Behind the White Piano

I could stand the high dry heat in the desert; I loved the temperate humidity in Costa Rica; but the hot humid air in Barcelona is pretty hard to deal with. Because I live on a busy corner in a major metropolitan area, there is noise. I put screens (mosquiteros) on my windows for a cross-breeze, but I have to close the windows in order to sleep through the night. This gives me a very high bill (for here) for the electricity to run my AC, but it’s still half of what I paid in the states. So, I muster on.

I went to the town hall for the first time to change my registered address. It was another odd experience. When I entered, a fellow with a neon vest directed me to sit in the waiting area, so I complied. Then, a young woman, in a similar vest, came over and asked if she could interview me. Why not, I thought. When she asked if I preferred Spanish or Catalan (this was to be recorded), I told her that I didn’t speak Catalan. She replied, “Well, let’s practice.”

She first asked me the following: “Do you think that the customer service has improved since the civil employees arrived?”  I told her that 1) This was my first time, so I had no standard for comparison, 2) I didn’t know what a civil employee was, 3) I didn’t know who was there before the civil employees arrived or why they left (or were chased out, perhaps?), and 4) Since I had not yet received any services, I couldn’t give her any kind of assessment.  The interview went downhill from there.

My actual appointment took place in a very crowded area with chairs and desks and clients and employees (who were, indeed, civil), and I couldn’t hear anything in the cacophony. When I mentioned this to my guy, he began to speak to me in pidgin English, which hindered comprehension as well as hearing. We got through it and, I hope, my address is now current.

Speaking of comprehension, I am now, in fact, studying Catalan. This is dominant in the Pyrenees region of Spain and France, also known as Catalunya, whose capital is Barcelona. The locals all speak it (as well as Spanish) and one can get by without it. However, all signage (billboards, street signs, menus, etc.) are in Catalan. So, when one goes to eat in a restaurant or café, the staff speak Spanish, but the food is named and described in Catalan. Finally, the locals are very proud of their culture and language and have, more than once, tried to secede from Spain. So, I am trying in my culturally sensitive way to increase my chances of acceptance by learning it.

Because of its shared grammar and structure with French and Spanish, both of which I speak and write, it’s been relatively easy and very enjoyable to master another language. And, I’m finally understanding the signs I’ve been passing every day on my way to the market.

For language nerds:

Basic grammar dictates that, when speaking, one indicate a subject: I, You, He/She/It (singular) or We/You/They (plural) attached to a verb. In French, Spanish (in Spain) and Catalan, there are different verb forms for each one. However, here’s where it gets tricky:  In English, the grammar for You is the same in singular and plural: “You are reading” can indicate one you or many.  In Latin American Spanish, you plural is the same as they plural: Ustedes tienen una casa can indicate you (plural) have a house or they have a house. In French and Spanish, there are two forms of You in the singular, one for casual acquaintances and family and the other for formal relationships. But in Spanish Spanish, the informal you is used pretty much for everyone.  Go figure.

Thus far. I am fluent in English and Latin American Spanish; fluent but rusty in French, mostly fluent in Spanish Spanish, (because I never learned second person plural pronouns or verbs: Vosotros vivís en una casa); and Ok with written Catalan and grammar. I am completely helpless with spoken Catalan. And, since my online Catalan  class is taught in Spanish Spanish, I am forced to learn the vosotros form. That’s fine with me, because learning a new language is considered one of the best exercises for aging brains.

And is my brain aging. There are days when I’m glad I live alone, since, if anyone witnessed the dumb things I’m doing, they’d put me in assisted living.

As for the piano reference in the title, this was the result of a quest for an elevator in the metro system. Here, as in the states, public facilities must have accessibility to those in need, which includes at every metro stop in the city. There are several entrances to some stops, and it can be a challenge to find the elevator. I don’t need it usually, except when I’ve got a large rolling cart with groceries.

During two in-depth searches for an elevator in the stop near my grocery store, I asked directions of many people, only to be given instructions which were either unclear or wrong. Yesterday, since I was in the area with nothing to do (and no cart), I searched until I arrived at a white piano, at which random strangers were stopping to play. I’d noticed it several times, as one might notice a white grand piano in a subway.  However, I walked over to watch someone play, and I saw, behind the piano, a hidden glass cage which was, in fact, the long-sought elevator entrance. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. I entered to go exploring and found a lengthy path to the Line 3 train, with only one four-step staircase. Now I know.

And I thought “What a great name for a blog post!

Next time, I’ll probably take a cab.