Always fragrant, benign

Today is my favorite Catalan holiday, Sant Jordi. I love it because it has all the nice things: gifts for your loved ones, flowers and books, history and legend (Saint George and the dragon). 

The Mister left at 5 am for a quick overnight business trip, but when I made my way downstairs with the kids a red rose and a wrapped book were waiting for me on the table.

April has been sluggish and cold: the sun shines, but without warmth. A gusty wind blows that requires me to don my hat and scarf and gloves. However, I've stubbornly broken out my spring clothes, deceived by a few warm days during which we (and everyone else here) practically fell over ourselves to have picnics in the park and eat ice cream. So I'm usually too cold as I schlep the kids around, gritting my teeth into the wind.

Gabriel went easter egg hunting in the snow (oh, our little trip to the Ardennes was a big success! but then we all got sick again the following week). I keep thinking it HAS to get better. It will.

In the meantime, a poem for Sant Jordi's day by Salvador Espriu, the great Catalan poet. Soon the suffering dragon, the boredom, the cold rain will be locked away...

Les Roses Recordades
Salvador Espriu

Recordes com ens duien
aquelles mans les roses
de Sant Jordi, la vella
claror d'abril? Plovia
a poc a poc. Nosaltres,
amb gran tedi, darrera
la finestra, miràvem,
potser malalts, la vida
del carrer. Aleshores
ella venia, sempre
olorosa, benigna,
amb les flors, i tancava
fora, lluny, la sofrença
del pobre drac, i deia
molt suament els nostre
spetits noms, i ens somreia.

Remembered Roses
Salvador Espriu

Do you remember how those hands
brought us the roses of Sant Jordi,
the old April light? It rained
slowly. Us, bored and maybe ill
behind the window, watching
the street life go by. Then
she came, always fragrant, 
benign, with flowers, 
and she locked the suffering
of the poor dragon away, far away,
and she ever so softly said
our dear names, and smiled at us.

Palms

Palm Sunday here in Catalonia is known as diumenge de rams, or "branches Sunday," which is funny considering that there actually are palms, in abundance, in this Mediterranean locale. Unlike, say, Vermont, where our palm branches must be imported from who knows where.

In fact, as I learned last weekend, Palm Sunday is actually more Eastery than Easter Sunday, in the sense that even if you never go to church during the rest of the year, Palm Sunday is the day you dress up your kids in patent leather shoes and pastel outfits, and take them to mass. According to the Mister's grandmother, everyone is supposed to wear something brand new for the first time. She debuted a lovely blue coat.

Another important ritual is the buying and waving of the palmons or palmes, the former being tall straight palm fronds gathered into a bundle and traditionally carried by little boys, the latter being palm fronds woven into miraculously intricate confections and carried by the girls.

These are sold the Saturday prior to Palm Sunday on the Rambla Catalunya, and since Saturday was a beautiful day, I took a bike ride down to see all of the handiwork. Each booth is laden with palms of all shapes and sizes, from delicate floral fingerlings like the one my mother-in-law gave me to elaborate works of art several meters high. In addition, they sell the candy rosaries, ribbons and tiny toys that are used to decorate the palms, as well as large bunches of laurel and thyme, which are also carried to mass on Sunday morning. (I would have taken pictures, but the Mister has the camera in Japan, with instructions to take pictures of the cherry trees. The photograph above comes from another blog, in Catalan, about the holiday.)

On Sunday I met the Mister's grandmother, mother, and our little niece in the plaza in front of the church, along with a huge crowd of other families. When the priest came out and read the Biblical passage describing the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, at every "alleluia," the palms and branches were lifted high into the air and shaken, and the straight bundles of palms carried by the boys were tamped into the ground. (From what I understand, they compete to see who can end up with the greatest length of frayed "broom.")

After Easter, many families hang the palms on their balconies, where they spend the year until the next Ash Wednesday, when they are burned to make the ash. If you're ever in Spain, if you look up from time to time, you'll notice the drying palmes strung across balconies' metal fretwork.

This new year

Today is January 7. Tomorrow the children of Spain return to school. The Kings have come and gone, leaving presents in their wake. If the children have been naughty this year (as most have), they also left coal--sometimes made of sugar, but sometimes the real thing. (Our niece, in a fit of contrariness, insisted that she wanted to eat lumps of real charcoal brisket out of the hefty bag that she so eagerly unwrapped.)

But there's no room for more sweets anyway. Everyone's bellies are stuffed with turró (nougat and custard bars eaten throughout the holiday season) and polvoró (soft, crumbly round sweets) and tortell (the marzipan-filled and fruit-topped ring cake hiding a fava bean and a king figure, eaten on Epiphany), not to mention the stews and soups and meat and fish of the traditional neverending meals.

Barcelona has hit a cold spell, and we even saw snowfall last night. We ran out into the street and tried to catch clumps of the big, wet flakes. There was no driving to be attempted, since a little bit of snow snarls everything. So I spent one more night at my in-laws'. The Mister, meanwhile, was already on a plane to Brussels.

Which, I suppose, means that the holidays really are over. We had such a lovely week in Vermont. It was so hard to say goodbye to everyone again, especially the littlest. No sooner had we landed in Barcelona than it was time to ring in the new year, which once again we did at the Mister's grandmother's. This year, though, our nieces spent the night at our house, which was a fun treat for us and them. Then a big all-family meal on New Year's Day. Then a busy couple of days of shopping and wrapping presents and visiting with dear friends, and then Kings', which is like Christmas all over again. But it had to end sometime.

Today I trundled big bags of new goodies up to our cold apartment, and am now trying to warm it via space heaters. I am still wearing my coat, however, and making good use of my new fingerless gloves with clever mitten flaps, a gift from my sister-in-law. They come in handy for typing when one's hands are blocks of ice.

I feel a bit melancholy, as I always do after the bustle and cheer of the holidays. I feel daunted by the weight of what I want to accomplish this year, the changes I hope to see--from the very small to the impossibly huge--and the lurking fear of not being up to the challenge. Last night I had a hard time falling asleep, thinking of all the things that I want to do, all of the ways that I want to be better, all of wishes I have for our future. My project this evening will be to write them all down, little to big, practical to fanciful, and try to express some of the bigger ones in clear goals and prayers that can be my focus during this year, 2009.

Wow. 2009.

