It is Sunday, which means that a) everything in Barcelona closes down completely and b) the duplicitous assholes with which this strange city is teeming crawl back into their slimy Sunday lives as God-fearing, family-oriented men.
I don’t mean to diss the entire place; I am 95% in love with what I know of Spain, in particular with Barcelona and its frantic energy, hectic pace, and love for beauty/siestas/seafood. However, one thing that has really bothered me since I got here is the machismo. Actually, that word is a little vague in this case. I’m referring to the men who stand on street corners, sit on stairs in front of buildings, or kind of hover around on the beach and comment on my various body parts. My Spanish teacher is pretty young and cool (and thus more believable), and in her attempts to explain the somewhat infathomable Barcelonese culture to us she insists that these men are really just trying to compliment us, even if it is a bit sexist. It’s cultural.
I can understand where a simple ‘hola, guapa’ (the most common greeting) is a compliment. It’s when it’s followed with ‘your tits are like coconuts’ and an unwelcomed ass-grab that I think it becomes a bit more than a cultural annoyance. Really, I know I’m a guest in this country and am constantly reminded by the Arcadia staff that this culture is not ‘good or bad; just different’ from my own. However, I really think that if these leering idiots would get off the street corner and get a freaking job, maybe Spain’s unemployment rate (11.3%) and birth rate (1.37/woman) would get better—after all, nobody wants to hire or have babies with a cat-calling creep. I think that women get pretty good at ignoring this stuff quickly, but some of these guys will follow you for a few blocks, continuously calling out offensive things.
Anyway, so this is why yesterday on the subway, when a guy got uncomfortably close to me, I assumed he was just going to comment on the state of my tetas. I moved away a few inches (about as far as I could on the crowded train), but he kept leaning in closer. Suddenly, I realized looking down that he had opened my purse and had his hand in it. ComPLETEly pissed, I slapped him in the face and grabbed his wrist while I rummaged through, making sure that my camera and wallet were still in there. He hadn’t had time to take anything, so Kate and I jumped off the train at the next stop and ran out of the station. I guess I was pretty lucky, because so far nearly everyone I know has been mugged or pickpocketed in Barcelona.
Sigh. I don’t think I’ve ever been so homesick for the only slightly-immature men and knife- and gun-wielding (but polite) thieves of America. America.
Uhh… I am realizing that this is the worst possible post I could’ve come up with 4 days before you get here, Mom and Dad. Bienvenidos!
Tara
PS—I’m actually still having an incredible time. It just seemed like it was time to address this, since most of my other entries to date have consisted of oranges and smiles. Lit’rally.
PPS—
Jason. Amaze-on.
Hiiii Tara!
ReplyDeleteI feel your frustration! Who would have thought that we could be nostalgic for some good old-fashioned American sexism? It was totally bizarre to get back from Greece and not have to turn an intimidating glare on every man passing me on the street. Keep your head up my dear, and know that your Q's are pining for youuu!
A girl after my own heart...keep slapping those dudes with sticky hands that should not be anywhere near you or your stuff. While not everyone would support this (for safety reasons), I say...slap away. Miss you.
ReplyDelete