The Seventh Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 1 - 30/06/2011))

So, Barcelona here we are! You're probably gonna ask me how my first day was, so before you do I'll tell you, it was pretty epic.

On the plane I sat next to a lady with lovely legs, exquisitely planning what seemed to be months of travels. Her daughter was sat next to her doing maths problems which I momentarily considered offering my help with, but she seemed okay with it, and I suffered a migraine on takeoff which I was still recovering from. I listened to music and then started watching a film on my laptop which I tired of quickly. Flight was uneventful. A bit of a jittery takeoff but otherwise peaceful. Lovely view of the mountains as we approached Barcelona.

I landed and grabbed my bag from reclaim, then headed outside. Lovely weather greeted me, which was to be expected really. I looked up and down the strip in front of the airport for a bus stop and saw one, got on for a fare of 5 Euro and chatted to a couple of Aussies a while, before suddenly realising I was in the centre of Barcelona with no idea whether I had missed my stop or not. Up ahead was a massive busy roundabout, in the centre of which was an enormous, beautiful monument with fountains and waterfalls. I decided to get off here and find out where I was.

I was in one of the main junctions in the city, full of tourists, cars, police, and buses whose destinations I could not for the life of me understand. Behind me in the shot above was a large building with an enormous stepped square in front. Many people sat on the steps, some older, some young couples. I wandered around a while, trying to make sense of a couple of bus maps, and failing, before approaching two police officers to ask for help. I had the address and directions written in my phone, but I had to find my way to where the directions began for them to be useful. Unfortunately, the police were in the process of searching two young lads for what I assumed to be drugs, so I wandered about the square pretty aimlessly a while until they had finished. They were not much help though, so I called my host Alan for assistance.

Alan was very helpful, quickly figuring out where I was and explaining where I had to go to find his house. He said it was a 25 minute walk, which it was, plus some for the weight on my back. It was about a mile and I finally made it soaked with sweat, finding myself in a small side road, very typically Spanish, with fairly simple but pretty looking houses either side.

He answered his door and shook my hand with a strong grip, which I tried to return without seeming hostile. The interior of the house was beautiful, with lovely art on the walls, nice furniture which had obviously been chosen carefully, well-kept terracotta floor tiles throughout, and a visibly high standard of building and decorating. He took some time to show me around, being extremely friendly and welcoming, beaming as I commented on how lovely it all was. And as I look round while I write this, it really is.

Alan took me up to the roof terrace, where we had a nice open sky and a view of surrounding buildings but no horizon. It was nice and quiet. He showed me the balcony. He showed me his garden, small but nicely designed and well kept, with some enormously leaved plants dominating the area. 

He showed me my room, not large, not small, clean, tidy, cosy, tidily furnished and flawlessly decorated, as was the rest of the house. When my tour was finished, I had no questions. Alan seemed to have thought of and covered everything. The time was about 5-6pm and I was desperate for a shower after my sweaty march through Barcelona. Before my tour of the house was over he offered to take me around the maze of surrounding streets and show me the local amenities. I gladly accepted, and out we went after I had showered my grimy self.

We left his house and he took me round the surrounding area, which was very much full of locals rather than tourists. He showed me the local Metro station, supermarkets, fresh food markets, restaurants and bars, indicating which were reasonably priced and which were not, and which offered the best quality food. I tried my best to remember where we went and maintain my sense of direction, but I was very tired.

As we approached the end of his tour, he asked me if I was hungry. I told him that I was starving, and he suggested that we grab some food somewhere. He told me that his wife and himself had agreed that he would treat me to dinner on my first night. I was overwhelmed. This man had just met me, taken me into his lovely house, shown me around the town, and now he was offering to buy me dinner. His hospitality was humbling.

I asked him to use his expert judgement on where to eat, and he took me to what appeared to be a lovely delicatessen from the outside, with amazing smelling dry meats, rare game and seafood. The proprietor was a collector of Coca-Cola badges, which were neatly displayed in frames covering the walls throughout the cafe in the middle of the shop and the secretive restaurant area up some stairs in the back. The central cafe area had a few stony-faced local gentlemen nattering away in Spanish, some eating tasty-looking food. Alan introduced me to the owner in effortless Spanish, telling him that I might pop in by myself for some food. He smiled and shook my hand. 'Mucho gusto senior'.

We walked up a narrow staircase in the back into a small but tidy restaurant area. Sitting next to us was an oriental couple, and there was a couple of tables of locals talking and laughing. I looked at my menu, turning a few pages before the realisation that I do not read Spanish hit me. I left the ordering to Alan.

We ordered beers, which were lovely and went down beautifully. Alan ordered a starter of bread, cheese and ham, but this was not any old bread cheese and ham...this was Marks & Spencers rustic Spani......no, sorry, wrong advert. This shat on M&S.