Catalan word of the day: blocaire

I have been puzzled for some time over the correct way to write "blog" in Catalan. I have seen it with equal frequency as "blog" and as "bloc." At first I thought the latter was just a misspelling of blog, the -c and -g ending sounding similar in Catalan, and because the word "bloc" can mean notepad, which makes sense in the context of a journal-like web page. But it seems the Gran diccionari de la llengua catalana gives preference to the latter, because under the entry for "bloc" the webpage definition appears, while "blog" isn't listed at all. I haven't been able to find either of them in any other dictionary.

So "bloc" it is, although the word might always look funny to my eyes. I was even more surprised to find that a derivative appears as well: "blocaire," which is a blogger. Upon further investigation, I see that the Catalan wikipedia page also mentions bloguistes, blogaires and bloguers as possible translations of "bloggers."

But I'll stick with blocaire. I like it because I have a soft spot for the catalan -aire ending, which tacked on to a noun, is likely to refer to a person who engages in an activity related to that thing, but somehow less...highbrow and more old-fashioned sounding (the more standard -er, -or, and -ant endings work like the English -er: baker (forner), banker (banquer), etc.). Street or outdoor jobs are often given -aire ending. Some examples:

cant, song > cantaire, singer (vs. cantant, a professional singer; in choir they refer to us as cantaires, but our voice teachers are cantants)
drap, rag > drapaire, rag-and-bone man, junk dealer (vs. draper, which means dry goods seller)
escombra, broom > escombraire, street sweeper (vs. escombrador, sweeper)
fira, fair > firataire, someone who keeps a stall at a fair
cigró, chickpea > cigronaire, chickpea seller
cinta, ribbon > cintaire, ribbon maker or seller
bolet, mushroom > boletaire, mushroom hunter (there is a popular program on Catalan TV called "Boletaires," which is a reality show about mushroom hunters [yes, television is pretty exciting stuff 'round here])
ou, egg > ouataire, egg dealer (I buy my eggs at the market from an ouataire)

I like how the -aire ending sounds, sort of an ah-ee-r-uh sound (like an English speaker might pronounce Aïda, the opera). It makes the word quite airy, if you will. And I like being in the company of people whose tasks are so clearly defined and hands-on. Sell chickpeas. Make ribbon. Hunt mushrooms. Write blog.

Saint Robin

Everyone here in Spain gets to have a dia del sant, or Saint Day, the day on which their namesake saint is celebrated. By extension, somehow, the person bearing that name is also celebrated, complete with presents from the family, so that you have sort of a second birthday. It's really amazing how everyone walks around with a holy days calendar in their head. People who know your name--neighbors, shopkeepers, relatives--will call you on the phone or call out their felicitats! as you pass, because while they might not know your birthday, your name corresponds to the saint, so it's a built in reminder. Anyone who regularly attends mass is given, on the full parroquial (parochial newsletter), a list of that week's saint days. Even those who don't go to church know the saint days of most common names, since they probably have a Josep/Josefina, Pau/Paula, a Maria or Pere or Anna or Marc in their family.

We celebrated the Mister's saint day this month with his family, complete with presents. In fact, I'm curled up in one of them now, a cozy fleece blanket. One of my failings as a partner is that thus far I have never remembered his saint day until it is nearly upon us, and even then the importance of it somehow escapes me, so that I fail to get a gift. Not this year, though! I knew just what to get him--because he, um, told me what he wanted--but... it's not ready yet. Still at the shop. Hey, at least I got him a gift!

Then there's me. As far as I knew, there was no Saint Robin. But the Mister and I were talking about names, and we did a little digging on the internet, and found a bizarrely-named page in French ("Call Back Me It" for a birthday and saint day reminder service? sounds like some Babelfish translation at work), which says that Saint Robin's day is April 30! I have a day! Too bad it's only 9 days before my birthday. Would have been nice to spread it out a bit. But wait! Another page, this one in Spanish, says that it's September 17! Much better. I can't for the life of me find any info on who "Saint Robin" was, or if they're just making this up, but I'll take it. Presents? Sign me up!

One tidbit I did manage to find is a poem by Sir Edmund William Gosse about "Saint Robin." Even if this is just poetic fancy, I'll be happy to think of the "saint of flowers" who has birds for a choir and a nimbus of daffodils on his head. (Which would, come to think of it, put the logical date for celebration closer to April 30 than September 17...)

With a Copy of Herrick

Fresh with all airs of woodland brooks
And scents of showers,
Take to your haunt of holy books
This saint of flowers.

When meadows burn with budding May,
And heaven is blue,
Before his shrine our prayers we say,--
Saint Robin true.

Love crowned with thorns is on his staff,--
Thorns of sweet briar;
His benediction is a laugh,
Birds are his choir.

His sacred robe of white and red
Unction distils;
He hath a nimbus round his head
Of daffodils.

What's home?

(Am still in England. This post was written ahead of time. Look at me, all prepared and whatnot.)

After the election, I was so proud that all of my "home" states pulled for Obama (not all of them givens, either):

Iowa, where I was born.
Pennsylvania, where I spent my childhood.
Vermont, where I spent my high school years and where my parents live.
Massachusetts, where I went to college and where my siblings live.
Indiana, where I studied for grad school.

Just as I was thinking about that, Astrid wrote a great post about what it takes to feel "at home" in a place, especially for expats. How the feeling of belongingness can come and go so easily.

And I wondered, where's home for me?

As the above list should indicate, when people ask me "where I'm from," it's not so simple to answer. The first answer is "the US," but after that it gets more complicated. I usually say Vermont, which is, of all those states, where I identify most as "home," both because it's the place I go back to for holidays, and because I'm proud of it and fiercely attached to it as a (beautiful) place.

Although those who ask that question clearly identify me as a foreigner, another answer is that I'm also "from" here. This is where I live. This is what I have chosen. Through my husband and our house and his family and the Catalan language, I am making a thousand new little rootlets to create "home" every day.

But feeling at home is another story. One minute everything makes sense, I'm grooving with the language, I feel like an adopted Catalan, I get cultural references, jokes, and place names, I belong in my neighborhood, I know what's what and can steer my way around the city like a local. The next minute--boom!--I'm so darn foreign, all gangly and blond and my words get tangled up and I don't have my ID yet and I don't get the joke and the explanation doesn't make sense and this is so not home. Sigh.

Ultimately, I would define home as the place where my loved ones are. Thus I can simultaneously talk about "going home" for Christmas, and "coming back home" when Christmas is over.

Mostly, home is where the Mister is. It's in his arms.

Estiuet de Sant Martí

In early November, the Catalans predict warm weather: the "little summer" of Sant Martí, which falls on November 11. Sure enough, today was a winner, crisp air and warm sun. We ate lunch outside for the "festa major" of my in-laws' town (every town and neighborhood has its own week of celebrations, based on the day of the patron saint). After some days of decidedly cooling weather, we are enjoying this estiuet.

