Plaça de la Vila de Gràcia, 6PM, Tuesday evening

It is a simple square with a 19th-century tower dominating the center in a nice neighborhood in Barcelona, surrounded by four and five-story buildings. Catalonian flags and banners hang from several windows. The sky is crystal clear; the trees are iridescent green. About a dozen oranges almost glow in the setting sun on a puny tree that is growing next to building 38. It is warm, but not hot. Can one imagine a more perfect evening?

My colleagues send me a message apologizing for being late, but I am content to sit and watch people. When we travel people become a blur. Sometimes we do not consider that there are residents of the places we visit. If you want to know if people are people, then sit here for a few minutes, or several, and observe.

Plaça de la Vila de Gràcia, Barcelona

Three cafés set up tables around the edges of the square, where people are enjoying a drink, conversation, and music provided by a steel drum and guitar duo. Included in their repertoire are standards such as “Yesterday” and “All of Me.” No one is actively listening to the duo, but it provides ambience to the evening.

If adults occupy the cafés and edges of the square, then children dominate the center. A group of boys earnestly engage in a frenetic game of football (soccer), using the door of the tower, damage in the revolt of 1870, as a makeshift goal. The pitch seems to be the entire square and occasionally extends into the tables and benches that line the plaça. Despite the conquest of square by children, adults are there as well. A father and grandfather teach a young brother and sister how to ride a skateboard, with each adult taking a turn in demonstration. Suddenly, an American football appears across the way from me. A woman has brought it to entertain those too young to engage in the soccer game.

There is a nationalist battle between the Spanish and Catalan languages in Barcelona, but the predominant language on t-shirts here is English. One boy has a NYPD shirt, which seems out of place because there is not a police officer in sight, and no need for any their services. A little girl has an aqua blue shirt with sea turtles, imprinted with the words, “Explore the Ocean.” A middle age man with shorts and sunglasses is wearing a shirt that suggest to the reader, “Go Surfing.” Where, I wonder, are the shirts in the local languages?

Some adults cross the square without fear. Old women with canes navigate the games and people seemingly impervious or oblivious to the hectic feel of the evening. Unconsciously, the soccer ball steers clear of the elderly women. Others are crossing the square evidentially coming home from work. I like to think that they traverse the plaça to see what is happening in the neighborhood or to be seen. Perhaps not, but I am willing to bet that I observed several people take a quick scan to see if friends or family might be there.

I share the bench with a woman sitting at the opposite far end reading a literary magazine, although she is occasionally distracted from her endeavor. During my repose, we have several who occupy the middle space between us: two older women eating ice cream, a young mother catching up with a friend, and a man stopping to check the messages on his phone. It is a joyful evening, not a holiday and not the beginning of a weekend. It is not planned and is very public. It is not a gathering of friends, but the gathering of a community. I wonder to myself, were this plaça outside my house or apartment would I be the participant-observer I am now? Would I take the time to sit and observe? Would I read my book or newspaper outside?

Sleeping

Transoceanic travel inevitably plays havoc with one’s internal clock. George Orwell noted that severe fatigue has a terrible effect on our manners, which probably helps to explain, at least in part, the behavior of many travelers. These long flights, which disorients the senses, causes abrupt changes in our natural rhythms can take days to work themselves out. Our sleep patterns, no matter how odd, are disrupted.

The standard advice for those traveling from North America to Europe is, upon arrival, to stay awake as long as possible, go to bed as near as your normal bedtime, and awake as close to possible to your regular time the next morning. It is good advice. Nevertheless, inevitably, I wake up early in the morning. I do not understand, after thirty hours without any substantial sleep and a day of vigorous walking, what prompts me to wake at 4am (10pm in the United States)?

As I laid in bed, desperately trying to relax and get some more rest, I started thinking about an article I had read a couple of years ago about peoples’ sleep habits in preindustrial times. [1] It is difficult to imagine a preindustrial lifestyle, one that is not governed by a clock and without the social demands of punctuality and promptness. It appears that people, prior to the demands of a clock, would regularly have a “first sleep,” then wake-up and do some activities, then have a “second sleep.” The goal and expectation of eight hours of sleep, at a single stretch, is one that haunts many people in the modern world.

