The Eighth Blog Of Trig - The Barcelona Diaries (Part 2 - 01/07/2011)

Okay, Barcelona blog part two! As I write this I am sitting on the roof terrace of International House Barcelona, the school I am studying at. There are students all around me chatting, smoking, drinking coffee and eating. I have drowned out the background with headphones pumping Beck's album 'Odelay' into my ears (special thanks to Davey Bee for the great times we had trying to decifer the lyrics). I think I left off on Thursday night after meeting my host Alan. So I guess Friday morning is a good place to continue...


So, I wake up Friday morning and have a shower, hot then cold, taking care to pick all my failing hairs out of the bath afterwards (yes, I meant 'failing', not falling). I go downstairs and say hello to Alan and he offers me breakfast. We have Bran Flakes with a sliced banana, OJ on  the side. I'm out of cigarettes so I decide to go out and find a shop. Should be simple, but it doesn't work out to be. I head out into the streets and wander in what seems to be a promising direction, but the promise turns out to be broken. I didn't take my map out with me, assuming I wouldn't need it, forgetting of course, that all of Miss Assumption's children are named 'Fuckup'.


I failed to find a shop that sold cigarettes for some time, and by the time I did, I had no idea where I was. I wandered the streets for over an hour, sweating like a pig on a spit, pumping my legs faster and faster in frustration until I finally found my bearings again, realising that I had pretty much been walking circles round the block I was staying on. I also did not feel I had any better idea of the surrounding area. Lesson learnt - always take a map.


Alan greeted me when I arrived back, laughing as I told him my survival story, in  the manner of a man who has just crawled his way out of the desert. We had a sandwich for lunch and then I grabbed my bag and set out towards the Metro station. I was on my way to the language school to say hello, and then have a wander round the town and maybe the beach. At the Metro station I bought a ticket which gave me 50 journeys on Metro or buses, within 30 days, for 31 Euros. That's three days' travel in London, if you're lucky.


The underground Metro reminds me of the one in Budapest, but more modern. They both have similar '80s-computer-game' sounds on the train to announce arrival, departure, and doors opening. I prefer it to the aural torture inflicted on London commuters. I have on many occasions been very close to unleashing my fury upon the speakers on the London trains. I have envisioned myself running at the things with a biro-bayonet, sending the little beeping bastards straight to silicon heaven with a calculated stab through the tweeter, while commuters drop dead from shock upon hearing my horrific war-cry.


The Metro stations are all absolutely sweltering, being too large an area to effectively air condition, but the trains are nice and cool. I left the train and walked into the heat outside with a smile. It was bright outside, and I didn't have to look in the direction of the sun to be forced into squinting.

Getting off at Catalunya station, I found myself in Placa De Catalunya, a big square with water-featured monuments dotted about. I walked around taking a couple of photos and soaking up the atmosphere, trying to recognise the different accents around me. I heard lots of American, lots of Australian, and of course lots of Spanish. I gazed around me for a while, being reminded of Trafalgar Square a little (Spanish style, without Nelson), then I headed for the far corner of the square, which my map told me was where I had to go to begin the short walk to the school.

I arrived at the school 5 minutes later, and was directed to the first floor where I met Gloria, the Head of Administration. She had a bright smile which made me feel comfortable immediately. I was hoping for a tour, but her assistant was at lunch and she had to stay at her desk. She told me to arrive at 8.30am Monday and she would introduce me to my fellow students and show me to my class. Before I left she introduced me to another Sam, who holds a senior teaching position. He was also smiling and friendly, making me feel very positive about things.

 

I came out of international house and I walked towards the 'Ramblas', but I got distracted by the interesting alleyways cutting off of the main roads, and decided to investigate. A part of me echoed the warnings I had heard about the crime in Barcelona, but I wanted to see as much as the city as possible, not just the busy tourist areas, so I headed off the beaten track into the side passages, which were made slightly ominous by the tall buildings that created them. Some looked less inviting than others, with sombre faces staring out from the shadows, and the smell of urine and sweat wofting through the channels. I chose my alleyways carefully using the criteria of piss saturation and ominiscity. Is that a word? It is now. 'Ominiscity'. You heard it here first.

After wandering through the passages a while I came across the cathedral. I guess it was one of Gaudi's creations by its beautiful architecture. In front was a market with all kinds of antique curiosities, which I expected to be expensive by the looks of them. I browsed a while and then headed up the side of the cathedral where I found a couple of guys playing Indian music. I stopped a while, took a video (at the top of this page), and then headed off in some random direction. Maps are useless in these maze-like streets.

