I've had the opportunity to do some pleasure reading in my free time, something I rarely seem to have time for back home. So far I've read Blue Like Jazz and Wild at Heart (both for the second time), The Adventures of Huck Finn (an absolute classic), and I'm finishing Way of the Wild Heart (for the second time).
The Way of the Wild Heart is speaking to me right now. It's a fantastic book about the different stages a man experiences throughout his life. The truth is that most of these stages are interrupted or wounded in some way. It can happen in a variety of ways, anything from verbal/physical abuse to being bullied on the playground as a child to having a father who is checked out. A man carries these wounds with him throughout life, and it affects every decision he makes. Why do you think there are so many men out there striving and working endless hours trying to overachieve? Or how many men do you know who try to use a girl to make themselves feel more like a man? There's a part of the soul that remains immature and boyish.
There was a paragraph that just jumped out at me as I read it. This couldn't be more true in my life right now...
"Life is hard. While he is the Beloved Son, a boy is largely shielded from this reality. But a young man needs to know that life is hard, that it won't come to you like Mom used to make it come to you, all soft and warm and to your liking, with icing. It comes to you more the way Dad made it come to you - with testing, as on a long hike or trying to get an exhaust manifold replaced. Until a man learns to deal with the fact that life is hard, he will spend his day chasing the wrong thing, using all his energies trying to make life comfortable, soft, nice, and that is no way for any man to spend his life."
Life isn't icing on the cake for me right now. I am continually being tested and challenged. I think that's part of the reason I'm here. The majority of my internship is dealing with customer complaints and solving problems other people created. There have been many times I've wanted to quit. Then there is the language barrier of course. I don't say any of this in a bitter way at all. I accept that life is hard and with it comes challenges. It's a daily struggle for me to try not to merely seek comfort and pleasure. I'll be the first to admit that I quite often fail at this. But I'm slowly learning (emphasis on slowly). More importantly though, I'm open to learning.
I'm having a blast here though. Don't think that I'm miserable or stressed out... that's only at work :) I'm learning so much about myself, other people and different cultures. I wouldn't trade this experience for anything.
5.18.2007
5.17.2007
I wanna go fast.
This past weekend there was a Formula 1 race and a soccer (football) match in Barcelona. The city turned into a zoo. People were everywhere with their Ferrari, BMW, Mercedes apparel on or their FC Barcelona jerseys.
I don’t really follow soccer, or F1 racing for that matter, but I would have liked to gone to the race if tickets weren’t 150 euros (about $200). Instead, I went down to the free BMW expo at the sea port and looked at all the new models. They were alright, nothing too exciting.
Then I went over to a little make-shift track they had set up for one of the F1 cars. The driver of the car was there signing autographs, shaking hands, kissing babies, the usual. He then climbed into the car, fired it up, and revved it down the little track, doing doughnuts at the end. Wow! Now that’s exciting.
This gave me goosebumps, and I immediately wanted to be a racecar driver again. I don’t know what it is about the smell of gasoline, burnt rubber, loud engines, and going fast… but I like it. There’s something in my soul that comes alive. It’s so much more than the car itself or the publicity or any of the crap that goes along with it. I’m talking raw racing. I couldn’t imagine flying around the track at the speeds they do, hugging the turns, feeling the power of the car, knowing you’re in control.
I don’t really follow soccer, or F1 racing for that matter, but I would have liked to gone to the race if tickets weren’t 150 euros (about $200). Instead, I went down to the free BMW expo at the sea port and looked at all the new models. They were alright, nothing too exciting.
Then I went over to a little make-shift track they had set up for one of the F1 cars. The driver of the car was there signing autographs, shaking hands, kissing babies, the usual. He then climbed into the car, fired it up, and revved it down the little track, doing doughnuts at the end. Wow! Now that’s exciting.
This gave me goosebumps, and I immediately wanted to be a racecar driver again. I don’t know what it is about the smell of gasoline, burnt rubber, loud engines, and going fast… but I like it. There’s something in my soul that comes alive. It’s so much more than the car itself or the publicity or any of the crap that goes along with it. I’m talking raw racing. I couldn’t imagine flying around the track at the speeds they do, hugging the turns, feeling the power of the car, knowing you’re in control.