I couldn't help thinking about what it'd be like in Brussels right now: ten degrees cooler, and gray. Maybe raining.

So I did a little poking around on the web, if only to confirm my suspicions. Brussels has, on average, 208 "wet days" per year, or 17.33 days per month. And this statistic does not include not-wet but still gray days, which I would unscientifically estimate to be another 10 days or so. 27 days of gray per month.

Barcelona has, on average, 79 "wet days" per year, or 6.5 days per month. Maybe a couple more are gray without rain. 9 days of gray per month.

If you could choose between the two, where would you want to live?

It's funny that I care so much about this, because I'm not a sun-worshipper, not a beach bunny. I burn and don't tan, I stay in the shade. Really, it's all about the effect of so much gray on my spirits. It's SAD all year long in Brussels.

And Barcelona? Happy.

(source)

Trick or treat

No trick-or-treaters rang my doorbell yesterday, but the doorbell did ring, and I did get a treat:

A big box full of books, all of them MY book! My translation, that is. It's a deeply satisfying feeling to see a row of them all ranged on the shelf, knowing that my name is on the cover, in letters just as big as the editor's.

It's not the first time I've seen it; I have had one copy since late July, I think. And I've been simultaneously excited and embarrassed about it all ever since I first held it in my hands and flipped through the pages.

Excited, because the book is beautiful, with a lovely painting of food on the cover, and a tasteful jacket design. I love the deep red endpapers, the font, and the layout. I was thrilled that it is a bilingual edition, Catalan and English on facing pages, so readers can themselves go to the original for the thornier aspects of the medieval language.

But also embarrassed, because some funky editing went on after I sent my round of proofs to the publisher. [Redacted: some guesses as to who is at fault, because on second thought, this is a job here, and blog lesson #1 is probably about not discussing work-related issues online.] The first problem is with inconsistencies (changed some but not all occurrences of a word). I wouldn't mind if they had changed them all but it makes me itch and practically break out in hives to see contradictory usage. Similarly, some but not all words were changed to British spelling. Finally, there are some errors that are probably typesetting issues, including many incorrect word breaks (as a former proofreader, this gets under my skin).

Yet all of this I could easily forgive if there did not exist, right in the middle of page 19, glaring at me reproachfully (there might as well be a blinking red light for all I can ignore it), this clunker: "When the recipes was copied, they was extensively reworked..."

The first time I thumbed through the book, I saw it, and it still makes me cringe every time I think about it (the "trick" in yesterday's "treat," if you will). I suppose the error resulted from the back-and-forth between the British and Catalan editors. Somebody changed something, somebody changed it back, but without correcting the verb. I don't know.

I have to reassure myself with the following line of reasoning: a) not a whole lot of people are going to buy this book, anyway--it's a niche audience--and b) of those who buy it, not many are going to share my obsession with grammar, and c) the clunker on page 19 does not go on my CV, so sheesh, just calm down already.

Anyway, today I am thankful for my very first, very own, shiny pretty book translation.

Battle hymns

A couple of weeks ago, I auditioned for an excellent choral ensemble here in Barcelona. I always get shaky and nervous during auditions, but fortunately they accepted me, and I am thrilled to be singing once again! I'm looking forward to getting to know a repertoire of Catalan music--my first full concert will be a Catalan sarsuela (zarzuela, in Spanish). One of the conditions of membership is that every singer take voice lessons biweekly, so I will also be returning to individual vocal study for the first time since college.

Last night we had the privilege of singing at the breathtaking Palau de la Música Catalana (click on "Guided Tours" and then "Virtual Tour" for a series of nice videos of the interior and exterior, or "Palau" for its history).


We were squished up in those red velvet seats flanking the organ in order to sing the Catalan national anthem, Els Segadors, at the end of an evening of musical and verbal tributes to Lluís Xirinacs. A long stream of public figures paid honor to Xirinacs' dedication to nonviolence and Catalan independence. Maria del Mar Bonet, a well-loved folk singer whose 1970s Catalan protest songs galvanized a generation, performed, along with many other Catalan musicians. The tenor of the evening, although filled with chants of "A Free Catalonia" and fists pumping in the air, was largely peaceful, given the example of Xirinacs himself.

However. When at last it came time to sing the Catalan anthem (which I had been frantically memorizing over the weekend), it struck me again how violent it is, and how ironic this violence given last night's context. The music itself sounds even more "militant" than the meaning of the words might indicate. People these days don't (usually) sing it in a spirit of violence, but the overall message is violent, and the lyrics were written about the Reapers' War of the 17th century. Like the American national anthem, which also commemorates a battle (from the War of 1812), this anthem links nationhood to a celebration of violent defiance. They are battle hymns.

I won't say much more about this except to lament it. I've long wished the American national anthem were something easier to sing and something a shade less bellicose. National identity, as represented by a song, should ideally be peaceful and pluralist. The Spanish national anthem is wordless, and perhaps this is the best way to go. However, recently a contest was held to add words to the anthem, resulting in some major controversy. For starters, the lyrics begin with "Viva España," inevitably reminding Spaniards (and Catalans, and Basques) of the dictatorship, when those very words represented the often violent oppression of "unacceptable" identities.

Resume

How has it happened that several whole weeks have gone by since last I wrote anything here? It was kind of not my fault, because of the lack of internet in Barcelona, although it is kind of my fault because I can usually get a neighbor's signal if I sit on or near one of the balconies. Plus, we were in Brussels this past weekend for a wedding, and there was internet. But again! Not so much my fault! Because we had guests staying with us and you know how it is with having guests: you end up running around doing stuff and not so much bloggity blogging.

So, enough excuses. Since I've dropped off the face of the earth (no skype either, not since the Great Computer Failure of June 08), I should just briefly--but chronologically, as I am unfortunately linear in my thinking--summarize what we've been up to since I came to Barcelona with intent to live. (You see, strangely enough, after all of this time visiting Barcelona on summers and vacations and weekends, and even after we bought an apartment here, I've never truly thought of us "living" here. And now I do, because we are. It feels good.)

Hold on, first another (non-linear, parenthetical) note: I just typed the word "resume" instead of "summarize." Even as I pressed the delete button I was dumbly trying to process: why isn't resume right? why on earth did I think it was resume? what's the right word anyway? My fingers, typing faster than my brain, typed resume because in Catalan, you say "resumir" to mean "sum up," "go over," "summarize." Can it be that Catalan has so infiltrated my thinking that I am using reverse false cognates?

