can and will only ever be described as the worst anedote ever:

Yesterday, I was very tired. Very tired indeed. I had been out the night before to go to see off a friend who was leaving Barcelona the following day, heading back home to London. That night, I left the flat late, we had dinner late and, considering it was a Tuesday, the majority of restaurants and bars were shutting up shop by the time we had finished. So, deciding that we weren’t done for the night, we made it our mission to find a bar that was still open and eventually succeeded after heading over to Gràcia. After a few mojitos to add to the drinks from dinner, a long walk home and getting to sleep around 3am, I knew that the following day would be a challenge.

Sure enough, it was. Up again at 7.30, I was hating life. Luckily I wasn’t hungover, which would have potentially spelled the end for me, but I was absolutely knackered and not enjoying the prospect of a day at the office. Minutes went by slowly, hours slower, but after a long day the time to go home did eventually arrive to my relief. I left the office and stepped out into the fresh air for my brief walk to the train station, which revitalised me a bit. And so, waiting for my train to arrive, feeling fresh, I decided I would read on my way home with this new-found energy of mine. On the train, Kindle in hand, my head nodded as I struggled to concentrate on the words in front of me, let alone maintain consciousness. It must have been fairly obvious to the three sat around me in our set of four seats that I could do with a siesta. At one point, I caught a glimpse of the woman sitting to my left, a petite middle-aged Catalan lady – looking sophisticated in a cream jacket and a green silk scarf as she read her hardback book – glancing at me, probably thinking what I mess I looked.

Soon enough, the train approached my stop, Sarrià, and with it my time to leave. I was feeling fairly disoriented at this point, having spent much of the journey fighting the urge to fall asleep, and fumbled with the zip on my bag to put my Kindle in it before I stepped off the train. I swiftly failed in my zipping mission, which was fairly embarrassing given that I had an audience, including the lady to my left. So I clutched on to my Kindle in my hand, stood up as the train pulled into the station to make my way to the doors, but cramped as space was between the knees of those sitting down, I had to unsteadily attempt to sidestep past my fellow commuters. Suddenly, as I stood there between two sets of knees, the train came to a halt, braking hard and causing me to swing my arm round in a desperate attempt to grab onto something. This swinging arm happened to be the one attached to the hand wielding the Kindle, which was to momentarily become a weapon. To my horror, the edge of the Kindle cracked directly against this woman’s head, prompting her to shoot me a look of utter confusion, anger and hurt all at once. Mortified, I apologised profusely, asked her if she was alright and ran for the exit before I could hear the probable ‘No’ that surely followed. She has got to think even now that I am the biggest tool she has ever come across. And that is how I became ‘Public Enemy #1’. Exaggeration? I’d say so, just a bit misleading.

Like I said, the worst anecdote ever.

The Mystery of the Happy Pigs

In recent days, it has come to my attention that my neighbourhood is replete with pigs. Before you begin to wonder what kind of area I live in or, indeed, about the state of my mental health, I’ll clarify that I am not referring to the mucky, farm-dwelling mammals that like nothing more than a good bit of mud or, equally, to some particularly abrasive neighbours. I am in fact referring to graffiti. Evidently, there must be a graffiti artist local to my neighbourhood whose signature tag is a depiction of a pink and smiley pig.

I first noted this when a friend visited the flat and pointed out one of these happy chappies outside my front gate. Since then, I have had numerous sightings of them dotted here and there. Scattered throughout Les Tres Torres and surrounding barrios, they have inspired the inner detective in me as I am drawn by the intrigue of the pigs. Who is the individual responsible for these tags? Why this neighbourhood? And perhaps above all: why pigs? It is now becoming increasingly difficult for me to mill around locally without encountering one of them. Questions aplenty and answers standing at a grand total of nil.

