Running Through Sand

    The Cathedral bell here rings every fifteen minutes. Nothing grandiose; just a staccato "ding" followed by a natural decrescendo into silence.  For someone coming from the United States, there's an initial romantic novelty to this; the idea that a brass bell encased within a medieval stone building is helping me keep track of the time. After all, in our pockets we have fancy bricks of circuitry and rare earth metals that can do that for us. Plus, these things come equipped with apps full of cat memes and terrible news stories. With time pieces this good, who out there is still relying on a bell? 

    

    The thing about time over here is that it seems to always be moving at a pace contrary to what I'd like. When rushing to the grocery store before it closes at 2pm, time flies. Laying awake at 1am, unable to sleep, the opposite is true. All the while, despite the desired rhythm of my immediate task, there's that stupid church bell holding court over all of it; metronomically passing judgement on my progress. Ding...ding...ding. 

    If I sound like a person going insane the honest truth is that I might be. It's just a phase though, I swear. Usually my infatuation with time and church bells is fairly mute but these days my life has felt like it's in a constant state of acceleration and deceleration with plans being made only to come to an immediate halt once the wheels of progress are set in motion. Problems seem to arise from the most trivial tasks and time always seems of the essence. Finding forward momentum in these circumstances feels akin to running through sand; the harder I try to push off, the deeper I sink. 

 

    Back home, it's easy to take for granted the ease with which you can exert your will over an obstacle. You come up with rank order tasks that need to get done and then you do those tasks accordingly. In a foreign country though where you don't speak the language or understand...honestly anything...getting from point A to B is never a straight line. Take printing out a piece of paper for example. Few would think twice about this in the comfort of their normal environment but here it requires Google searches, asking friends, terrible translation attempts, and (most often) a frustrated clerk. Now imagine this dynamic combined with all the other, more pressing issues that come up when moving your life to a different country. Oh yeah, and add in a pandemic. 

    As a result of all this my life seems to have become a series of user errors; moments where I think things are progressing well only to see me fall on my face because I left my shoe laces untied. It's frustrating to say the least, especially given the frequency of these follies seems to be on par with those damn bells. Ding...ding...ding.

    Growing up, an often muttered phrase in the Oronte household was that "every rejection is a percentage of the sale" or, in other words, you gotta fail a few times before it goes right. Perhaps that's where I am right now; consistently coming up short as a mean to eventually figure it out. I have no clue if that's actually the case but it's a comforting notion none-the-less and one that, for now, I'm sticking with.

You Just Gotta Wonder Sometimes

    Placa del Vi is a modestly sized town square found almost immediately upon entering Old Town, Girona from the Pont de Pedra. A small, one way road runs through it and on three sides it's surrounded by contemporary, stone-faced three to four story buildings. Small cafes, shops, and government offices make up the first floor while apartments occupy the floors above. Assigned to every apartment is a balcony window with a small enclosed ledge that overlooks the square. On some of these balconies sit potted plants. On others, a small table with chairs. Some remain empty. Most uniformly though, nearly all the balconies include a Catalan flag or yellow ribbon; symbols of the separatist movement that can be seen scattered throughout this region. 

    With no political skin in the game, I find myself more intrigued by the presence of this patriotic display than by its political meaning. I ponder how the flags have remained so bright despite being exposed to the elements. Maybe they're new? Do the colors mean anything? I wonder whether this whole thing is really the work of individual tenants each looking to proudly show off their political orientation or is it a more organized spectacle? Perhaps these buildings comprise a single HOA that requires them. If that's the case, I try to picture what a HOA meeting full of impassioned political activists must be like and spare a thought for the one dude who lives there but doesn't care much for autonomy from Spain. I assume he's the most disliked tenant in the building which is odd given he's actually a super nice guy who never bothers anyone. At least, that was the case until the HOA board rejected his request to put another potted plant on his balcony; citing some arbitrary, never enforced code about having hanging plants in view during the period of January to March. He replies by saying Beth in 2A has the same plant on her balcony and pleads to the powers-at-be extend him equal courtesy. They remain firm in their decision. Defiantly, the tenant places the plant outside anyway, a gesture which infuriates the board and causes them to try and forcibly enter his apartment to remove it. A small scuffle ensues before the tenant ejects the intruders, bolts the door shut and refuses to leave. Following a multi-week standoff all hope seems lost for a timely resolution among the two sides. Also lost on everyone is the irony of the whole thing. 