Anyhoo. The first week here was a madness of getting the apartment in shape for the Mister's birthday party and for guests who were to spend the following weekend with us. It was grimy from disuse and lack of time, on prior whirlwind weekends, to clean. I finally was able to convince the electrician to come and install all of our lights, which was a relief because it meant that our restored original lighting is now in place, instead of naked lightbulbs. The weather was sultry hot, humid, sunny. I didn't sleep properly for days, because of the heat, and the noise from the street through the open windows. But it was better than Brussels, where jackets are still necessary.

We had a fun family-and-friends birthday party; everybody had just left the house around midnight when our weekend guests arrived--the same Italian friends whose wedding we attended in Sardinia. We went to the beach for the first time this year, we ate lots of good food, we trudged around the city in the heat, we watched Spain win the European football championship. Our Italian friend (a big football fan himself) was a little puzzled, I think, as to why the Catalans were rather lackluster on the cheering front, until we pointed out the Franco-era flags waving in the stands and listened to frenzied radio commentary about the "raza superior": it's amazing how football in Europe can be so...political, so closely tied to ultra-nationalism.

Our friends left last Monday, and I finally had a rather calm few days to myself here. I got some work done, explored the neighborhood, did a little sales shopping. (In Europe--well, at least in Spain and Belgium--the sales are restricted to post-Christmas and late summer. Other times of the year, it's rare to find anything on sale, and so during these sale months everyone goes crazy, and it makes the news, sort of like Black Friday. I myself rather prefer NOT to shop during these times, as formerly orderly shops become bargain-basement jumbles of clothes, and formerly solicitous salespeople become surly and snappy. But I went to buy some items I had my eyes on earlier, and snagged them on sale on July 1.) I also finalized our rather complex set of plane tickets from Barcelona to Boston (me) and Brussels to Sioux Falls (him), then Sioux Falls (me) and Omaha (him; yeah, don't ask) to Las Vegas, then Las Vegas to Barcelona. It'll be his first trip to my midwestern birthplace, and I haven't been in years. We'll be in Iowa/South Dakota for a family reunion, and then we're taking two weeks to drive around California. I have never been (less surprisingly, he hasn't either) to Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, Los Angeles, or San Francisco. So those are all on the list, and I have a feeling two weeks is going to start seeming awfully short.

I also got a haircut! I got a very short cut--a pageboy?--with long straight-across bangs. I've never had bangs like this and I'm still adjusting to them, but I think I like it. It looks kind of retro, kind of flapper-ish, and it went well with the beaded dress I wore to the wedding this weekend.

I had a bit of a misadventure when I flew to Brussels last Thursday. Somehow in setting the alarm I changed the time as well, so that when I thought I was waking up at 5:30 in the morning it was really 3:30 in the morning, and I had in reality only slept for two hours. Not until I was wheeling my little suitcase down the dark, deserted street did it occur to me to wonder why there were so few people and why it was so dark at 6 am. I showed up at the train station at 4:15 in the morning, and had to wait for it to open at 4:30. The first train to the airport was at 5:30, so I kind-of-slept for an hour, dragged myself to the airport and through check-in and security, and then kind-of-slept for another two and half hours because--Murphy's law!--the plane was delayed for two hours.

Upon arrival in Brussels, I had to rush home--shivering, because the skirt and tank top that had seemed so smart in boiling Barcelona did not quite cut it in chilly, rainy Brussels--change, and meet my Mister at a super swanky delicious restaurant called BonBon to celebrate our two years of weddedness. It was worth it though, because the meal was a memorable one and the travel stress melted away under the influence of a nice wine recommended by the sommelier and the handsome face across the table.

Unfortunately the glamor could last only for so long, because we had to clean the house in preparation for the guests who would be with us for the wedding, arriving later that night. The weekend was full of wedding flurry, inevitably. The bride and groom and many of the guests were a group of friends who had studied with the Mister at the Johns Hopkins International School in Bologna, a fun mix of Americans and Europeans of all stripes, and I got to meet some of them for the first time. The wedding itself was a civil ceremony that took place at the very grand town hall in the very grand Grand Place, and drinks afterwards were Belgian brews at a nearby brasserie. We danced and mingled until four o'clock in the morning, and the next day we were plied with the famous fries at Chez Antoine in Place Jourdain. I flew back to Barcelona late last night (the Mister had flown to Madrid for a conference) and well, here I am.

Here I am, that is, until a week from tomorrow, which is when the whole American adventure starts. I'm super excited to see family and celebrate and lolligag in cabins by the lake, but I'm really quite beside myself that we're finally going to take a driving trip around the west coast. Even if I end up feeling like foreigner in my own country.

A rose and a book

Today is the worldwide Day of the Book, but more specifically in Catalonia, April 23 is the day of Sant Jordi. On this day, lovers present each other with a rose and a book.

Why the rose? Legend has it that Saint George (Sant Jordi), Christian martyr who died on this day, killed a dragon who had menaced the realm for years and who had a princess in his claws. From the dragon's spilled blood grew a perfect red rose, which he, gallant knight that he was, presented to the princess.

Why the book? In Catalonia the book tradition developed in the 1920s to celebrate this day, on which falls the births of Shakespeare and Nabakov, and the deaths of Shakespeare and Cervantes (same day, same year!), as well as Josep Pla and William Wordsworth.

Every year the Generalitat de Catalunya creates a nice Sant Jordi web animation. I recommend checking it out here. There are three different animations, one each for the rose, the book, and Sant Jordi. Click at the top of the page for the English version.

Although I've never been in Barcelona on April 23, I know that the streets fill with book and flower sellers. I'd love to see it, and to rummage around the bookstalls. This year, the Mister and I have to make do with a virtual rose and we'll postpone the books a bit until he returns from his trip.

I bought myself a few books yesterday, though, in honor of the event (well, not that I really ever need an excuse, but still...): a couple of Margaret Atwood novels, a Haruki Murakami novel, and a volume of Auden poems. Rather unusually for me (because I usually read faster than I buy), at the moment I've actually accumulated quite a pile of "for fun" reading, so they'll just have to go on the stack.

In honor of the day of books and roses, I have for you a rose poem. It was hard to choose just one, but ultimately I had to choose Rilke, because the rose was a kind of totem for him throughout his life: his epitaph is two lines composed on the rose, "no one's sleep beneath so many lids," and the leukemia that killed him purportedly first showed its symptoms after he was pricked by a rose.