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Should I decide to investigate further into this mystery of the intriguingly chirpy pigs, I shall keep everyone updated (I have just realised how crazy that sounds). That which strikes me most concerning these artistic depictions – opening up the graffiti debate of ‘art versus vandalism’ – is that prior to my friend physically stopping outside my flat, gesticulating towards the graffiti and saying ‘look at that pig!’, I had never once noticed it before. Does this mean that they are fresh from the spray can (my graffiti jargon leaves much to be desired), or that I am just one unobservant son of a gun? Probably the latter. In any case, I want to know where they came from, who put them there and for how long have they been there! Defamation of a few depictions suggest that the mystery pig tagger has been around for a while and that, supposedly, not all of the locals count themselves as fans.

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Answers are unlikely to reveal themselves so I will have to live on with my curiosity eating away at me when it comes to these smiley bastards. It could be worse though, the artist could have chosen far more explicit imagery with which to work. The happy pigs remain just as cheerful as they do mysterious. If and when I receive leads on the puzzle of the pigs, I will be sure to return to the trusty blog.

Dan Turns 21!

On Monday 7th October, the man formerly known by some as Swifty (due to an ill-conceived nickname derived from someone once likening me to the pop artist, Taylor Swift) turned 21. My world has changed forever! Whilst the occasion of turning 21 is far less momentous in the UK than it is across the pond, it is certainly a reaffirmation that I am edging ever closer towards genuine adulthood, or perhaps an indication that I should have already reached that milestone by now. In any case, I am a year older and wondering whether or not to attempt to revive the old nickname, Swifty, now that I have it on my mind… Factors to consider: do I, a) in any way resemble the female, blonde and slightly framed singer, Taylor Swift? b) enjoy her music? c) admire her for anything other than being the inspiration behind the entertaining ‘goat editions’ of her songs? or finally d) wish to continue to be likened to her by endorsing such a nickname? Nope, that idea is well and truly dead and buried, but I had fun reminiscing in the process. Anyway, back to business… Right after this Swift number featuring a particularly talented goat:

Given that my birthday fell on a weekday this year, I made use of the weekend as my opportunity to celebrate. How did I mark the occasion? By having the family come to visit me in Barcelona! On the Friday afternoon, I left my office in Sant Cugat and headed to the Hotel Miramar in Montjuic, where my Dad awaited my arrival and where the family would be spending the weekend, with the girls due to arrive later that evening. After hopping on the tube (which I so love, lest we forget – you get signal down there and everything!) and arriving at Paral·lel, I embarked on my trip up a hill towards the Miramar. Note that with a successful ascent of Mount Kilimanjaro under my belt, I was not overly concerned about this hill leading up to the park in Montjuic. I should have been. It was steep. Clearly, it must have been Cataluña’s response to Kili; so I began my climb. The relief of arriving at reception eventually followed, as did the selfconsciousness given that I was more or less sweating profusely and most other guests, if not all, arrived by taxi and were looking far less like they had been caught out in a torrential downpour. I sauntered over to the desk and was promptly asked if I needed some water. Duly accepting the offer, I collected my room key and headed upstairs.

My dear father greeted me with a customary ‘Hello, homo!’ and welcomed me inside. Stepping forward, I was presented with a room practically the size of my flat! I knew from the moment I arrived at the hotel that we had chosen well, as this was a luxurious establishment, but I was very pleasantly surprised to find that my Dad had been on the charm offensive with the hotel staff and had subsequently been rewarded with an upgrade for his troubles (and a letter from the front desk?!). It was a beautiful room and I was already feeling spoiled the minute I set foot inside. As we sat and caught up, a huge storm began to gather and we started to wonder whether we would be stranded in the hotel for the night. A fair amount of thunder and lightning later, which we watched through the window with interest as it passed directly over the hotel, the storm subsided and we caught a cab over to none other than ‘La Cervecería Catalana´ for my second successive weekend. I’ve said it before and I will say it again; it’s a tough life I lead!

