Hang a Donkey,Throw a Duck.

Spain and the Hispanic world are renowned for their odd festivals and quirky traditions, so before any animal rights activists hunt me down and maul me for that title, I'd like to quickly point out that I'll return more powerful than you can possibly imagine... OK, so that was stolen from Star Wars, and as far as I know neither ducks nor donkeys were injured during the making of those films. Although I'm betting that the line 'the plum sauce is strong with this one' would have definitely improved A New Hope; Darth Vader  must have eaten something, and I reckon duck would feature on the menu of someone in charge of a Deathstar.Yet I digress - my disclaimer was supposed to be that these practices and games no longer use the animals in question.

Let us begin with the donkey, which just so happens to be a potent symbol of Catalunya. It is a trusty beast: hard-working and considered to be the best sort of donkey according to the Fuives website. Fuives is a conservation centre for el ruc català because it was, at one point, in grave danger of becoming extinct despite being an old race - Pliny the Elder himself spoke very highly of them. So if someone calls you a donkey here, it may not be an insult but a wonderful compliment that you are a rare species indeed. Or Pliny has come back from the dead and is speaking to you.

In western Catalunya there lies a town called Solsona, in the vicinity of Lleida. In days of yore, when donkeys frequented the dusty village paths and were quite possibly more intelligent than the local residents, the church belltower became choked with weeds and unwanted greenery. Legend has it that whilst the townspeople were together discussing the best way to clear the belltower, a lone donkey wandered into their midst. Some bright spark suggested that if they could somehow persuade the donkey up to the roof it would eat all the nasty weeds. They all agreed and hauled the poor donkey up to the belltower on a crude pulley system. Nobody knows what really happened that day, but perhaps this provides us with an explanation as to the disappearance of the donkey in this area: some swear the donkey was fine and did its job, peeing on the townspeople as it did so - something that was supposed to be extremely fortunate. Others say the spinal cord was broken before it even made half-way up the church. Nowadays, Solsona Carnival string up an inflatable donkey - so the only danger here is if an eagle mistakes it for the real deal and while attempting to carry it off punctures it - and spray water on each other, which is an infinitely more acceptable substitute for urine.

Now we cross the Atlantic ocean, flying on wings of imagination or those of a duck, skimming the frothy waves until we land with all the delicate grace of Peter Kay in Argentina, where the national sport is one that has its roots set firmly in animal cruelty and (it has to be said) hilarity. I mean, who thinks of throwing around a duck in a basket? On horseback? It was even called pato, meaning 'duck'. At least the duck got some sort of credit but I'm not sure that's any consolation for being tossed about in a basket for a few hours. It's a sport very similar to polo and is now called 'horseball', after the change from live duck to fiddly ball with many handles.
 
Incidentally, the hoops one has to throw the ball through are suspiciously reminiscent of Ms Rowling's invented Quidditch...meaning that Harry Potter's wizarding sport is one based on duck-hatred.

Anyway, the first time I heard of this game was when one of my students made an oral presentation about her hobby, horseball. It's something that sticks very clearly in my mind because at one point the poor thing mispronounced the word 'horseball' and accidentally said 'whoreball'. I'm assuming this is another game entirely.

Stopped Clocks

Time and timing are everything in a world set in a lineal temporal order. Waking up at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning is not everone's cup of tea - I know; I have to do it to arrive on time for my Catalan class. It's dark nowadays; cold, misty...the men collecting the rubbish trawl around Cassà. Only the anticipation of a caffeine fix and the knowledge that I have to make the bus on time allows me to grudgingly slope out of a cosy bed. Clothes are grumpily thrown on before taking a sharp icy breath of November oxygen.
People said that today it was going to rain. It turned out to be a beautiful morning with a Cheshire-cat-smile moon in the early morning sky. There are really so many different times of day, and at this time, all of Cassà is mine. All the way to the bus stop, at least. There, as if waiting, the Ancient Racist Ghoul interrupts my ponderings with idle chatter and pushes her way to the front of the queue when the bus finally deigns to show up. That's one thing I miss about the UK: the queues. It's not that I really like queuing, but most people here wouldn't know what a good queue looked like if Renoir himself painted it. It is a talent in which the British truly excel.