5.15.2007
The Italian Nightmare
I haven't posted in a while because I've been recovering from a traumatic event that occurred last weekend. I had a "run-in" with some old Italian women. Eight Italian women to be exact.
Part of my job here in Barcelona is to take guests to a private apartment they've booked with us. This includes verifying their booking, collecting their money, physically walking them to the apartment, etc. I enjoy this for the most part because I get to meet people from all over the world, and I get to walk around Barcelona.
I usually enjoy doing this, unless I have unhappy guests. Nobody likes unhappy guests. Especially unhappy Italian guests.
The Italians arrived at 9:30pm. It took almost 2 hours to check them in because they didn't speak but 2 words of English and no Spanish (which is a little embarassing for them because Spanish and Italian are quite similar). I showed them 3 or 4 times on a map where the apartment was, and explained how many bathrooms there were, and how much they still had to pay, and assured them that 1,000 euros was the correct amount, and I wasn't ripping them off. Then they all wanted to pay separately and I didn't have change.
Meanwhile, two other groups arrived. I should note here that I was the only person working in the office because we close at 9:00pm. We didn't have space for one group because we overbooked them, so I had to call another hostel to see if they had space and explain how to get there. I had to call another intern to come check-in the other couple, while I dealt with the Italian nightmare.
Once this was all sorted out I took them to the apartment, which is 15 minutes walking. This was far too long for them. I could tell they were angry by their Italian tone. It was even louder than normal. Once we arrived, which seemed like forever, we had to go up in the elevator two at a time because the elevator is so small. After four elevator trips, we finally made it into the apartment. This is where the story gets good.
I took half of them to one end of the apartment and was supposed to take half to the other end. One minor problem. There were already people staying in the room they were supposed to be in. This is when all hell broke loose.
They started screaming at me in Italian and among each other. They were also pissed because there was only 1 shower in the apartment. I completely understood their frustration. They booked a room with us, and we accidentally gave it to someone else. I tried to quiet them down, explaining (by hand gestures) that there were other people sleeping. They didn't care, screamed louder. I told them if they were going to scream, then I was going to leave and they could sleep on the floor.
Well they solved that problem for me. Four of them blocked the door so I couldn't leave, and the rest continued yelling. I'm not exagerrating either. Then they got the idea to call "policia, policia". No, no, no... don't call the policia. Bad idea. The last thing I wanted was to deal with the Spanish police. They got out their cell phone and started looking in their guide books for the police number.
After at least a half hour of yelling, I got them to understand that we could go back to the office and I would give them a complete refund. This was alright for half, but there were a couple of the ladies who were insistent on calling the police. I then pleaded to them how this wasn't my fault and this is my internship and now I'm going to quit and I'll give them their money and call my boss if they just come back to the office and don't call the police.
I don't know what finally clicked, but at some point their attitude towards me changed. They agreed to come back to the office for a refund. On the walk back they were saying "Derek good. BCN Loft bad." They gave me an Italian pastry and were sure to point and laugh at every police car we saw.
One of the worst/best learning experiences I've ever had. I know I learned a lot from that situation, but I'm still trying to figure out what all it was. I really wanted to quit that night. I was almost in tears. I think I became more of a man from that night though. I learned how to handle an extremely stressful situation without being able to communicate very well. I feel like God specifically put me in that situation and was fathering me, teaching me that I do have what it takes. He just used 8 pissed-off Italian ladies to do it. I'm grateful for that experience.
Part of my job here in Barcelona is to take guests to a private apartment they've booked with us. This includes verifying their booking, collecting their money, physically walking them to the apartment, etc. I enjoy this for the most part because I get to meet people from all over the world, and I get to walk around Barcelona.
I usually enjoy doing this, unless I have unhappy guests. Nobody likes unhappy guests. Especially unhappy Italian guests.