While walking through the Gracía neighborhood in Barcelona, I overheard a British couple discussing the number of shops that were closed. The man explained that most shops and restaurants close after lunch, during what is traditional known as the siesta. The practice continues today, with businesses closing in the late afternoon when it was hot and business slow to, theoretically, take a nap and reopening later. This, in part, the tradition of eating later and remaining out late into the night. Alas, the woman wanted to shop in the late afternoon and her husband thought the tradition antiquated. It is a remnant of preindustrial habits. What they little realized was that they were imposing their cultural values onto the shopkeepers and people of Barcelona.

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[1] A. Roger Ekirch, “Sleep We Have Lost: Pre-industrial Slumber in the British Isles,” American Historical Review 106(2): 343-386 (April 2001).

Election Day in Belgium

I accompanied my friends to the polling station on Election Day, where elections were being contested at the regional, national and European levels. Voting is compulsory in Belgium; failure to present yourself at the polls elicits a modest fine. Voting is considered one of the obligations of a citizen living in a democratic society. Of course, the government cannot make you cast a vote. A person could simply leave the ballot blank, or even spoil it. In such case, the voter will have fulfilled his or her civic duty. 

Over breakfast before going to the polls, L expressed his frustration at what he saw was increasing belief that the relationship between the people and the government was one of all rights, without obligations on the part of citizens. Thus, very few people were interested in performing the duties, services and niceties that make a democratic society work. But people demanded more rights without consideration of its effects upon others. He worried that this trend toward, what I would call individualism or narcissism was eroding the democratic nature of Belgium.

The Language Border in Belgium

Meanwhile, G was concerned about the future of her village, one where she grew up and lived most of her life. She opined that the village was not the same place as when she grew up. The influx of Francophones had substantially changed the village. In Belgium, Flanders is Flemish-speaking, Wallonia French-speaking, and the city of Brussels is officially bilingual, however historically dominated by Francophones. Brussels is completely encircled by Flanders, with a thin strip of land that separates the city from Wallonia. L and G’s house, located in Flanders, just south of Brussels. is situated less than a quarter of a mile from the language frontier, the official divide between Flemish and French speakers. Francophone Belgian citizens who have moved to the Flemish villages that encircle the capital, have established their own organizations and social networks, demanding more services be provided to the citizens in French. G worries that this is diminishing the Flemish language. Because the new people have a limited knowledge of Dutch, it did not allow anyone to know and use the complexity and beauty of the language. 

Political Protest in Flanders

As we arrived at the Catholic school a that served as the polling station, friends and neighbors greeted one another with handshakes and cheek-to-cheek air kisses. Because everyone is compelled to appear at the polls, on a Sunday between 8am and 2pm, there is a good chance that people will see several people they will know. Whether people like it or not, compulsory voting is an opportunity to visit and connect to the community. Walking to the poll, L points out a restaurant and caterer in center of the village, one that has its services listed in Flemish and French. Someone has used black paint in an attempt to mask the French words.  Although the language issue is often discussed, it is one of the few instances of political protest I have seen in the years I have been coming to Belgium and Flanders.

Given the number of political parties, the ballot is large. Sample ballots line the walls. A bulletin board that separates the line from the voting area. On it is posted the relevant statutes regarding election. Hanging from a long piece of twine is a 300-page booklet, in both French and Dutch, enumerating the rules and procedures of elections used, presumably, in case of a dispute. Despite the hundreds of people queuing to vote, I am the only person who casually wonder over to thumb through it. 

After voting, L and G had another task: G’s brother and wife were on holiday in Greece. In what is a complete anathema to Americans, they would L and G would go to vote in their place. We walked over to another of the village’s polling place, this time in a primary school where G once taught, my friends produced a letter from the mayor and an affidavit signed by the principles and cast ballots on their relative’s behalf. At once it seemed opened to malfeasance and fraud, but in light of the mandate of compulsory voting, it makes complete sense.

The entire process was one in which the act of voting was not merely a right that once could exercise, it was a duty that citizens were expected to perform. From my perspective it promoted a sense of community. Each and every person, often with children in tow, were expected to present themselves to express their ideas and opinion on government. No one is left out; no one excluded. A chance for the people to make their voices heard. 

Paris and Orwell

There are so many restaurants and cafes in Paris. I know people who read various magazines and guides to deduce the best places to eat and drink while staying in the City of Lights, and I have benefited often from their research. Inevitably, the highly rated establishment are chock full of tourists clamoring to try the best of Parisian culinary cuisine. But for me, I am struck by the sheer volume of cafes, restaurants, and bars in the city. There are so many that how they manage to be viable is mysterious. Each arrondissement has its own set of little places, often wedged into a confined place, or hidden down a winding passage. Some cafes are more expensive than others, but each offers a different experience.