When the bus arrives at the station I always leave last: I'm in no rush now. Before, I would go straight to Jamaica Coffee Shop for a cafe amb llet and a croissant. Now I take a leisurely stroll around Girona, enjoying a city in somniferous magnificence before the mid-morning hubbub of its inhabitants waken the sleeping stones. My route takes me past all the chain stores, up towards the plaça de Catalunya and la Rambla, where the flower sellers set up their street stalls. The vendors attempt to cheat November from chilling their fingers, wrapped up in gloves and winter gear. Immune to the cold are the flowers that brightly cheer the almost empty way, injecting into the scene pink, green, and red, pretty bloodstains hovering above the pavement and taunting the dull grey ground.
The black iron streetlamps, curving their fingers around acorns of light, give the impression that the city could be from another time, an era long ago in the past. I follow them down the central touristic artery of Girona and turn left at the bridge built by monsieur Eiffel, the metallic sound of the cathedral bells chiming the hours. The ducks chuckle away on the river; rippling little waves chase outwards from their paddling feet.

After a while, my feet are drawn to the cafe, halting only to observe the two dozen or so clocks in the window of the underwear shop on the corner. The hands that should be ticking foward have stopped. I don't know which made me think more: this, or a few weeks ago, when all the clocks were furiously hurtling forward at the speed of light to whatever end they had planned. Now all their plans, their motion, are no more. No tick, no tock, no hickory dickory dock, and (thankfully) no mouse. Stopping time, what a wonderful thought - if only we could hold moments in our hands, as we can a watch. Perhaps we can. Perhaps we choose not to because if we knew these moments could last forever they wouldn't be moments. And the magic would wither.

Normally these blogs end on a humourous note. But today I feel...pensive. Realising that everything is as transcendent and fleeting as a singular November dawn.

My Arch-nemesis: Chickpeas.

Chickpeas: healthy, good for you, key ingredient of tastylicious humous, substitute for marbles - angelic, right?
Wrong. Evil little devil spawn, mocking me with their constant defiance.
I've tried my best to appease them - they simply won't...cook. Not even after hours of boiling and a suspected ruined hob.

It's not the first time I've battled with them either. Two years ago in Liverpool I was struggling with my tin-opener to crack into the Fort Knox of chickpea containers. I usually don't have problems opening tins but that night was when it all began, when the chickpeas waged their war against me, fighting for legumes everywhere: they wanted to live, to not be eaten, even if it meant swimming and congealing in their own juice and salted water for all eternity...
What they didn't know was that I'd called in a crack-squad of the best of the best: firefighters. Technically speaking, that had nothing to do with the chickpeas and everything to do with installing a fire alarm, but I thought it could be to my advantage to ask them to open the tin anyway. Unfortunately, I was distracted by the queries of a rather beautiful fireman and quite forgot to ask any questions of my own, and so all four of them walked away without opening my tin of chickpeas. Which sounds like a euphemism, I know. Truth is, I wouldn't have minded one of them opening my tin of chickpeas. But it was not to be - the chickpeas remained firmly sealed within their stronghold. Until a further half hour of sweating, swearing, and wrenching the can-opener from the metal lid had passed.

And now my mighty foe has reared once more to do battle to the death. Or digestion, whichever fate's worse for a chickpea. The point is I was boiling the pricks for hours in a terracotta dish - which may well explain the lengthy process - and nothing, nada, zilch. Sergeant Chick and Colonel Pea must have ordered an offensive, using the heat of the water in a tiny fissure in the dish to crack it that lttle bit wider for beige-brown water to seep out at an unnoticable glacial pace and stick to my hob. Luckily for me, my elbow has enough greasework in there to rival even John Travolta, and even though I may have squirted half of Cassà's supplies of Don Limpio to accomplish it, my hob is now cleansed of chickpea juice.