The ham slices were arranged in concentric circles on the plate. On the outside was 'Jamon Iberico Bellota', or 'Iberian Acorn Ham'. This costs as much as £185 per kilo, coming from pigs fed only on acorns. It tastes amazing, certainly the very best ham I have ever had. Next circle was 'Chorizo', then 'Fuet', a peppered salami, and finally 'Lomo Iberico Bellota', or 'Iberian Acorn Fillet', which is the fillet of Iberian acorn fed pigs, dried and sliced. Again, amazing. Alongside this was rustic bread drizzled with olive oil, and 'Queso Manchego Semi-Seco', or 'Semi-dried Sheep Cheese'. Wow! What a plate! It was amazing, and that was just the starter! My main course was not as impressive. I had a steak, which was a bit tough, a bit fatty, and far too big for me to finish. Still tasty though. I brought the last of it home to stick in a sandwich.

Alan and I talked and ate. He told me about his wife and their history in Barcelona. He educated me on the food we were eating and other foods on offer, such as the Kobe beef, which is fed beer its entire life and treated to massages to keep the meat tender. I'd be happy with that life, but maybe with a happier ending!

He asked me what my ambitions were and I told him about my love of writing, which he coincidentally also shared a passion for. I inevitably began talking about my many philosophical ideas and research. Luckily he is of a similar disposition, and this led to interesting discussions about the pursuit of truth, the liberating force of Empathy, the one true moment of reality we experience and the subsequent illusion of time, and other related ideas. We chatted until our food was gone and our coffees were finished and headed back to the house.

When we arrived home we went to the balcony and continued our philosophical discourse. We discussed Empathy further, with Alan relating it to his coaching work. When he is coaching someone, he must honestly Empathise with the person, in order for them to trust him and believe his show of interest towards them. This means that they then feel they can be honest with him, enabling him to do his job to the best of his ability. If a student senses that their coach or teacher is not genuine, they may not feel comfortable enough to be completely honest about themselves, and the quality of the exchange is reduced along with the effectiveness of the coaching.

We continued talking until our discussion was interrupted by the burglar alarm downstairs. We both looked at each other bemused. He got up and went down and I followed, pondering the strange possibility of him being broken into the first night I stayed. He had earlier given me the code to unlock the alarm, and a keyfob with lock, unlock, and panic alarm buttons. There had recently been changes made to the system and we assumed a bug. The phone rang and he assured the security company that everything was okay, then chatted for a short while in Spanish.

He got off the phone and we went back to the balcony and chatted more. Alan described his novel ideas and I shared ideas for my own half-finished projects, when the burglar alarm went off again. Alan again went downstairs to speak to the security company and I sat on the balcony wondering if I had jinxed it somehow. As I went to bed a little later I took the security key fob out of my pocket and something clicked in my head as I realised the possibility that the panic alarm button was being pressed in my pocket. This seemed to be the likely cause. I told him of my theory, apologised and we both laughed. Problem solved.

We chatted a while longer, dissecting life and the universe and getting on very well, before it was time for some rest. I had had a very long day. I thanked him for his unprecedented hospitality, for the lovely meal and his guided tours, and went to get some sleep. Barcelona day one, done.

This is "The Seventh Blog Of Trig", signing off.

The Fifth Blog of Trig - I Am So Lucky

I am so lucky.

I have a loving supportive family.

I have had a good education.

I was brought up in a nice area of London, one of the richest cities in the world, with friends as lucky as myself, who believe in the same basic principles as I do.

If I cannot afford to eat I will be fed.

If I cannot afford a roof I will be taken in.

If I am sad I will be hugged.

If I am cold I will be clothed.

I have all this, and still it is a struggle to make ends meet, but I am fine, there are people who have had none of these things. We try to help these people, for the sake of Empathy, humanity, for the future of society and the benefit of mankind as a whole.

We provide money for those who have nothing to eat.

We provide housing for those who have no home.

We provide councilling for those who have no-one to hug.

We provide healthcare for those who cannot afford it.

We provide psychiatric care for those who need it.

We provide care for the elderly.

We support those who have no support.

These services help to create a situation where there are less people in need of our help, as they are able to help themselves. This is what 'social services' should be, assisting people in learning how to live their lives, in harmony with others, encouraging them, with the justifications of Empathy and logic, to abandon their ego, abandon their pride, and live with each other; FOR each other; for the sake of themselves and for the sake of humanity.

Our governments are currently systematically removing this support from the most vulnerable people in society. They are not stupid, they know what effect this will have on us all:

The poor will become poorer.

Deprived areas will become more deprived.

Ignorace and associated racism and classism will rise as the media subtly blames immigrants for taking jobs and foreign (very much controlled) issues for rising costs.

Crime will rise as a result of youth deprivation, mainstream media education and a lack of responsible supervision and activities for young people.

