Bring Back Balls

I am incensed.Today, my eyes have been affronted, horrified, appalled by a foul and depraved four-letter word taking centre-stage of the local newspaper and surrounded by photos of the sordid end of school affair:

Prom

Had the local paper been American, had the event been American, I would have no beef with the word. But I live in the north of England, where we have a leaving ball. Four letters, BALL. Or, more specifically, balls for secondary school leavers and school discos for primary school leavers.

When I was eleven, I went to the school disco in a dingy hall down the road from school and was grateful for songs of the ilk of 'Agadoo', 'Macarena', and 'I am the Music Man' played by a DJ of dubious intent, embittered by dashed dreams of becoming the next rave-master at Creamfields, and probably an alcoholic to drown his sorrows. It was marvellous - we could run around and not worry about where we were spilling Coke, play musical chairs with gusto and not mind if we were hurled to the floor by over-competitive adversaries because we were wearing dresses or jeans or whatever from our own (no doubt hideous) 90s' wardrobe collection. When I left secondary school, I had a slightly nicer dress but still not exactly haute couture. Now they're dressed in froufy meringues of an array of colours that would rival any ice-cream stand. And practically all Barbie-blonde or Amy Winehouse-black tresses, and some with tiaras. I have but one question: what the deuce are they going to wear on their wedding days if they're so primped and preened for a leaver's ball?

So, please, none of this prom crap. I repeat, I am fine if the event is held in the States; I am fine if the speaker is American; I am fine if a person whose first language is not English uses it. However, I must insist that British people not use American words when we are already in possession of our own British words. And 'movie'. No, no, no. Just no. We are British. We use the word 'film'. If we start calling films 'movies' we will have to start calling phones 'speakies' and computers 'typies'.

For the good of future British generations, I beseech you, good public, Bring Back Balls!

How to Say Goodbye in Catalan

uini, uidi, uinci. I came, I saw, I conquered. And now another chapter in my short life has come to an end. I am now writing from my living-room in Cumbria, where skies are painted dove-grey and the opposite hills sport white rotating stakes from their hearts (wind turbines, in other words). My departure from Catalunya was not quite as interesting as my arrival, and yet the two weeks leading up to my flight will never be forgotten - my crippled back won't let me. It turns out that lugging around 30kgs is spinally traumatic. But Dickens and Shakespeare would never have forgiven me, had I neglected to bring their magnificent works with me.

However, goodbyes. That is the object of my discourse. There are many hellos in life and just as many goodbyes. Most goodbyes are flippant, they are casual remarks about seeing one soon, or promises for a union involving caffeine or alcohol. These are the ones I like best, for they hold only vague oaths, and engage you to no concrete significance or purpose. It also means you probably will see that person again. At some point. Maybe...

Other goodbyes include, but are not limited to, the Romantic (usually involving snogging and some mild groping); the Close Friend (involving a hug and two kisses on cheeks if in Catalunya); the Stormily Melodramatic (including swearing, shouting, and other modes of tantrum-like behaviour, most likely outside a club at 3 o'clock in the morning next to a tramp in his own vomit); and the Tearful 'Oh, God, I'm Never Going to See You Again!' (usually at airports).

There is also another type of goodbye, which just sweeps away all other competitors, like a fiery tsunami sent from Thor's hammer. And I invented it. This time next month, it'll be all the rage. Thanks to Barcelona, a text message, and a hip.

My sojourn with my friend (the same one who tricked me into carrying those putos calaixos) ended spectacularly with a broken window on the fourth floor, potentially endangering the lives of those coffee-ing below. The text with metro instructions must have sent me into a frenzy of good conscience, as I started locking up open windows. Now, some of the flats in Eixample are hundreds of years old still with original glass panes, single glazing. The rod and hook used to shut and lock the windows happened to be stiff. I therefore changed my position in order to hold a better stance with which to close the window, perhaps with more alacrity than was necessary and less grace than was required, and thus my left hip impaled the pane of crystal. The sound of shattering glass has never before sounded quite so symphonic, so cinematic, so monumentally and humiliatingly idiotic. Daggers stuck out of the wooden frame and glinting light spattered the terrace like minute twinkling stars on terracotta tiles.Shards overhung the balcony edge, teetering oh so delicately. Passersby may well have...passed by...ignorant of their proximity to a sliced scalp.