    At least, that's how I imagine it all went down. 

    As a stranger here, my lack of knowledge in all things Spanish gives even the smallest observations an air of curiosity. This inability to discern local norms from one-off events has left my imagination in charge of filling in gaps of my cultural ignorance. Sometimes that imagination gets carried away. For me, it's a harmless form of entertainment that helps pass the time; and I can't help but indulge while standing in the periphery of Placa Del Vi this morning. 

    Another possibility is this entire display of flags and ribbons and banners is the work of some sleepy bureaucrat; a single person who needed something to do with a surplus of flags acquired after a festival got canceled due to Covid. In all honesty, I'll probably never know why it's all here and in such concentration; but it looks nice and gives me a reason to gaze up after ten minutes of walking and staring at my feet. For me, that's good enough.  

A Preview of Things to Come

    At the moment I'm in Girona, Spain watching an exorbitant amount of precipitation fall on the cobbled city streets. At some point, I'm supposed to ride today. Specifically, I'm supposed to ride one hour; an amount of time that, on days like this, is more of an inconvenience than something worth looking forward to. If the current forecast holds there will be little to no opportunity to make it outside for said ride; that is, of course, unless I want to get really cold and be miserable. I don't want to do that.

    Old town Girona is built against a hill which, when commuting into town, gives it something of a domineering appearance. Back in the day this high ground probably served some purpose, like slowing the marauding hordes, but today the slopes of town are more of an annoyance; a means for adding superfluous cardio to my already cardio-filled life. The street to my current apartment, like many streets in town, requires a short trudge uphill. The slope is gradual and the walk not very long, maybe two minutes, but it's long enough and steep enough to remind you that gravity exists and you're very much working against it. 

    In college I commuted to and from class by bike. One day following an exam, with my mind elsewhere, probably thinking about all the questions I got wrong, I turned a corner only to suddenly be greeted by an unavoidable sheet of ice. Before I knew it, my bike was gone from beneath me. Given the gradient of the road, which was very much downhill, and the length of the ice sheet, which went on for several city blocks, I slid for what felt like forever. My enduring memory of this incident was just how long I spent sliding down the street; so long in fact I had time to contemplate certain questions like 'how is this STILL happening?' and 'I wonder if this is actually faster than riding?' 

    It has probably been years since I last recalled that story but now, looking down the street of my apartment, the memory comes back as I admire the not-so-subtle sheen the rain has given the cobbles below. Part of me wonders if history will repeat itself. If, upon walking out the front door of the building, I'll just slide right to the intersecting street at the bottom. It's an amusing prospect though one that's obviously unlikely. 

    Whether it be because of the rain or the risk of sliding off into oblivion, I've spent this morning indoors coming to the conclusion that, after a multi-year hiatus, I'm going to make a concerted effort to restart this blog. In the past, this platform served as a means of keeping those who cared informed as to what I was up to or musings on things in my life. The new iteration will probably be very much the same. We obviously live in a time with plenty of divisive content online so hopefully you can find some solace and entertainment with what I have to say. I cannot guarantee updates will be regularly timed but I can promise I'll make an effort. 

In the meantime, here are a few things that have kept me entertained over the past few weeks: 

    Garrison Keillor hasn't hosted "A Prairie Home Companion" for a few years now but he is still writing regularly. My brother introduced me to his website a month or ago and it's been a consistent source of entertainment. For fans of APHC, the writing will feel similar to Keillor's Lake Wobegon monologues.

    One of my current fascinations is with beekeeping and given the ample time I have to sit around post-training the Vino Farm YouTube channel has become quite the rabbit hole. In case you aren't aware, bees are amazing; and no, that's not a joke. I encourage you to check this channel out. Plus, this farm is in Western Massachusetts so score one for the home team. 

    On the music front, I've been listening to Brass Against for a few years now but they've been a more consistent presence on my playlists lately. Essentially, these guys are the answer to the question "what would a ska version of a Rage Against the Machine song sound like?"

Thanks for reading, 

E