Insurance rates of the rich will rise due to rising crime, who blame the poor for their 'laziness' and aggressiveness, their opinions shaped by the violence on their TV sets, which does nothing to educate the rich on the causes of crime and violence.

The class gap between the rich and poor develops further, and one blames the other for their misfortunes.

The condemnation by the media of the angry disillusioned poor is echoed in the voices of the ignorant apathetic rich, who sit in their comfy sofas exercising ethical hypocrisy daily between their family and work personas, making decisions which contribute to the degradation of the society they try so hard to prepare their children for financially.

People often point out that I have got it easy, that some people are born with much less, so I shouldn't complain so much. What they fail to realise is that I am not complaining about MY situation. I am one of the lucky ones, and I recognise this every day. This is the reason I am able to complain, because I am lucky enough to have the leisure in my life to look into the lives of others and empathise with situations other than my own. I am lucky enough to not have to worry about where I will get food if I can't find work.

I am so lucky. I try to speak on behalf of those who are not.

This is "The Fifth Blog Of Trig", signing off.

The Sixth Blog of Trig - The Truth Teacher

I spent some time talking to my grandmother last night and I spoke of some of my school memories, specifically of my history lessons. When I was at school I had a history teacher by the name of Mr Oulton, who was also my head of year. He was quite a dominating powerful figure, tall and stern, but a very fair and decent man. I wasn't the most well behaved student, and I remember spending much time standing outside of his office. I wasn't a bad kid, but I was cheeky and mischievous and not particularly hard working, at all, so I spent my fair share of time in detentions, including the infamous 'Saturday Detentions'. I told my grandmother how, no matter how many times he found me outside his office for some misdemeanor, I never remember him speaking down to me, or treating me unfairly or contemptuously in any way. He treated me with unearned respect, and I hope that I returned that respect to some degree. I fear that in my immaturity I may not have.

Much of schooling these days is based around the learning of what we refer to as 'facts'. This is especially apparent in so-called 'history' lessons, where school children are often presented with a timeline of what are locally considered to be the 'important'/'relevant' events to be remembered. A good history teacher, such as was Mr Oulton, does not simply demand recall of these details from memory. Any good teacher should encourage and assist students in the practise of exercising a logical process to determine what is fact and what is not. A good teacher, a TRUE teacher, should teach and encourage the pursuit of TRUTH.

I remember Mr Oulton, possibly upon commencing his teaching of us, stressing to us the importance of questioning what is presented to us as 'fact'. We were taught to assess any given source of information logically, to ask ourselves to question who wrote it, what their background was, their political views, their personality, locality, and subsequently, what possible motive they could have had for producing that source of information. Then of course, you must then assess this background information for its own reliability and accuracy. If you can find discrepancies then you must question the information further until you have satisfied your uncertainty to the best of your ability. This is not just the study of history. It is THE PURSUIT OF TRUTH.

We are born with a powerful, inherent ability to assess and identify truth, and the ability to retain our findings as memory. Children naturally investigate their environment to the greatest degree possible, as this is the only way to properly understand the world we are born into. We grab at things in an attempt to understand the limbs we have been born with, and once we have established the truths of our physical abilities we can further analyse the association between ourselves and the world. The natural curiosity and inquisitiveness of children, this pursuit of truth, is what facilitates our growth and development. This is why we learn faster as children than at any other time in our lives.

Schools today all-to-often stifle our childrens' curiosity, for the sake of learning half-truths and sometimes blatant lies by rote, usually for the motives of the people bearing the physical power in the world. This is indoctrination; the bane of curiosity, enquiry, understanding and development. Indoctrination can be very obvious in some cases, and in others it can be very subtle. It is often very difficult to identify, as its very purpose is to restrict wider understanding and conceal truth. Indoctrination is to human beings what stagnation is to water.

There has always been division and conflict between human beings in the world. These divisions often arise from intolerance, which can be attributed to a lack of understanding, which itself is brought about by an indoctrinated unwillingness to understand and Empathise with anything outside of the doctrine. It has nothing to do with ability. As I have mentioned, everyone is born with a natural instinct to investigate and attempt to understand the world around them, but the enforcement of false truths upon enquiring minds forcefully occupies time and creates a distraction from our natural inquisitive instinct to search for truth.

Looking back, Mr Oulton was more than just a history teacher to me. I did not understand at the time, but he was teaching us to think for ourselves. He was teaching us to take in information, without being taken in by it.

Since leaving school I have discovered that many of the 'facts' presented to us in our history books were either half-truths or purely false 'truths'. Mr Oulton reminded us of our natural instinctive ability to question the 'history' he was forced to have us learn. He showed us the logical process by which we could assess the world as individuals, in order to form our own opinions and improve our understanding, based upon an instinctive logical process.

Mr Oulton was not just a history teacher. He was a teacher of truth.

This is "The Sixth Blog Of Trig", signing off.