I rang my friend and grovelled. In whichever language came out first. Now that I think of, however, I do believe this was my subconsciously laid plan, executed in revenge for those damned drawers she made me carry. This is how you say goodbye in Catalan....and I shall call it the Glassed Goodbye.

Sant Joan

Coca de Sant Joan

Sant Joan is a rather important celebration. To make your own Sant Joan (celebrated on the eve before the 24th of June) you will need: bonfire paraphernalia; petards, which are a kind of small firecracker; fireworks; coca de Sant Joan (a type of cake); as much alcohol as your fridge can possibly hold; and a cabin full of good friends.

A stocked fridge

It's actually quite typical to sleep on the sand of the beach , build a fire and jump over it, but we felt that our pyromaniacal days were over and would instead have a BBQ. Considering that last year we did indeed manage to sleep on the sand (and, oh, how our backs were crippled), we opted for a more comfortable option of a wooden cabin very close to the beach of Malgrat de Mar. It had beds! Those wonderful inventions...

Upon arrival, late on a Friday night, it seemed as though we had entered another world, a very neon world. Bright lights flickered, jumped, and pirouetted, competing for the attention of the tourists, who - by the look of them - were mostly British. It was strange, seeing them all in this bizarre world of tacky shops and clubs, when to our eyes this tourist strip was the most hideous possible thing known to man. It was slightly better at the campsite, but there were Spanish xonis (chavs) milling about with their Spanish flag proudly displayed in support of their national football team who were playing the following evening. Dinner ensued, and so to bed. In the Squeaky Bunkbeds of Doom. With absolutely no exaggeration at all, one only had to lift an arm or twitch a foot and the entire frame creaked with the power of a thousand door-hinges. Needless to say, we did not sleep particularly well. Especially not with next door's xonis shouting and swearing.

However, we awoke bright and early and, after a caffeine intake, we headed to the beach. Blue skies, blue sea, the sighing sound of breaking waves...it was beautiful. We spent most of the day there, only breaking for lunch, ice-creams, and board games.

Once we'd tired of the heat, we decided to smoke out the rest of the holiday-makers. Quite accidentally, of course. The BBQ was a bit over-enthusiastic and we were even threatened by an uncouth xoni that she would do something rather violent if we burnt her car.


Fortunately, all went well: we were not smacked in the face, bottled, or indeed re-threatened in any way. We dined, we chatted, we sang, and had all kinds of fun - mostly of a drinking variety. After all, we had about 50 beers, wine, cava, and a bottle of rum. Would have been a waste of money not to drink it. So we played the Ring of Fire till well into the early hours of the morning before wandering along the beach watching the fireworks scatter glitter amongst the stars.


I am seriously considering exporting this tradition overseas. Well, I would, except that health and safety would have definitive issues with hurling firecrackers willy-nilly and fires on beaches. So perhaps it's best the tradition stays over here in the safety of lax laws.

Of Sheep and Ice Cream

Finally. After weeks of up and down weather, it seems that summer has decided to grace us with its mosquitoes and mojitos. Beach and ice creams all round! And after slurping away (too rapidly, according to my Catalan friend) a mojito, we decided to trot off in search of a cooling gelat.

Once at the corner stand, with its bright, attractive (and no doubt additive-riddled) colours, I made an observation: no longer are the masses content with such dull flavourless flavours such as strawberry, lemon, vanilla, or chocolate. It appears we are much more demanding in our quest for variety, and so strawberry transforms into strawberry cheesecake, chocolate metamorphoses into Oreo biscuit, the crown of vanilla is usurped by crema catalana, and lemon callously thrown to the pitiless ‘Smurf’ flavour ice cream. I know not what a Smurf tastes like but the colour reminds me somewhat of mouthwash or that vile WKD stuff that has the gumption to call itself a drink. Thus I immediately jumped on the cookie-wheeled bandwagon and decided to try the strawberry cheesecake and bread and chocolate flavours. I came, I chose, I ate... I was mildly disappointed.

