Beyond the cold front
Of the guiri intrepidus and the guiri clandestinus
From the column Unnatural Habitat
Originally published on Barcelonareporter.com

The last of the Siberian cold front blew through the Ciudat Condal last week - meager, yet biting for us fair-weather folk on the Iberian Peninsula.  I would walk my daily walk and the freezing temperature combined with torrents of rain left me with icicles stalagtiting from my jacket.  I flicked them off in the foyer of my building before picking up the day's mail.  Other parts of Catalunya, just minutes outside of Barcelona, actually received a thin blanket of snow.  For a brief moment I stopped thinking about the headlines in the newspapers, the rent et al and checked and re-checked the temperature on the red scrolling LED displays in front of the pharmacies.  I, like the rest of the guiris , got here thinking of sol and playa , of a National Geographic Spain like a fly trapped in amber.

But now I know my way around.  I have a compass of sorts that guides me wherever I want to go, regardless of specific street names, and often without any specific monument in mind.  I always walk, I always change my rumbo , never taking the same route twice.  If I do take the same route, it's by accident.  I guess you could say it's a bit like playing the perpetual tourist. 

Through the Eixample to the Gotic there are hundreds of possible variations … down the main artery of Diagonal, down Muntaner, through Eixample dreta , down Rambla de Catalunya, past Taktika Berri and its overflowing  bar, spectrum of montaditos , down the milky green tiles of Passeig de Gracia, through Eixample esquerra with its quieter cafes and hibernating outdoor terraces, or down Avinguda Sarria with its neon-rimmed puticlubs , then cutting up Gran Via with a view of Jean Nouvel's phallus thrusting out of the lip of the horizon at  the end of a canyon of sun blanched green shutters, weather-worn earth and salmon-colored modernista style buildings …

I still feel like a visitor sometimes, especially when it comes to things like Barça; I could not care less which mercenary group of players win, as long as there's some morbo , and both play well.  But I wear those neutral colors on the inside, and for all anybody could know, maybe I am a Barça fan.  In fact, you could call me the guiri clandestinus , because unless I open my mouth and my irrepressible accent utters forth, you'd never know whether to ask me in Catalan or Castellano, both looking equally capable of coming forth from me.   

But, some visitors do stand out.  A few days ago, with the cold and the rain boring in, I did see one, quite out of season.  This must have been the pervasive guiri intrepidus .  There was a double-decker tourist bus swerving around the obelisk at Joan Carles I, through the elements, with one lone tourist on the upper level white-knuckling the railing.  His face was hidden in the hood of his all-weather gore-tex parka (at least I think it was a man … only a man would be fool enough ride up there).  I and the other day's-end pedestrians, en route to our homes and television, could see the driver and the tour guide in the hermetic warmth of the bus's interior.  The brave tourist, their lone and obstinate passenger, a fake captain of sorts, braving pelting crystalline curtains of rain from above … the tour guide's tinny voice, barely a comprehensible mish mash of generic historical facts …

The guiri intrepidus braves rain and the coldest weather we've experienced in the last five years to take a guided tour through Barcelona.  What does he see on his European safari, from his lofty perch?  He's referencing every monument and storing it in his long term memory because his 5 megapixel camera isn't water proof.  He crosses the main boulevards, past the incomplete spires of the Sagrada Familia, the oceanic undulations of Casa Mila, the great apartments of Gran Via, maybe the old fortress atop Montjuic, Parc de la Ciutatdella …  but it's all blur worth more in words than in actual experience.

From the speeding double-decker he sees the local fauna, also in that cold, freezing rain, only more aware of it.  They have a nagging desire to slip into one of the thousands of cafes dotting the city for a coffee, or a snifter of cognac.  Even through the intense two-day blur of his vacation the guiri intrepidus might notice the local species aren't too different after all.  They go to work, get off work, clamor and carouse with the latest cell phones, at the latest hip spot … and not a burro or matador in sight.  But the guiri intrepidus can't help noticing their habitat is slightly different, marked by that ineffable Catalonian eccentric, Gaudi, by people who still dress in their Sunday best, by homogenous fashion trends, by whiny miscreant-driven scooters splitting lanes ...  If he found the time to take a stroll he might hear Barcelona's own admixture of accents … English, Argentinean, Columbian, Maghrebi, Chinese, German, Swedish, American …

If he's lucky he might catch a fleeting glimpse of the elusive guiri clandestinus , that alien species that cohabits with the proud denizens of Barcelona.  He or she is difficult to differentiate from the rest of the Iberian amalgam.  They won't be wearing fanny packs, or cumbersome survival gear; they won't be using free maps from the tourist center.  They'll be walking over the glassy sidewalks and past the beveled buildings, past the desultory bands of youth spilling out from evening classes, through the shivering steam and ducking into the warm tepid glow coming from the grease smeared window of a random bar or cafe.   They'll order a tallat in dubious Catalan, get answered in Castellano and they'll pick up one of the papers and read how Barça was finally beaten after 18 straight, how the Catalan debate is still alive and rancorously kicking, how, well, despite local problems the main issues are always the same, wherever you go.  Then the Argentinean waiter will start up an interminable conversation book-ended by open-ended questions, all because of his geniality .  The guiri clandestinus is most likely tired of answering the same questions, like what are you , where are you from , and subtle politically-minded questions to test his or her leanings.  The guiri clandestinus might be a little mal educado and leave, in search of another anonymous, non-chain café/bar with grumpy Galician waiters - and where old Spanish traditions like the sobremesa still exist. 

There's so many secrets to learn, even in this provincial-feeling town, and it's all about getting lost.  To the guiri clandestinus , the familiar is always strange.  Tour guides and double-decker buses won't point out anything they can't already see on a postcard for 50 cents.

In a lost little bar, in the belly of the whale, while the intrepid guiri sails past.  No place I'd rather be.