This poem, in a translation by William Gass, so closely observes the world of roses that you are drawn in on a minute, tender level. It's worth reading slowly, and savoring all of its turns and swirls of imagery. Plus, it was composed on the island of Capri (!), in a little cottage called "The Rose House." I especially love that last stanza before the final line, its whirlwind of world focused down into a handful of rose.

The Bowl of Roses
by Ranier Maria Rilke

You've seen their anger flare, seen two boys
bunch themselves into a ball of animosity
and roll across the ground
like some dumb animal set upon by bees;
you've seen those carny barkers, mile-high liars,
the careening tangle of bolting horses,
their upturned eyes and flashing teeth,
as if the skull were peeled back from the mouth.

But now you know how to forget such things,
for now before you stands the bowl of roses,
unforgettable and wholly filled
with unattainable being and promise,
a gift beyond anyone's giving, a presence
that might be ours and our perfection.

Living in silence, endlessly unfolding,
using space without space being taken
from a space even trinkets diminish;
scarcely the hint there of outline or ground
they are so utterly in, so strangely delicate
and self-lit—to the very edge:
it possible we know anything like this?

And then like this: that a feeling arises
because now and then the petals kiss?
And this: that one should open like an eye,
to show more lids beneath, each closed
in a sleep as deep as ten, to quench
an inner fire of visionary power.
And this above all: that through these petals
light must make its way. Out of one thousand skies
they slowly drain each drop of darkness
so that this concentrated glow
will bestir the stamens till they stand.

And the movement in the roses, look:
gestures which make such minute vibrations
they'd remain invisible if their rays
did not resolutely ripple out into the wide world.

Look at that white one which has blissfully unfolded
to stand amidst its splay of petals
like Venus boldly balanced on her shell;
look too at the bloom that blushes, bends
toward the one with more composure,
and see how the pale one aloofly withdraws;
and how the cold one stands, closed upon itself,
among those open roses, shedding all.
And what they shed: how it can be light or heavy,
a cloak, a burden, a wing, a mask — it just depends —
and how they let it fall: as if disrobing for a lover.

What can't they be? Was that yellow one,
lying there hollow and open, not the rind
of a fruit in which the very same yellow
was its more intense and darkening juice?
And was this other undone by its opening,
since, so exposed, its ineffable pink
has picked up lilac's bitter aftertaste?
And the cambric, is it not a dress
to which a chemise, light and warm as breath,
still clings, though both were abandoned
amid morning shadows near the old woodland pool?
And this of opalescent porcelain
is a shallow fragile china cup
full of tiny shining butterflies —
and there — that one's holding nothing but itself.

And aren't they all that way? just self-containing,
if self-containing means: to transform the world
with its wind and rain and springtime's patience
and guilt and restlessness and obscure fate
and the darkness of evening earth and even
the changing clouds, coming and going,
even the vague intercession of distant stars,
into a handful of inner life.

It now lies free of care in these open roses.

Merry Christmas, Bon Nadal

A very merry Christmas from Barcelona! Here the sun is shining and Papa Noel has already visited, leaving two little delighted girls with fairy princess costumes, a scooter, and a miniature iron/ironing board. They are dancing around and waving their wands, the two-year-old announcing in her best tiny announcer voice, "Senyors i senyores, mireu els pallassos!" (Ladies and gentlemen, look at the clowns!) In turn, we are each dragged to our feet and made to play the clown.

We also found ticket-sized presents in the stocking hung at the mantel, a nod to American tradition, and the Mister and I and our brother-in-sister in law are going to the theater on Friday!

The Mister, sneaky guy that he is, made sure Santa visited my pillow, under which I found a slender volume of Christmas Catalan poetry AND the classic Spanish cookbook, 1080 Recipes, newly translated into English and lavishly illustrated with colorful drawings. Boy Santa sure knew what I wanted, and I didn't even write a letter!

Later in the day, we will have an afternoon meal that will no doubt burst some buttons, and then we will take turns singing songs asking the tió to poop us out some presents. Lifting the blanket that covers his rear end will reveal some brightly wrapped gifts, unless we haven't behaved and we find only onions or salted fish.

We also will connect with our Vermont family in their snowier corner of the world, and watch as they open some presents, perhaps from the box that arrived from Belgium. Last night we also video conferenced the two families, after a tasty Christmas eve meal cooked by our brother-in-law. The little ones looked at each other on the screen, our nephew in his adorable suspenders looking a little scared and wide-eyed as our niece excitedly tapped his image, saying "Hola!!!" I couldn't hear much in either direction, and as I tried to translate for approximately a dozen people at once, I ended up saying things in English to the Catalans and in Catalan to the Americans, but I think everybody was happy just to see each other and wish each other a merry Christmas.

Which is what I wish you, dear reader, wherever you are. I hope your Christmas is full of joy and love, the warmth of family, and the peace of God.

Sleeping like a marmot

Yesterday's evening was a success on both social and culinary levels. I was introduced to the joys of the little round almond cookies called panellets and I introduced my guests to the joys of pumpkin pie. None of them had ever tried it before--imagine the tragedy of a pumpkin pieless life!

I wore my Cleopatra wig and eye makeup and managed to astonish everyone who came through the door. I even managed to frighten myself a few times, especially after I had ditched the wig at around dessert-time but caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror still wearing half-smeared crooked black eyeliner all over my face. But, sadly, I was the only one in costume. I understand that on what to them was just a regular worknight, it was hard to get hyped up enough to se deguiser. So I played the role of the loony American hostess in her wacked-out wig and kooky color schemes (I served an all-orange menu: carrots and orange peppers, bright orange butternut squash soup, pumpkin pie).

Everyone stayed until 2 am, and although I lost some of the thread of the conversation by the end of the night, due to sugar overload, wine, and the fact that it was 2 am, I did pick up on a rather handy Catalan phrase. "Dormir com una marmota," to sleep like a marmot, is the equivalent of sleeping like a rock or log. I like it because I'd much rather sleep like a marmot than a log, the former being a whole lot softer and snugglier.

And sleeping like a marmot what I proceeded to do as soon as I had popped the leftovers in the fridge and crawled into my jammies. (And yes, OK, I'll admit it. I ate pumpkin pie for breakfast today.)

If you check this blog regularly, I apologize

How scandalous of me to have not written for so long. Easter has happened, and with it endless choices for the kitchen we are putting in the apartment in Barcelona. Trips to the glass store for glass, the marble store for marble, the cabinet store for cabinets, and so on and so forth. Plus, lots of catalogues for the things there were no stores for. How is one supposed to know what it will look like when all of the pieces are put together? We hope good taste + good taste (times 46)(times tiny catalogue pictures) = a kitchen and bathroom in good taste. It was a hectic week, but progress is underway; most notably, there was a whole wall knocked out where we are putting the kitchen.