I had decided earlier to visit the port and the beach, so I headed down the Ramblas (once I found it by complete fluke) towards the ocean. At the bottom of the Ramblas is Columbus' column, very much like Nelson's, but for CC. Behind this is the port. I headed over and watched as two enormous Scottish guys were told off by police for jumping into the water in the port half-clothed for a swim. Then I sat on a bench and read my Spanish phrase book a while, then my English teaching book. I decided to walk round the port to see how far the beach was, but it was pretty far and I had already walked a long way so I decided to head back in the direction of home.

Shortly after leaving the port area I came across a small park by the main road with some amazing graffiti art. I stopped and took some photos, and then for the next few minutes, every corner I turned I found more (graffiti blog shows more pics). Then I came to the foot of Montjuïc (translated in Catalan as 'Jew Hill), a hill which begins the 'Port Vell Aerial Tramway', a 1300m long carriage journey on a 45mm rope across the harbour to Barceloneta Beach. I started walking up the hill to get a view from the top, passing a man painting the scenery on the way (below), before making it up to the top fifteen minutes later, covered with sweat.

At the top of the hill I found a lovely bar with a cliff-terrace overlooking the ocean, the whole of Barcelona, and even the mountains to the north-west. I ordered a beer and sat down to admire what I guess to be a 270 degree panoramic view of the city and surroundings, got out my laptop and started typing. I finished off a piece of writing about my history teacher, Mr Oulton, and what he taught me about analysing information to find truth.

I had a couple of beers looking out over Barcelona, feeling very comfortable about where I was (or WHEN I was - the one and only real moment of time - now) and the course I was about to embark on. I thought about light rays and the false wave-particle duality of reality. I read my English Language Teaching book. I read my book, 'Dope International', about the international heroin trade and how it was run after WW2 by the the Sicilian/Italian MAFIA, Corsican gangsters, and others. I read how the author suspected the 'Big Boss' to be in Britain. I looked out and smiled.

As the sun started to go down I left the bar and headed back to the house. It was a long walk, through busy pedestrianised streets, filled with tables and chairs occupied by the customers of the many bars and restaurants either side. Children kicked footballs around. Skateboarders tried their tricks out in front of their friends. The bustling noise of the people was comforting and friendly. 

When I got home I had some food and then went to bed fairly soon after. I had walked a lot of miles that day. Bring on Saturday!

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

The Fourth Blog of Trig - London, March 26th 2011

Saturday 26th March 2011, I was eager to get into London for the protests and decided that I needed a photographer, and it could only be Matty B. He took a little persuasion, so I filled the air with prophecies of tens of thousands of people in the streets of London, thousands of armed, armoured police officers, and of course, a moral obligation to add our numbers to those out in the streets that day, protesting the actions of the terrible money-men who run our world. But I think it was the prospect of some good photographs that sealed the deal.

We got there before midday, getting off the tube at Embankment. We immediately found ourselves immersed in immense crowds of smiling, cheering, singing protesters, pouring in from every street like floodwater finding its way to the main river course. The police acted like floodgates in their capacity as 'mediators' of this mass act of defiance, kindly directing us through the tributaries until we found ourselves part of a swollen river of people being flushed into the Hyde Park ocean, where we slowed, quietened, and were subdued by words that turned us all into 'comrades'.

Along the course marching bands played in unison, with drummers drumming out machine-gun rolls that seemed to fit in nicely with the sound of helicopters hovering overhead. Scattered through the streets amongst the bright eyed TUC public sector workers, the occasional group of masked 'Black Bloc' protestors reminded some of us that the government will probably completely ignore us, and that some people are going to assume this as pre-emptive fact and smash up the banks and the stores of the rich tax-dodgers to demonstrate their anger and dissatisfaction. These are by far the minority however. The vast majority of the reported 500,000 people were there to peacefully, albeit loudly demonstrate their disgust

As we left Embankment tube we were not allowed out of the riverside entrance, and were forced out of the north exit through crowds of people handing out red pro-communist leaflets and newsletters. This continued up to The Strand where we began following protesters East towards somewhere we hoped we could join the procession along the river. We had to sneak past police down towards Waterloo Bridge, turning into Somerset House where we got a nice view over the balcony of many tens of thousands of people readying themselves for the march. 

We had to double back up to the Strand as police were not allowing anyone to go down the steps to Victoria Embankment, so we ended up joining the riverside just east of Temple tube station. The atmosphere was amazing. Everyone was smiling, cheering, singing, chanting, dancing as bands played music, banners waving in the wind. Mothers and fathers walked with their children. Those who could not walk came on their wheelchairs. Old, young, black, white and brown all marched together, all smiles, eyes reflecting the feeling of elation I felt.

