El tiempo de mi vida

Travelling is shit.

Don't get me wrong, I love to travel. But travelling itself, the mere physical sensation of moving from one place to another, is generally a complete waste of time. Sorry Alain, but travel is no art. It's the science of overpriced food, overbearing companions, jetlag and utter boredom.

Of course there are exceptions: that train journey and such-and-such road, the time we met so-and-so and the view flying over whatever. But a chance of the best seat in the stadium is no reason to chop off your legs and buy a wheelchair. If trite were true and it's all about the journey, why don't people write guide books about that instead?

It all comes down to temperament. Patience is both a virtue and a card game, and I'm afraid I'm crap at both. For we are the children of the Countdown clock, where every half minute has its own dramatic tune that ends in 'powwww' (and the end of the show signifies teatime). Shopping is what we do on with One-Click, food goes ping in five minutes and television is either a programme videoed earlier or whatever we find after an hour-and-a-half of channel hopping. If 1980s news broadcasts have taught our generation anything, it's that standing patiently in lines, waiting to be served is the sign of a miserable communist state.

And so welcome to Barcelona.

This could go anywhere from here. I could be about to relate my (dull) train journey or rile against unusual opening times. This could be my chance for the (predictable but no less true) spleen-vent on Spanish bureaucracy or a bitter howl at the lack of urgency at, well, anywhere I choose really.

But no. I'm not in a 'I say, let me through' place anymore. This isn't London. Closing times aren't rigid, people don't hate being here and a five minute delay does not merit two minutes of tutting and a four minute phone call. This is a wonderful, vibrant and creative city. I'm incredibly excited to be here. It's just all this travelling that I can't stand.

I am currently, as Jamiroquai once perceptively penned, travelling without moving. I have my flat and my Spanish course, and both are great. But I'm still not here yet. When I decided to leave my job, my flat and my friends to come here, I thought nothing of the first six months. It was all about the destination and I'm nowhere near there yet.

I want to know the city backwards. I want a bar I call 'local', where everyone mispronounces my name but forgives me when I mispronounce theirs. I want a nickname that means nothing back home. I want to be fluent in Spanish but have enough Catalan to make me stand out from the tourists. I want artistic hangouts where I complain bitterly to my artistic friends about expat Brits and Las Ramblas. I want local, weird magazines to use my skills while editors around the world call me 'stringer'. I want market stall owners to ask how things are. I want to be able to cook, or at least identify, half the things in the market. I want to hear fascinating stories in every alleyway and to be commissioned to write 1500 words about a graffiti tag. I want it to be Late Spring, A Few Years Later. I want it all. And I want it now.

At least I've made a start and who knows, within a year I could be another bitter and twisted TEFL teacher along with the rest. Or worse. Or better. I'm in it for the long haul but, four days in, I just want to be there now, and no amount of inflight entertainment will take away from that fact.

Time isn't on my side, it's refereeing the game and all of this will take a hell of a lot more work and far less time hanging out with foreign students and on the internet. I just need to keep reminding myself of my personal destination and have the strength and focus to get as near to it as I can.

I may be shit at patience but I play solitaire to win.

Posted by Andrew Losowsky at January 11, 2003 03:21 PM | TrackBack