We spent our twelve days of Easter break in Barcelona first with my brother (in town for a visit the first weekend) and his girlfriend, then with our contractor, and then with M's parents on the Costa Brava. It rained the whole time, pretty much, but we have been amply rewarded since our return (two weekends ago already?) with beautiful weather in Brussels.

What of note in our little Bruxellois household has happened?

First of all, the girl whose furniture we are babysitting never showed up to get her stuff! We thought that we'd return from Easter to an empty house, but upon not hearing from her despite our e-mails, suspected that she had abandoned the idea. Sure enough, we later discovered that she still hasn't found a new place in Madrid, and so is putting off the moving truck. This is not exactly a problem, since we rather like her things, it's just that it would have been nice to know, as we are trying to figure out replacement furniture.

Second of all, I'm in the process of joining a large amateur choir called the Brussels Choral Society, and it's making me deliriously happy just to be able to sing (I've rehearsed with them for two weeks now). They're working on an upcoming concert of Fauré, Rachmaninof, and Duruflé, some of my all-time favorite music, so I'm pretty excited. My audition is this Thursday. Fingers crossed! Oh, and guess where the next concert will take place? The church of Chant d'Oiseau, which is of course the French for Cant d'ocell.

I've already gotten a nice perk from the choir: this weekend M and I got free tickets to see the Brussels Symphonic Orchestra that were offered to any BCS people who wanted to sing "Land of Hope and Glory" from the audience, during the final Elgar Pomp and Circumstance number, and we had a ball. They performed the Elgar Enigma Variations, a piece that I also adore, and the encore was the Colonel Bogey theme, which, as the conductor said, they would only perform "à la condition que vous sifflez"; we had to whistle the tune, conjuring up visions of cheerful campers wearing neck kercheifs, and leaving everyone with a smile.

This week we made a trip to the US Embassy here in Brussels, as we needed several documents notarized: a form to get a US taxpayer number for M so I can pay my NOT overdue taxes (living abroad you get a two-month extension, which I found out only ON April 16 when I remembered about taxes), and a form for me to get a new birth certificate from the State of Iowa (because the birth certificate with my date of birth on it is, according to the Spanish government, outdated, and they need a "current" one in order to process our Libro de Familia and recognize us as married. Makes sense, right?). Anyway, although once inside everything was as friendly and bureaucratic and waiting room-y as could be, the process of getting inside gives you the sense that the good old US of A is not exactly the picture of friendliness, even in matronly Brussels.

Unlike any other embassy on a whole street full of embassies, they had a huge swath of the avenue blocked off with manned police trucks and big X-shaped iron rods strung with barbed wire. As we approached, an armed guard approached us and in three languages asked if we were "just passing by?" or if we "have any business with the embassy?" We explained what we wanted, and he showed us which gate to enter. Several guards inside just stared at us when the door wouldn't open. Evidently, they only let one person in at a time, and you just have to wait your turn. Once inside, the screening of your belongings is much more personalized and detailed than in an airport, and they held onto my iPod, lipstick, and a tube of lotion while we went inside. The guard kept telling me that I didn't look at all like my passport picture (taken last year), and I didn't know if he was joking around or quite serious. I said I had gotten new glasses, so... He asked, are you sure this isn't your sister? Again, was he joking? Not sure.

Speaking of the Great States, I finally got tickets to fly there for three weeks in May. I'm giving a paper in Halifax, a new niece or nephew is due to be born, and a cousin is getting married. I plan on doing lots of hanging out with family and soaking up of New England. I also plan to buy shoes in my size (nonexistent here), file my taxes, and buy other random things that are more expensive or nonexistent here. Oh, and I guess I'll have to work! This week also brought a firm resolution to improve my working habits and get some tangible results. For one, I've got to write the paper for that conference!

What else? This weekend we saw both a high-speed police chase (two police cars swerving after a zipping motorcycle that then sped into a neighborhood park) and some sort of assault downtown at the Bourse (a guy running away, a guy covered in blood). We actually just missed seeing what had happened because M had stopped to buy me a rose. You see, on Saturday we celebrated Sant Jordi, the Catalan sweethearts' holiday that is actually today (but today M is in Strasbourg). Traditionally, on this, the day of Shakespeare and Cervantes' births, the day of Saint George, lovers give one another a book and a rose. To celebrate, we went to the English bookstore and each chose two books, one for ourselves and one as a surprise for the other. We actually ended up with a few more books than that (because after all, there was that 2 for 3 deal , and there was that half-price cookbook!), but ah how gleeful the feeling of coming home with an armful of new books! I can't wait to read them. I'm going to finish the Umberto Eco novel (The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loanna) I'm reading at the moment as soon as possible, especially since I'm not terribly enjoying the ending, so I can dive into The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, or maybe the Ian McEwan novel, or the Orhan Pamuk novel (he was this year's Nobel Prize winner).

Also this weekend I learned more about French politics than I had ever known. Just for starters, I had no idea that the elections were in two phases: first to establish the two front-runners, and then a second phase to choose the president. We went to the "Café Ségolène," the designated place in Brussels to watch the elections for supporters of "Ségo," although we were late and didn't arrive until after the big moment, with the closing of the polls and the first tallies announced. So it's going to be a race between "Sarko" and "Ségo," and it's going to be a traditional showdown between Right and Left. Speaking of "Ségo": why is the nickname for the woman candidate her first name, and the men all are known by their last? I can't help but be suspicious, because I've noticed this before. We have "Hillary" on one hand, and "Giuliani" on the other. My students would infuriatingly refer to any woman author by her first name, whereas there was no problem referring to the men by their last. Why is this?

Anyway, there's little doubt who I would vote for, if I was to vote, but I've admittedly watched little of the run-up and don't know enough about either candidate. I do know Royale (see, she has a last name!) is a buddy of both Dean and Zapatero, but I don't know enough about the details of her campaign promises, and I also know she's not favored to win, as the hype and enthusiasm surrounding her campaign has diminished quite a bit. At the café, where unbridled enthusiasm for Royale and rampant derision for the other candidates prevailed, it was fun to watch the commentaries, and see some of the presidential hopefuls from the pool of 18 or so appear on the news roundtable to speak to the French version of Diane Sawyer. These of course, were the candidates with somewhere in the range of 1 or 2 percentage points of the vote, the Green Party leader, and the Communist leader, for example. Oh, and I can tell my French is improving, because I could understand the post-election podium speeches, if not the whirlwind of commentary afterwards. C'est la politique.