Day two saw a ceasefire due to a powercut after bad weather, although I'm surprised the legume army didn't use that to their advantage too; they really are the epitome of cunning. Dwelling on my eternal struggle against chickpeas wasn't an option, however, for I was launching an offensive of my own on a trifle.

Finally, after losing my temper and chucking them in a metal pan, I have vanquished them! After three days. I am evidently just like Jesus Christ: I am the resurrection.

Les fires de Girona

Ah, it's that time of year again....chestnuts roasted by gypsies on an open fire by the side of the road, bedouin-style tents pitched in la Devesa, fairground rides churning the stomachs of those unwise (or masochistic) enough to dare the hurtling heights or spinning wheels of doom having had a few vodka and cokes.

While most of the western world is celebrating witches and werewolves, ghosts and ghouls, and probably having eggs thrown at their front doors, Girona is celebrating its own festival: Sant Narcís. Sant Narcís is the patron of this beautiful city and I give many thanks, mostly because - since the schools are closed - I get a holiday.

A little background information: legend has it that Girona owes something to the humble fly because it saved the city from being overrun with French troups. No, I'm not perpetuating the stereotypical difficult relationship France has with the rest of the world, honestly... (we all love to hate them). It is said that when the French started ransacking the Cathedral of Girona and forced open the tomb of Sant Narcís, a swarm of stinging flies was unleashed upon the unfortunate French soldiers. They apparently had no stomach for fighting these ninja insects so surrendered and fled, which in no way supports the 'cheese-eating surrender monkey' theory. So at this time of year it is quite common to see chocolatiers make their confectionary in the form of flies, perchance nursing the tiny hope of scaring away the people across the border by traumatising them from a hidden historical memory.

But alas, the serious business is not to purge Girona of the French; in fact, I believe there are many French citizens who rather like to come down for les fires (pronounced 'feeras', not as in English 'fires' that burn). They no longer fear the flies - a great pity, for all one would have to do to get rid of a Frenchman is either start buzzing like a giant bluebottle or send Jeff Goldblum to Paris. Anyway, all manner of people come from far and wide to see what impish mischief they can get up to and blame it on the copious supply of reasonably cheap alcohol: this is the serious business. The barraques are the tents set up in the park, each supporting a different club or cause and as a means of making money they play the kind of music they like and sell alcohol in plastic cups of different colours (that can be recycled throughout the night and exchanged for your 50 cents). Over the years, I've built up a small collection, thus contributing to several good causes, using my drinking for the good of mankind.

Around the city of Girona run the devils. And I'm not talking about my little students. There just so happens to be a correfoc, which means 'fire run', where professionals run amok with flames leaping and dancing from various implements. This is a pretty amazing event if you haven't witnessed massive crowds following these devils on stilts dressed in carnival clothes with gigantic catherine-wheels that threaten to sear your skin into crackling. People should certainly beware the dazzling promises of fire, however. Look where it got Prometheus - chained to a cliff awaiting dawn and vultures (or an eagle, depending on the source) to peck out his liver. And you thought breakfast at Little Chef was bad.

The point of les fires is to go, meet people, drink and be merry, and quite possibly hurl the contents of one's stomach from 30-feet on one of the rides. People here are fascinating: I met a boy from the next town from me who was absolutely lovely, and a woman who was absolutely psycho - she stole my hat and wouldn't give it back until her friend told her to stop being a prick. In Catalan, obviously. Two nights after, I went out with my group of friends and managed to temporarily not find my phone. This sometimes happens, and I'd given up hope of ever finding it in the Mr Bean House of Fun. Somebody somewhere must love me though, for it was found. In the sofa of my friend's flat where we'd been previously guzzling chicken legs and beer.

The barraques stand proudly for a week ending in an apparently spectacular firework display. I have always been too dead from tiredness, and probably minor alcohol poisoning, at this point to appreciate it. Maybe this year. Or perhaps I'll stick to tradition and claim that fireworks are against my religion. It is on a Sunday night after all.