Every one of the public services was represented; firemen, nurses, ambulance, teachers, carers and many many more. The only people I didn't see represented among the protesters were the police. I don't know whether to read anything into this or not. They might have been busy that day...



We made our way through the procession, which seemed to go on forever, never seeing the beginning or the end. Matty snapped photos of the police and the protesters while I gazed around smiling, shouting at him occasionally to catch a shot of something. All of the protesters wore smiles; beaming, happy smiles that I empathised with; it was amazing to see so many people, men women and children of all different races, religions, different backgrounds, all joining forces for a common good. Everyone had forgotten their petty differences and come together to ask that our government exercise some humanity, or else move aside for someone who is capable.

Some of the police looked pretty menacing a lot of the time, and I tried to cheer them up by saying hello and smiling as we walked past. Some replied in a friendly manner, others stared at me, as the late great Bill Hicks put it, 'like a dog that's just been shown a card trick'. The shot below is typical. Guy on the left, whistling happily to himself. Nice. Friendly. Guy on the right, looks like he wants to spray us with CS for existing. Now, he has been given the duty of protecting a statue, so he might just be pissed off about that. I would be too.

As we made our way down towards Westminster the police presence intensified. The protesters of course hit a crescendo, and many people pulled out their megaphones. As we turned right at Parliament we encountered Libyan protesters lined along the streets, protesting British and US intervention, saying that contrary to the news reports, Libyans did not want our 'help'. And I'm not surprised. Look what has happened to Iraq and Afghanistan thanks to our 'help'.

We soon passed Downing Street, which had a good few police officers outside of course. The entire procession continued straight past without stopping.

"Hold on!," I shouted out to the crowds, "shouldn't we stop and shout a bit? The bastards are right in there!"

But everyone continued on their way to Hyde Park. I was shocked that people were not stopping to shout at Cameron in Downing Street, but of course, that is the way it was planned. We had a date at Hyde Park to hear a bunch of nicely choreographed protest speeches, all arranged for 1.30pm, and we were already running late, so we walked straight past the door of the man in charge without a word. I believe the 'Black Bloc' protesters kicked up more of a fuss, but I think that they turned up later than us, and they weren't worried about turning up fashionably to Hyde Park, if at all.



The rest of the march was fairly uneventful, and we arrived at Hyde Park for about 1pm. Tony Robinson was presenting the show, and various speakers came up, all with their own underlying causes to promote, which I felt drew us away from the unity everyone had felt on the march. The speakers called us 'comrades', for which it was impossible to ignore the soviet/communist connotations. I didn't know why they didn't just call us 'friends', or 'fellow humans' or something. It felt like the whole protest had been hijacked by communists and the Metropolitan Police. I felt completely deflated, and we left to find a pub after hearing three speakers.



Now, here's where it got even more interesting. As we headed towards a pub, we heard shouting down one of the roads leading east off of Park Lane. I suddenly saw a crowd of riot police, many splattered in paint, running down the street dodging a hail of paint bombs, after a crowd of protesters dressed in black waving the black and red 'Black Bloc' flag as they went.

"Matty come on mate! Photo opportunity!" I shouted, "Come on! Come on! Quickly!"

So we left the three friends we were with, promising to catch up with them at the pub later, and suddenly there we were, chasing a crowd of twenty or thirty paint splattered riot police down the street, who in turn were chasing a crowd of 'Black Bloc' protesters down the street, dodging paint as they went. The Black Bloc crew had in their midst a guy on a bicycle, pulling a boom-box on a trailer with hip-hop blasting out. Not too ironically, the tune I remember hearing was NWA's 'Fuck Da Police'. That made me smile. Shit, I might have even sang along...

We followed the police for a while, dodging the odd paint bomb which got through their lines. I remember one police officer in particular, a tall man looking like he was in his mid-forties, about 6'4" and well built, running down the street whacking lamp posts with his baton. I remember him clearly and have since seen him in a few videos online. The look on his face was unforgettable. He was enjoying it all thoroughly. He wore a twisted grin like some sort of fairy tale gremlin catching a victim. It's hard to describe what I saw in his eyes, but it has stuck in my memory. I would recognise him anywhere, and I would probably avoid him.

As we bolted down the street the Black Bloc crew smashed things as they went. They graffiti'd police cars and shop windows. Some smashed windows. Occasionally police would catch up and grab one, but the crowd would come back and release their 'comrade' quickly before darting off. At one point the police managed to corner a few of them. They surrounded them with outward-facing riot police and searched for weapons while 'legal observers' attempted to ensure that the police were not using excessive force. We saw a policeman pull sandwiches, bananas and water from the bag of one lad. By now there was crowds of protesters joining the Black Bloc crew, partly in support, and certainly in part for the excitement.