So there's my update. I'll try not to go so long without writing before next time. A very belated Happy Easter, and a perfectly on-time Happy Sant Jordi!

If you're in New York

Today's New York Times has an article about an exhibition at the Met of Catalan art from about 1888 to 1939, called "Barcelona and Modernity." I wish I could see the exhibition, but the article by itself is enjoyable and has a slideshow of some of the artworks on display.

In the article, Michael Kimmelman makes several nice points about Catalans and Barcelona: one is that there are many great Catalan artists that no one has ever heard of outside of Catalonia, and they deserve to be heard of. It reminds me of a talk here in Brussels that we heard a couple of summers ago, on the topic of international Catalan superstars like Gaudí, Picasso, and Carreras. Do they make people more aware of who Catalans are, or not? Does it promote Catalan culture if no one is even aware that they are Catalans?

I also enjoyed the description of Barcelona as a city where the great modernist trends were refracted and made into something unique. The sense of turmoil, both in the positive sense of artistic innovation, and in the negative sense of political unrest, is forefronted by Kimmelman. He opens with this quote, from the mayor of Barcelona in 1909:

“In Barcelona there is no need to prepare the revolution, simply because it is always ready. It leans out of the window on the street every day.”

One detail that I would like to adjust is about the famous café, Els Quatre Gats. Kimmelman says that "the 'four cats' in Catalan slang meant 'just a few guys.'" I object to the past tense there, because this is definitely still in use, as in: Was anyone at the show? Quatre gats--barely anyone.

Heh, heh, heh; or, hein, hein, hein*

This is a post about being funny (or not).

I'm not really a funny person, especially when it comes to making jokes on the fly, especially with large groups of people, and especially people I don't know very well. My jokes in any case tend to be of the punny variety, and I am often too slow on the ball to sneak in something when it's the right moment. Much better at written verbal wit: I'm dorky like that. (By the way, this is not the same thing as not having a sense of humor. I love laughing at other people's funniness. Especially of the punny, ironic, slapstick, and deadpan varieties.)

But things get drastically worse when speaking in another language. Even when I find something funny, and try to explain it, the joke falls flat. Flat as Nebraska. Often, the thing that I find funny has to do with a word that in the other language sounds like (or looks like) something in English that is funny. (*Example: the subject line of this post. I think--according to my limited French--that "hein" is the French equivalent of "heh." And that is funny. It just is.) But this sort of thing is often not very funny for other people, evidently.

So I was immensely, inordinately proud of myself the other night when I made a group of Catalan friends laugh. I was emboldened to explain, in Catalan, why the city name "Antwerp" was funny to me. I told them that it sounds like the English word "twerp," which means, roughly, "un petit gilipollas," or to untranslate what I was mentally translating, "a little idiot." Fortunately, everybody found this quite as amusing as I did, but of course what was funny to them was the translation of the word "twerp," not the fact that Antwerp contains that word, which is what I found funny. Still, it was funny. I was funny!

Another interesting aspect of this question is the different sense of what is funny that happens when I am speaking English, but with a group of non-native English speakers. I can use words to comic effect that I anticipate will be funny to them, even though with native English speakers it would not be funny in the slightest. Here's an example. Last week, when we met our new landlord, who is a Belgian/Iranian doctor, we were speaking English with him and the girl who is living there now. I explained the fact that we're keeping her things for a while by saying, "We are babysitting her furniture for a month or so." While this isn't particularly funny, I knew that for a non-native speaker the juxtaposition of "to babysit" and "furniture" might be surprising. And, indeed, it got a laugh, and in response, our new landlord said that he hoped the furniture didn't "cry too much."

As for French, I think it is going to be a long, long time before I can be funny in that trippy tongue. I had my end-of-semester oral exam today, and I was totally unprepared because in the end the prof just asked me to talk about me! Imagine that. I had prepared to talk about Julie, Benoit and Pascal, the lovable characters in our class language video. Yeah, you know the types.

I think I did OK, muddling my way through an explanation of my studies, my thesis, what I'm doing in Brussels and so on. I'll know Wednesday if I passed (I'm certain I did; no matter how bad my passé composé was, I don't think it merits a failure, and I know the written exam was fine), and next week, the new class starts. Fortunately for me, I wasn't required to be funny.

And in retrospect, I apologize for this post, because is there anything less funny than talking about what is funny? And now I've gone and written the word "funny" so many times that it's starting to take on that weird abstractness words get when you say them over and over and over...

Correction: turns out that "hein" means "eh" more than "heh." My bad.

Part II of Catalan Christmas lesson

Another excerpt from my little Christmas book. It's about a beloved figure, called The Pooper, el Caganer. (There's no denying the scatalogical bent of Catalan culture...)



The caganer is the most interesting feature of any Catalan nativity scene, which is called the pessebre, and is often exceedingly elaborate, encompassing not only the stable and its expected denisens, but also the whole of an imagined Bethlehem. Yet, somewhere hidden behind a bush or in a corner, is a little figurine of one of the inhabitants of the town, who is sneaking a moment to take a dump. Caganer means “shitter,” and he is almost always depicted bent over, complete with a little pile of poop and a bare bottom, as well as a traditional Catalan peasant costume.

Catalan children are always eager to be the one to hide the caganer in the nativity scene, and even more eager to hunt him out when visiting someone else’s pessebre. Little baby Jesus, as everywhere, is the star of the show, but behind the scenes, the caganer invites the viewer to keep looking until that little farmer figure is found.



The idea is that, even at the holiest of moments, humans are humans, and go about their business, joining the cycle of fertilization and harvest. Joan Amades, in El Pessebre, says that the inclusion of the caganer in the creche scene was was “believed to bring a rich and successful harvest the following year, and health and happiness to you and your loved ones.”

PS: These days, they make caganers out of every kind of personality you can imagine. Political leaders are a favorite, followed by soccer players. Just do a google image search of "caganer" and you'll se what I mean.

The piece of firewood that poops

I apologize, first and foremost, for leaving the December 23 entry with such a cliffhanger. For all this blog knows, my poor family might still be stuck in transit on their winding way to Barcelona.

But no, they arrived only one day late, a little the worse for wear (i.e., smellier than they wanted to be), but otherwise fine and everyone separately admitting to me that it had actually been kinda fun, in a comedy of errors and chasing around airports kind of way.

Their luggage, on the other hand, took almost a week to arrive, which meant no presents, and no clothes to change into. The latter might have been even more important than the former, considering that the holidays just aren't the same if you're wearing someone else's underwear, you know? Between my luggage, and a generous pile of loaner clothing from M's family, they managed to make it through without having to buy new wardrobes.

