Ten Lessons in Ten Years

Yesterday I went over to my friends' for a barbecue. What better way to spend a sunny Sunday than eating meat and drinking beer? None way, say I, and so was meat eaten and beer drunk and all were merry. One of several featured desserts was a cheesecake with a big number ten on it, commemorating my decade in Barcelona. (How long is Noah going to milk this? - You. No more after this, I promise. Probably.)
"Speech! Speech!" came the cries. "Tell us ten things you've learned in ten years."
Fortunately, attention spans had been shortened by booze and everyone was easily distracted by the cheesecake itself. As well as ice cream and brownies, all of which were far more interesting than my ramblings would have been.
However, I have now gone for over twenty four hours without dessert so I'm ready to present my list. If you should happen to have cheesecake or brownies or ice cream at hand, stop reading this and start eating. I guarantee it will be much more rewarding.
For all you poor dessertless folk remaining, I give you the ten things I've learned:

1. First and foremost, beware a British barbecue on Sunday. While I love the grilled flesh of beasts and the alcohol it comes with, if your host and/or most of the guests hail from that foggy island off the coast of France, think long and hard before you engage in a midday meal with them on Jesus' day, for they are not like us. Your Monday will thank you, as you will at the very least avoid beginning the week with a dry mouth and a headache, and at most, save yourself from getting lost on a bicycle in countryside vineyards after dark, forcing you to careen blindly along dirt paths until you find a kindly rural drug dealer who is willing to put you up until the first train can take you back to the city next morning.

2. I really love the beach. If you follow me on Instagram (noahdjgreen) you know I love the seaside the way people love cats and food. Floating suspended in warm salt water watching the shore makes all my troubles just slip away. It's easily the number one reason I'm still here.

3. Spanish. I thought I spoke it before I arrived. I didn't. My first apartment was full of Argentinians who spoke no English. On my first day there, I sat on the corner of my tiny bed in my tiny room contemplating the huge mistake I'd made. However, not wanting to be the creepy roommate who spent all his time in his bedroom (that came later) I ventured into the living room and desperately tried to follow the conversation. It took several exhausting months, but it got easier. Eventually, having a Spanish girlfriend helped. Especially with the slang.

4. Catalan. It's the other language. Didn't even know what it was before I arrived, and now I speak it like a New York taxi driver speaks English. That counts as learning, right?

5. Everything is late. Try eating lunch before 1.30 or dinner before 8.30. Enjoy your McDonald's, cuz that's what'll be open. I pulled more all-nighters as a teacher in my 30's than as a musician in my 20's.  I recently went to a movie, dinner and drinks with friends, but didn't call it going out because I was home by 1.30 in the morning.

6. Racism. Coming from the States, you'd think I would have this one covered, but when you get to a country where the locals call Arabs Moors (while wearing keffiyehs), label convenience stores Pakis, and hate South Americans more than the Tea Party does, you realise you're playing in a different league. Generalisations and dismissals of entire ethnic groups are the norm. It's a thoroughly pre-PC society where speaking English badly is speaking like an Indian and racist jokes/skits/theme parties are hilarious. Olé.


7. Corruption. In a country where rules are treated like suggestions, I guess it's not surprising that entire local governments get hauled off to jail for illegal land permits, regional politicians are found with trunkfuls of cash, the president gets paid under the table with embezzled funds and the royal family sets up shady deals with questionable regimes.

8. It ain't a party till you start a fire, endanger some kids and torture an animal. All Spanish celebrations include at least one of those activities. Whether it's building a giant statue and burning it down, or parading through the streets dressed as a fire breathing dragon (fire included) something's gotta burn. Next, line up your newborns so the village demon can long-jump them, or send your toddlers to the top of a teetering human tower. But don't worry, they're wearing a helmet. (Not the newborns, cuz fuck 'em.) Finally, throw a goat from a church tower or play piñata with a hanging duck. Catalunya banned bullfighting and will thus claim moral superiority, but they will still set a bull's horns on fire and chase it into the sea. For real.

9. Dancing is hard. I wish I could say I'd learned to swing dance, but after six months of class, I've picked up just enough to embarrass myself with strangers, apologising profusely as I sweat all over them while stepping on their toes and twisting their arms against their natural articulations.

10. The Wire is the best show on TV ever. Not related to Barcelona in any way, but I watched it while living here.

Decade two, day one

How fast does ten years go? Pretty fucking fast!
I had punctuality beaten into me as a child. (Not actually beaten. I'm not accusing you of anything, mom.) So engrained in me is it that after all this time in Spain, a country where even Christmas is celebrated two weeks late, I cannot help but show up on time for things, knowing that I will inevitably be waiting for others. I always explain to the chronically late that time inexorably goes by at the rate of one minute per minute, but now I'm not so sure.
I mean, it doesn't seem that long ago that I stepped off the airplane, suitcase in hand, into a city I had never visited where I knew nobody and barely spoke the language with the vague idea of checking it out. I blinked and a decade had passed.
I woke up yesterday well rested for the first time in a week. I had spent a long weekend eating and drinking my way across southern Spain, getting up early to catch various modes of transportation or to visit some culturally relevant building (the latter to justify all the eating and drinking.) Prior to that, I had suffered a four night bout of insomnia that kept me staring at the walls and dreading the innocuous melody of my alarm. But yesterday I opened my eyes after a full eight hours of blissful sleep to begin my day, which consisted of classes with adults and children in companies and homes around Barcelona. One student, a 40 year old engineer, is leaving for Qatar next week, so we concluded our class with a relaxing cup of cafe con leche in the restaurant across the street from his office. After a year and a half of classes together, we have something approaching a friendship, or at least a cordial professional relationship, sharing personal anecdotes (and the twenty-first century equivalent thereof - funny youtube clips.)(Speaking of which, everybody on Facebook posted the Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timberlake hashtag skit, so I watched it and chuckled. #insertobvioushashtagjokehere)
In the evening, I dropped by a friend's house to borrow an amp, so that I may annoy my neighbours as I experiment with my keyboard. Les Fat Jones continues to be the most productive, best kept secret, as we jam regularly, write songs frequently and play shows hardly ever. We keep promising ourselves that will change. I also keep promising myself to get back to running in the mornings, and you will notice that wasn't included in this super fascinating glimpse into my schedule.
For dinner I had some curry and wine, and went to bed.
That was my day, the first day of my second decade here.
Despite myself, I have become a settled, semi-responsible adult. It wasn't really the plan. When I left New York, people said moving here was brave. To me, it felt like the opposite. I was running away from the end of my twenties, from the end of life as a rock star, from the reality of finding a job or going back to school, of living a normal life, something I had studiously avoided up to then. Yet here I am, with a job, living with my girlfriend in a nice apartment in a cool neighbourhood around the corner from my family and friends with whom I get together, drink too much and laugh about bullshit. It's awesome. Let's see what happens in the next ten years.
Just don't blink.