So that was ice cream at the beach; now for the city equivalent.

There stands a new ice cream parlour in Girona, which offers delicious chocolate cardiac arrest in a bucket sprinkled with mini chocolate strokes and cubes of chocolate aneurysms; all that’s needed is a spade and you can construct your very own chateau de chocolat, or dig your own grave, courtesy of the brothers Joan, Jordi, and Josep Roca. Their surname is incorporated into the name of the parlour Rocambolesc, which translates as 'crazy' or 'outrageous' in a lovable, cute, and cuddly way that makes one think of kittens and rainbows and smiley potato waffles. 

Until we reach the climax of lewd culinary experimentation: sheep's milk ice cream with candyfloss. This is what dissatisfaction amongst the masses has led to, this is the fruit of the tri-headed Frankenstein: the invention of a hideous monstrous frozen dessert that terrifies people in a seemingly innocent cloud of wispy sugar and ovine cream. What perverted mind could even dream of such a combination? What manner of beast could entertain such a ghastly notion? These are dark times indeed.... 

I rather fancy you think I'm being melodramatic. 'After all,' you're probably thinking, 'if Chagall can paint a goat with a violin, perhaps sheep’s milk ice cream with a bouffant of glucose isn’t so terribly bizarre. Just more edible. And there was a place in Covent Garden that started selling human breast milk ice cream in 2011.' And perhaps I'll concede the point and everyone will be happy and live life as though they´d not read this ultimately pointless tirade against creative frozen dairy products. But, if I might just quote Matt O'Connor - founder of said Covent Garden ice cream parlour - as saying that nobody has 'done anything interesting with ice cream in the last 100 years', I put it to you: Do you really want guano flavoured ice cream? Do you?? Remember Mary Shelley's novel; stay away from electricity and dead people; and stick to vanilla ice cream.

Temps de Flors

Steps with lanterns; Barri Vell

I adore Girona. There's always something going on, and this weekend was no different. It was the beginning of the internationally renowned Temps de Flors Festival. With Girona's Medieval structures and Gothic architecture, suddenly festooning steps, churches, balconies, and gardens with imaginative floral creations make the city even more beautiful than ever. Secret rooms and hidden domiciles normally so carefully guarded from the light of day and human interference are, for one week only, thrust into the public eye to be scrutinised by slavering flower-fiends, eager for a glimpse of what is usually beyond their reach. The natives are divided: some brave the surge of tourists to visit what is denied to them also, others grumble about the sudden influx disrupting their daily routine.


Each year, the exhibitions change, daring participants to come up with something more creative than the previous year. This is the 57th year of the Festival and my 2nd of enjoying it. Last year I remember it rained the day I went. I wandered idly about munching on some quiche from a bakery, quite oblivious to the xim-xim that slowly but mercilessly sneaked its way to the skin through layers of cotton. Everbody else had anoraks zipped up to their noses, faces masked as if in a nuclear suit, or umbrellas that threatened to poke eyes, nostrils, cheeks, and other facial necessaries.

This time, the first day was absolutely scorching. Which was just fine by me, considering the shoddy May we've been suffering from so far. Honestly, I know you think Spain never gets cold or rainy but the past few weeks have been like Goldilocks and the Unpredictable Barometer.

Much as I'd like to write that we wended our way through the shaded cobbled streets, it's rather difficult to wend one's way when they are heaving with tourists and photographers trying to get that perfect shot that'll win them money for the Festival's photo competition. Rather, we shuffled impatiently behind old ladies and gracelessly dodged kids on scooters like stiff contortionists, and we desperately tried not to squish babies in backpacks amidst the multitude. (When I say the babies were in the backpacks I don't actually mean they were shoved down at the bottom along with broken biscuits and a flask of iced tea; they were proper baby backpack things.)

My favourite exhibition were helium balloons on the steps of a church overlooking the Cathedral of Girona.

This was taken on the Sunday when the weather was not so hot but nevertheless it was a very impressive piece of work: flower petals cocooned inside helium balloons, gently bobbing in the slight warm zephyr. There was something so serene about them, like wishes in ethereal globule form. The only fear is that if, after only a day, the helium has started to escape, by next weekend they may look bedraggled deflated wishes. And we did have a thunderstorm yesterday with torrential rain; I hope they survived, poor little things....