The Italians arrived at 9:30pm. It took almost 2 hours to check them in because they didn't speak but 2 words of English and no Spanish (which is a little embarassing for them because Spanish and Italian are quite similar). I showed them 3 or 4 times on a map where the apartment was, and explained how many bathrooms there were, and how much they still had to pay, and assured them that 1,000 euros was the correct amount, and I wasn't ripping them off. Then they all wanted to pay separately and I didn't have change.
Meanwhile, two other groups arrived. I should note here that I was the only person working in the office because we close at 9:00pm. We didn't have space for one group because we overbooked them, so I had to call another hostel to see if they had space and explain how to get there. I had to call another intern to come check-in the other couple, while I dealt with the Italian nightmare.
Once this was all sorted out I took them to the apartment, which is 15 minutes walking. This was far too long for them. I could tell they were angry by their Italian tone. It was even louder than normal. Once we arrived, which seemed like forever, we had to go up in the elevator two at a time because the elevator is so small. After four elevator trips, we finally made it into the apartment. This is where the story gets good.
I took half of them to one end of the apartment and was supposed to take half to the other end. One minor problem. There were already people staying in the room they were supposed to be in. This is when all hell broke loose.
They started screaming at me in Italian and among each other. They were also pissed because there was only 1 shower in the apartment. I completely understood their frustration. They booked a room with us, and we accidentally gave it to someone else. I tried to quiet them down, explaining (by hand gestures) that there were other people sleeping. They didn't care, screamed louder. I told them if they were going to scream, then I was going to leave and they could sleep on the floor.
Well they solved that problem for me. Four of them blocked the door so I couldn't leave, and the rest continued yelling. I'm not exagerrating either. Then they got the idea to call "policia, policia". No, no, no... don't call the policia. Bad idea. The last thing I wanted was to deal with the Spanish police. They got out their cell phone and started looking in their guide books for the police number.
After at least a half hour of yelling, I got them to understand that we could go back to the office and I would give them a complete refund. This was alright for half, but there were a couple of the ladies who were insistent on calling the police. I then pleaded to them how this wasn't my fault and this is my internship and now I'm going to quit and I'll give them their money and call my boss if they just come back to the office and don't call the police.
I don't know what finally clicked, but at some point their attitude towards me changed. They agreed to come back to the office for a refund. On the walk back they were saying "Derek good. BCN Loft bad." They gave me an Italian pastry and were sure to point and laugh at every police car we saw.
One of the worst/best learning experiences I've ever had. I know I learned a lot from that situation, but I'm still trying to figure out what all it was. I really wanted to quit that night. I was almost in tears. I think I became more of a man from that night though. I learned how to handle an extremely stressful situation without being able to communicate very well. I feel like God specifically put me in that situation and was fathering me, teaching me that I do have what it takes. He just used 8 pissed-off Italian ladies to do it. I'm grateful for that experience.
5.05.2007
I watch Spanish cartoons.
My latest way to practice Spanish is to watch kids' cartoons. It's also a great way to reminisce about the childhood years. Two for one, I like it!
I can understand most of what is said. Surprising, I know! The parts I can't understand, the 9-year old boy who speaks Italian, Spanish, and Catalan, is happy to explain to me.
My favorites include: Sandokan, The Magic Sword of Camelot, The Simpsons (although Marge is impossible to understand), and Curious George.
There is a collection of about 30 cartoon DVDs I'm going to watch. Between this and stumbling through conversations I'm bound to improve, right? If not, at least I've watched some classic 'toons!
I wonder if they have Spanish Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner? It's probably called El Diego Coyote y Señor Roadrunner or something. Yeah I'm going to watch that. Beep! Beep!
I can understand most of what is said. Surprising, I know! The parts I can't understand, the 9-year old boy who speaks Italian, Spanish, and Catalan, is happy to explain to me.
My favorites include: Sandokan, The Magic Sword of Camelot, The Simpsons (although Marge is impossible to understand), and Curious George.
There is a collection of about 30 cartoon DVDs I'm going to watch. Between this and stumbling through conversations I'm bound to improve, right? If not, at least I've watched some classic 'toons!
I wonder if they have Spanish Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner? It's probably called El Diego Coyote y Señor Roadrunner or something. Yeah I'm going to watch that. Beep! Beep!
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