It is difficult to walk through Paris and not think about George Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London. His description of Paris of the 1920s not only give us an insight to the Paris that he found fascinating, but also about crushing poverty and deprivation. Intermixed with the fascinating stories of individuals and circumstances, the book explains why poverty and deprivation rob people of the identification and dignity.

A late spring evening in Paris

At first, this seems to set up a depressing narrative, and to be sure, there are depressing and horrifying incidents recounted in the book. Yet, Orwell’s account of a local cafe on a Saturday evening, when people gather for friendship and fun, continues to be repeated across the city today. The cafes in the 11th Arrondissement are a place of conversation and conviviality. Of course, there is overindulgence by some, but it is generally good natured.

Many people in developed parts of the world today will have started their working careers in the service sector, as a server, bartender, or kitchen help often. Orwell survived in Paris as working as a plongeur (dishwasher) in a famous hotel that catered to American tourists. Later, he moved to a newly opened restaurant that attracted a certain clientele. The key to a successful Parisian restaurant, according to Orwell, was “very sharp table knives” to easily cut through tough meat and give the illusion that the meat was high quality. He noted that understanding this destroyed his illusion that the French were appreciative of great food. Yet, today, Paris and France are generally known for the perpetuation of an excellent cuisine. I sometimes wonder if the excitement of travel, our belief that the food must be good, that we become inattentive to the actual quality. 

The narrator takes up with the Irishman Paddy when he makes his way to London. Paddy habitually scans the sidewalks for discarded cigarette butts with trace amounts of tobacco. He gathers tobacco together to fashion his own cigarettes for consumption. Orwell often laments the lack of tobacco in his life when he is desperately poor. Smoking, while still common in Europe, has declined dramatically since the 1920s. Yet, while walking early one morning on Rue du Faubourg du Temple, I observed a similar practice. It was very early in the morning of Ascension Thursday, a national holiday in many European countries. Morning revelers continued their party at half past eight in the morning; I watched a group of young people order another round of beers at an hour when most people would normally be fight traffic on the way to work. An older man was scanning window ledges and posts for discarded cups to see if any had any remaining beer. He would pick up the discarded beer, and after a brief inspection, would marry the newly discovered cup with his own. He celebrated by taking a bug swig of the newly created concoction for himself.

Towards the end of his stay in Paris, the narrator was working so many hours, and was so broke, that he slept on a park bench rather than spending money on a Metro ticket and facing his landlord without his rent. While we think that life has gotten better, societies are still confronted with the reality of poverty and mental health remain problems today. During my walk in the Place de la République and surrounding area one morning, I saw a person sleeping on a bench, their sleeping bag completely concealing their body and using a canvas grocery tote as a pillow. I thought of Orwell doing the same, perhaps just a few kilometers away, some ninety years ago.

Cultural Differences

I am constantly reminded while traveling about the cultural differences between Americans and Europeans. For instance, while riding on a subway (metro), Americans tend to be very loud and boisterous. Their conversations can be heard by many. The more Americans there are in the car, the louder it is. By contrast, with the exception of adolescences and the inebriated, Europeans tend to have quiet conversations, speaking to each other in muted tones. The cars tend to be quiet.

A similar behavior is when riding a bus or metro, American will often put their feet in adjoining seats, stretching out the legs, taking up more than one seat. These people are also sending a signal of ownership and signaling a disinclination to share adjacent seats with strangers. I have seen bus drivers stop, walk to the back of the bus and chastise young American women for putting their dirty feet where soon someone else will be sitting. I conjure the image of prim and proper Irish women riding the bus after we have departed. One driver, as he walked away, muttered that he worked hard to keep his bus clean.

The unfair aspect of this description is that there could be, and probably are, many Americans who adopt a similar habits and attitude to their European counterparts. But because they are quiet, they are not immediately recognized. The loud Americans are recognized, the quiet ones are not. Nevertheless, my observation has given rise to a pet theory: In general, Europeans tend to share public space, while Americans try to own it.

[As I was sketching this thought out in my notebook in a sedate hotel breakfast room on a Sunday morning, I an everyone else heard an American woman say: “I am generous to a fault!” It fit all the stereotypes that many will have of Americans.]