There were also some globular lanterns made from plastic cups. These were protected from the elements in a cool stone space in the Old Quarter. It was like entering a fairyland with moons pitted with craters and the occasional flower.

There were many many other creative projects: metal snails with flowers for eyes; a water feature (rendered fairly useless by the rain); an interior water tank full of leaves; giant crayons; the Twitter birds; and a net of dandelions to name but a few.
Of course, I would have put more photos up but for the fact I rather stupidly forgot to take my camera with me, thus having to commandeer my friend's. I know: I am a moron.

Sardinian Holiday

The fear of boredom and of insanity is a potent combination. It's been a while that I've been hopping from the UK to Catalunya and vice versa, and it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't travelled to a new country for, oooo, too long. My solution? Book a ridiculously last-minute trip to any place I'd never been before: Cagliari, Sardinia.


It was so last-minute that I didn't even really have time to coerce anyone to come with me, thus ticking another box on my 'never-done-this-before' list; that is, taking a holiday by myself. It's such a good job I'm a fabulous and interesting person - I couldn't possibly get irritated by my own company...

I looked forward to good food, and I was not disappointed. For lunch, I found a restaurant half-hidden down some shaded steps and almost overdosed on pasta. It would have been rude not to, with a deal of 7 euros for all the pasta you can possibly fit into one's tummy; furthermore, the Italian who served me invited me to a glass of mirto, which is a typical Sardinian liqueur of myrtle berries or leaves. It's delicious but very sweet.

It was time to do some sightseeing, and almost the very first thing I saw was a procession celebrating Good Friday and mourning for Christ on the cross. About three-score or so participants were dressed in white, a few others in black with their faces veiled in a terrible appearance of emptiness and sadness, and a young boy dressed as the Saviour complete with a plastic crown of thorns, which - to be brutally honest - I thought was quite creepy. The young boy was quite innocently swinging it in his hands but for me, knowing the implications and the story behind it, it was disturbing.



Wandering around Cagliari gave me such a feeling of satisfaction and peace, for all my preconceptions of Italians were being fulfilled! Sunglasses seemed to be permanently lodged over eyes, as if taking them off would reveal dark burning holes of nothingness, or perhaps of lasers - which would make more sense because then wearing shades all the time would at least meet certain safety regulations  regarding the protection of the ice-creams they were eating. Scooters were arranged in a mish-mash net in piazzas, and people insisted on saying 'ciao' at every available opportunity in that delightful sing-song tone that Italians are famous for. Pedestrians took their life into their own hands when they crossed wide roads, horns blaring and tooting in a not quite so pleasant way as people's voices.

I have also never known a place to be so full of churches. I truly believe it must be the gateway into Heaven or be the portal into Paradise. How could it not be with Sant'Anna, Sant'Agustino, Sant'Efisio, and Sant'Eulalia guarding the corners of every street whereas in Barcelona every street corner has a prostitute defending her turf? All these pious excursions exhausted me, I confess, so I decided to have a coffee and read my book before diving once more into the  breach and see Cagliari at night. It twinkled with lamps and bustled with people out for a stroll before dinner. It was altogether quite peaceful, at least in the smaller streets in the old part.



 After some much-needed sleep, I awoke on the Saturday morning to beautiful sunlight warming my eyelids. I lazily showered and attempted to dry my hair with the ridiculous breathy hairdryer which looked like the trunk of an elephant and was about as useful as a pair of butterfly's wings flapping desperately to rid the strands from moisture.

Giving up in a good-natured huff, I thought it was about time for breakfast. It was 11 a.m. Off I went to a cafe I'd seen the day before that promised books within. Not that I could read any in Italian but I enjoyed skimming the alien letters of titles, and I was content with my choice of dolce sarda and latte. The dolce are typical sweet pastry-esque things from Sardinia and were rather delicious. However, I almost choked on my coffee when a text arrived from a friend enquiring if I'd seen any lovely Italian men or just 'fatty lobster English' boys.