We had a grand time in that big Catalan farmhouse, despite the no presents thing. M's parents and grandmother drove up for the day (sister/brother-in-law and nieces were in Senegal for Christmas), and we ate a huge catered meal of Catalan food American-style, and then? We made the log poop.

Yep, it's what the Catalans do at Christmas, and this log is called the "Tió de Nadal." It's a piece of firewood with a little face painted on it, and a Catalan hat, and you take turns to hit it with a stick while singing a song that asks it to poop presents, and then while you're not looking or going on a little stroll around the house, someone hides a present under the blanket covering the rear end of the log, and when you get back you look to see what it pooped for you.

I am NOT kidding!

On the news, they were even talking about a government-sponsored program by which you can trade in your santa claus for a tió, or get a rebate for buying the tió instead of the santa.

In preparation for my family's arrival, I made a nice little document with articles and pictures explaining all of the various Catalan Christmas traditions, Catalan Christmas vocabulary, and Christmas songs. Here is the article about the tió:

The Christmas “log,” or more accurately “piece of firewood,” is one of the most unique Catalan traditions. Related to the Christmas tree and to other European traditions of the Christmas hearth, the tió is a sturdy piece of wood that is decorated with a face and often a Catalan hat and little stick legs. On Christmas day, children (and not-quite children!) take turns beating the log with a stick and singing songs meant to encourage the log to poop out some presents. Originally, the “present” was the fire, as the rear end of the log itself was actually lit and destined for warming the home on Christmas. Nowadays, the tió is never set on fire, but is instead “fed” with vegetables and other foods (the kinds of food, conveniently, that children don’t like) during the days leading up to Christmas, so that it will have something to digest into gifts!



The colloquial name for this tradition, the “Caga Tió,” which is a command meaning “Poop, log!”, comes from the songs that are sung and which almost always begin with this phrase. Before Christmas dinner, the tió is covered with a blanket so that he won’t be cold, and then, poor thing, he is whacked with a stick while the songs are sung. Then the child or children march around the house while the adults hide sweets and small gifts under the blanket. When the child returns, the tió has delivered his surprise!

The little rhymes are often particular to regions, towns, or even homes, and can be improvised on the spot. An examples of the song is:



Tió de Nadal,
dóna torrons, i raja vi blanc.
No ens dónis arengades que són massa salades.
Caga tió, si no, et donaré un cop de bastó.
(Christmas tió,
give us torrons [Christmas sweets], and pour out wine.
Don’t give us sardines because they’re too salty.
Poop tió, if you don’t, I’ll whack you with my stick.)

It might be one of those things you have to experience before it makes any sense. Early in our relationship, when M explained to me what his family did on Christmas, I just sort of nodded and pretended I understood, assuming SOMEthing had been lost in translation. I didn't want to point out any faults in his English, and surely he was mistranslating "log" for "tree" and, oh I don't know, "poop" for ummm...something else? Polite girlfriend that I was, I just chalked it up to cultural miscommunication. But now I know, and so does my family, that it's all true! They even made an outstanding effort to sing the songs in Catalan. And for their efforts they got candy and little trinkets and in some cases jingle bell raindeer headbands.

My little nephew was most puzzled as to the whole affair, but eventually got used to the stick-whacking part, and after we had put it all away, started wandering around and splaying his hands in the air in the way that he has, saying "ere dit go?"

Apart from the pooped presents, one of my favorite memories of that day was singing carols with all of us around the table. We taught everyone some Catalan carols, including a beautiful lullaby one and "Fum, fum, fum." (Did you know that was Catalan? I bet you didn't!) And by gum, they were singing them in perfect four-part harmony by the second time around.

Oh, I love Christmas traditions. It's so fun to get new ones!

Wheat, wit

This weekend I have been gently contested regarding my assertion that English speakers don't gape stupidly when non-native-speakers mispronounce words.

In conversation about the apartment we hope to move into, M was quoting the Catalan saying, "No diguis blat fins que sigui al sac i ben lligat." (Don't call it wheat until it's in the bag, and tied tight.)

I had momentarily forgotten what "blat" means, and asked. The answer: "wit." My brain did a "try to compute" exercise in which either I had somehow misunderstood the words "sac" and "lligat," or in which being witty had something to do with the rest of the sentence.

During the futile whirring of my brain's gears, he kept repeating "wit," until finally, with unwonted exaggeration, I said, "OHHHH, you mean WHEEEEAT!"

This is when the Catalans present accused me of prejudice when it comes to complaining about French vowels.

I feebly argued back: no, the sounds are quite obviously different! Stretch your mouth out when you say "eee," don't you see? (Accompanied by clownish stretching of my own lips.) Wit, wheat, what, wait...shouldn't it be obvious?

Of course, what is obvious is that a French speaker would be doing the same. "Don't you see? Isn't it obvious? "oeui" is soooo different from "ouae", you just have to make your mouth do this (accompanied by francophone facial expressions)."

I still stand by my earlier comments. I do think there is something rather tricky about French pronunciation.

And in any case, I learned the Catalan equivalent to "Don't count your chickens before they hatch," and taught my companions the English saying. Then, even better, I found out that there's no literal equivalent in Catalan to the word "hatch," and amused the others with this new addition to their English vocabulary. They will now be able to say--wittily, not wheatily--that they have hatched an idea, especially if their brain-gears are working better than mine.

Catalan word of the day: gronxar

I spent the morning with M's nieces, and by "spending the morning" I mean pushing two-year-old Sora on her swing while six-day-old Seyna slept. Some time ago I learned the words "gronxar" (to swing) and its relation, "gronxador" (swing), from Sora, who likes to ask anyone with available hands to put her in her swing and give a push. She insisted today that I push "més fort," and she entertained me with several songs, with renditions in Catalan, Spanish, and French. In return, I taught her "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in English. She got it, but it was tough to remember the words, and she lapsed back into "estrellita" most of the time. Indeed, little girls *are* estrellitas, especially this one, who we sometimes think could head straight to Hollywood, once she has dominated "Twinkle, Twinkle" and the rest of the English language.

The dynamics between a center-of-attention girl and her new little sister are interesting to observe; when I was holding Seyna, Sora immediately ran to get her own pacifier and tried to get my attention by pouting, two-year-old style. But I have a feeling once Seyna gets a bit bigger, Sora is going to love showing her the ropes. And I mean that literally: the bucket-seat gronxador is a rope swing, and it's just estrellita size.