And so it moved on. The BB crowd seemed to grow quickly, with smaller groups all converging into one big mass as we neared Oxford Circus. When we arrived at the main crossroads where you find Oxford Circus tube station, the number of people was staggering. The police were massively outnumbered. As we came to a halt we could see the remnants of the 'TUC Armed Wing' Trojan Horse burning in the middle of the road. The BB guy on the bike stopped, turned the volume up, and just like that Oxford Circus became an impromptu drum & bass rave. Everyone started dancing. I started dancing. What an amazing feeling, that this relatively small group of people had beaten the guardians of this crooked government and taken back the streets. And we celebrated that fact with the chant, "WHOSE STREETS?" - "OUR STREETS!" - "WHOSE STREETS?" - "OUR STREETS!"



Matty and I hung around a while longer. I danced and chatted to people while Matty snapped shots. Police seemed to be milling around the outskirts not doing too much. Then without warning a police van came ploughing dangerously through the crowd, before the protesters stood their ground, some lying down on the floor defiantly. Out of nowhere riot police flew in and threw people out of the way and the van passed through. It seemed to be a kind of decoy, since it drove away slowly, allowing the angry protesters chasing to keep up with it. This dispersed the crowd some, and then Matty said he was going to go find our friends at the pub so we moved off into the side streets.



We arrived at the pub and breathlessly told our friends about the drama down in Oxford Street. The pub's punters took a moment from the live BBC broadcast from Fortnum & Masons to listen to us, before we were drawn to the TV ourselves as Piccadilly Circus erupted. We watched the chaos on the TV and I decided I was going back in. The adrenaline was pumping and I wanted more. I wanted to see what kind of action the police took, the protester response, I couldn't just go home now!

We finished our pints and went our separate ways, since Matty had prior engagements that evening. I headed off in the direction the helicopters were looking, triangulating my direction from them every few minutes. I was excited, jogging through the streets looking for the crowds, picking up a 'Bust Card' along the way. This is a card lawyers firms provide to protesters letting them know their rights and telling them who to call if they are arrested.



After jogging through side streets for twenty minutes or so I found myself in the thick of it again, right outside Boots in Piccadilly, where there was an enormous police presence barricading the store (owned by a NY based private equity firm and accused of enormous tax-dodging) to protect it from angry protesters. The area was effectively kettled, with lines of police along every road out and practically no exit except for the tube station, obviously to try and coax people to head home. Shortly after I arrived a man came out of the crowds that were skirmishing with police, blood all over his face. I gave him my bottle of water to wash himself, and he vanished back into the fray.



I moved towards the police lines to get a better view and found that it was getting much more heated. The police were being taunted by the more aggressive protesters, resulting in police charges with batons swinging, sending the crowds flying backwards. The protesters attempted to set up roadblocks between the police and themselves, carrying festival barriers, bins, anything they could get their hands on to the front line, whereby the police would charge periodically, beat them back and remove the barriers again. In the centre of all this, non-violent protesters watched the carnage around them fairly calmly, lighting fires in the road to keep warm, singing songs, smoking, drinking and chatting. Some people shouted for everyone to head for Trafalgar Square, but the police blocked the way.



Protesters climbed onto the fountain in the centre to get a better view, or simply to wave their banners and flags, like conquerers claiming land. I join them a while. We all smile, we all sing.

Below us, around us, people play music and drums bang away in a warlike fashion, people chant and shout and sing and the police lines stand firm. The paint bombs are all but used up, but some of the more aggressive protesters throw bangers into the police lines, which do not falter as the pavement explodes around them.

As the evening wore on and the light began to fade the police and the protesters were getting visibly worse. The police were tired and stressed, the protesters were tired and angry, and the violence was escalating. This is when I made the decision to leave. I knew that as night fell the police would descend upon those left with force, as indeed they also did in Trafalgar Square later that evening. I wanted to stay, but I had been walking for the best part of twelve hours, had not eaten for six, and I was exhausted. The decision to flee came quickly. I turned and walked 20 metres to the tube station and walked down the steps into a world of calm. I sat on the tube quietly and reflected on the day, looking around the carriage wondering what involvement the passengers had had in the day's events. And what a day it had been.

When I got home, I smoked a joint, committing my first and only crime of that day.



This is "The Fourth Blog of Trig", signing off.
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- All good quality pictures and video in this post are courtesy of Matthew Luke Broughton, via Matthew Luke Photography.
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- All poor quality pictures on this post are courtesy of me.