Dynamo Barca

One of my main criteria for judging the success of a holiday is the reaction of the locals to my normally doomed attempts at communicating with them. Of course, this has to be tempered by a handicap system dependent on my proficiency in the language (usually nil), and the part of the world you're in (I don't even expect acknowledgment of my efforts in northern France, let alone a basic rapport).

On this trip to Barcelona, despite a marked regression in my Spanish, linguistically I seemed to be punching above my weight. Sure, you might think having two fluent Spanish speakers in this year's party may have made the difference, but I'd say they just held us back, rubbing the faces of our Catalan hosts in the language of their imperialist oppressors each time they opened their mouths. Obviously it was my complete lack of Spanish, coupled with my clumsy and fawningly ingratiating attempts to speak Catalan, that made this year's cross-cultural communication so much more successful. I even got a smile from a beer-maid for my thank-you in Catalan (yes, a smile from someone who's paid to pour me beer while smiling....).

I think the real reason for the goodness of the holiday was the people I went with and the group dynamic (insomuch as a group of people who don't get up until two in the afternoon can have the word 'dynamic' applied to them), and that there was no one person who knew every other person, helped. Though the festival was great, and some sightseeing was done, my abiding memories will be of wandering for hours around the urine-soaked streets looking for somewhere to eat, only to be rewarded by wonderful, if tinily-proportioned, food and cocktails; and stumbling upon the Club Harlem at 3am and trying my best to pretend to be a Salsa novice so as not to outclass my wonderful instructress, then being semi-assaulted in the gents by a crazy chiquita.