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As always the restaurant was buzzing with tourists and locals alike, so we strolled to a local restaurant to sit at the bar, have a few pints and enjoy a large plate of jamón ibérico. I have already said my bit on La Cervecería, so suffice it to say that I was very pleased with the meal and even more so after the newly acquired taste of dry sherry (thanks for that, Dad). Back to the hotel, where I waited up for my Mum and sister, Emily. Their suggestion as soon as they walked through the door? Cocktails. Cannot argue with that. So I had a bit of a headache the following morning, but nothing close to the hangovers I usually experience after a night of drinking. Anyone who knows will be able to verify just how badly I cope in such cases! A quick fix of a hotel breakfast straightened me out and soon we were off to see the sights around the hotel, one of which was the beautiful view of the city.

Sat at a restaurant, sharing a Coca Cola Light with Emily and Phil (oh how I wish I was famous enough to be paid for an endorsement as simple as that), I looked over the city feeling glad for having chosen Barcelona as my home for the year. The three of us soon went off in search for mother dear to have some lunch poolside, which was predictably pleasant!

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The ladies poolside

The ladies poolside

A 30-minute massage (yep, we were living it up) and some subsequently inappropriate jokes from Dad later, we began mobilising ourselves in order to celebrate my birthday as the sun set. A bottle of champagne opened, glasses full and raised to celebrate all things Dan, we stood on the balcony as I was presented with cards and presents. Thank you, family and friends, if any of you happen to be reading, for everything. Lots of love! Then, on to the surprise location for dinner. As we pulled up to the Hotel Arts, which I had never seen before, I had no idea what to expect. Walking in to a very grand-looking reception area, and into a lift of rich mahogany (‘Anchorman’ reference, I’m not starting to think of myself as a budding author just yet), I started to feel quietly excited. The restaurant was called Arola and as soon as we had been seated we were presented with an eager French waiter named Marc. He was a nice guy, anxious to impress, but then so would be anyone working at such a swanky restaurant as Arola. (Hotel Arts pictured below, right).



I would love to have dedicated my entire blog to the food we ate that night, because it really was outstandingly good. Simple tapas dishes had been reformulated to become more than just a plate of food, but a gastronomic experience. Prior to tucking in to each dish we would have to take a moment to reflect how brilliantly everything had meticulously been prepared. Minute cubes of Spanish omelette, for example, had resting on top of them reconstructed miniature egg yolks to create a mouthful of joy, which should give readers an idea of just how serious these chefs were about their food. Marc would come to the table and carefully describe how each dish had been crafted and we would exchange glances as if to say, ‘bit fancy all of this, isn’t it!’ But wow. It was just an incredible meal. The wine was delicious, the food even better and the company of my family topped it all.

The next morning, the family’s last in Barcelona, was spent discussing the meal of the night before. We couldn’t get over it, and I still can’t now over a week later. After a quick breakfast, we decided to catch the cable car from practically outside the hotel’s doors down to the beach. As we were carted across the city’s skyline, we nonchalantly chatted about our potential doom if the cable were to snap and our plan of action in case of emergency (you know, light-hearted stuff). Luckily for us, there was no such incident and we were transported safely back to ground level where we strolled to a beach bar overlooking the sea. It was all rather nice if you ask me.


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Soon came the hour for the Watson crew to head back home, to London and to Basel, Switzerland. Not before, that is, they granted my request to visit one of my old haunts by La Plaça Reial for me to catch the Chelsea game against Norwich City. Clearly the East Anglian team took into account that it was my birthday and duly obliged by losing to Chelsea 3-1, courtesy of 2 late goals from my one true love, Eden Hazard and a fantastic Premier League debut goal from £30m summer signing, Willian, from the edge of the penalty area. All in all, that Chelsea win just about ensured that my birthday weekend could not have been any better.

My birthday itself was great, thanks to my colleagues at work and, in particular, to my housemates, who had balloons, a bottle of champagne and a cake waiting for me at home. Blowing out candles and being serenaded in various languages, I felt extremely grateful to everyone who had gone about making my birthday such a great occasion. I went to bed that night a very happy guy. I will sign off today by saying a huge thank you to everyone involved, to my family; I love you, and to my friends (old and new) the same! Not a bad way to turn 21!