There was an archaeological museum in the vicinity so I grudgingly paid 5 euros for the privilege of seeing some bits of shattered pottery and religious artefacts. I felt rather cheated, even though I'd been momentarily amused by a statue of the Virgin Mary riding on what appears to be a hippo. Perhaps it got lost in the Bible and couldn't find Noah.

Speaking of random animals, the giant tower in the high part of the town is called the Elephant Tower after its imposing size (I imagine) as well as the statue of a creamy white elephant perched on the side next to the gates into what was the old castle. The most interesting fact I learnt here is that in ye olden days if you were unfortunate enough to still be in the castle once the gate had shut, you were rather unceremoniously - and fatally - thrown off the top of the wall. It also showed off trophies in the form as heads, as decapitation was a la mode. Clearly a welcoming city.

  
At the back of the tower were dizzingly steep wooden steps; so much so that I had to actually count them on the ascent to keep my mind occupied and so I didn't freak out and fall in an undignified manner. Or dignified manner; I didn't want to fall. Once I reached the top, however, all was worthwhile. The views from the top were absolutely spectacular. The city sprawled out beneath me in a haphazard terracotta maze through which the grey tarmac roads, carrying bug-like cars, viciously slashed. Pinnacles and spires of all the churches and the cathedral punctured the skyline, as if trying to draw blue sky down into their stone bodies. One dome looked like it had burrowed into a snakeskin hat, scales for tiles, and sunshine glinting off its reptilian surface. Down at the port ships cautiously crept into deeper waters, as though unwillingly sucked by some greater nautical power. Far off towards the horizon, mountains stretched towards white ice-cream clouds, in the end disappointed because they just weren't quite high enough.

Clambering down the steps wasn't as hard-going as going up, I'm pleased to report, and I didn't trip, fall, or otherwise fatally injure myself.

Even though I didn't manage to walk around the entire city, this is the memory of Cagliari I will cherish. To be up so high and smell the fresh sea-breeze, feel the heat of the sun and the coolness of the wind at the same time, was incredible.
The other memory will be of a wonderful little piazza in the old quarter, sheltered from the breeze, writing my postcards that were destined to be sent from Catalunya - for it slipped my mind that it was Easter. It seems such a trivial memory but, you see, I was giggling to myself practically the whole time. In my mind, I was replaying The Italian Job.

Palm Sunday, or the Blessing of the Lasagne.

Palm Sunday, or El dia de rams, is a very special day in the calender here. Although rather fabulous if you are to be on the receiving end, it's rather unfortunate if you're a godparent because tradition dictates that you shell out a potential fortune on a tortell (a kind of cake) or la mona (a chocolate figure). I've seen many in the bakeries, orientated towards young children, in the shape of Hello Kitty or a Smurf or whatever else kids are watching nowadays on the tele.... I've also seen the hugest Easter egg, which I'm dying to roll down a hill in true English fashion. Except that there aren't many hills in Girona so the closest thing I can think of would be the escalators in the train station, but even this would be problematic, for there are only up escalators. But I digress...

The other tradition is for the children to carry a palm leaf or cross to the church on Sunday, dressed in their very best, to have the priest bless it and so bring them good fortune for the rest of the year. And it truly was adorable - some of the students from the academy were there in their pretty little dresses or smart jeans, and they clung to their palm leaves in the hot sunshine, attempting to get the best place to be blessed. It all took place in the square by the church, priests standing on the steps and announcing the beginning of the ceremony to the congregation below, most of whom scarpered when the priest invited us to mass, demonstrating that while traditions are being kept alive, in Catalunya at least, religion is not as prevalent as once it may have been.

Children have the palms, then, but for the parents? The adult equivalent of bringing palm leaves to be blessed is instead bringing a branch of llorers, or bay leaves; they leave the ceremony safe in the knowledge that for the rest of the year their culinary creations, their spaghetti bolognaises and lasagnes will be blessed and holy. Proof that lasagne is divine.

Alas, I had no bay leaves to be blessed, not even packaged supermarket ones. What's a girl to do if even a bolognaise won't protect her? Brother Maynard, fetch forth the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.