Yup, I finally decided to come home for the Christmas season. I don’t have to work from Dec 24 – Jan 11 so I’ll fill two of those weeks in the States! And I can’t wait! I miss you all so much. Now, I am taking a bit of a chance by doing this. Legally, an American is only allowed to stay in Spain for 90 days. If they want to stay longer, they have to return to their country of origin for another 90 days before they can come back. When I fly out of here this week I’ll have been here for a little over 100 days. Getting into the US will be no problem. The only problem I may encounter is when I try and re-enter Spain. If they actually take the time to look in my passport and see that I was here longer than I should have been, they can send me back to the US on the next flight home. However, everyone I’ve spoken to says that they don’t normally check that thoroughly and I’d have to be terribly unlucky to have any problems. I don’t want to talk about this anymore for fear that I may jinx myself. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

OK, I’ve talked your ear off enough for now. Hopefully I’ll get to see you when I’m home for New Year’s. Let me know what you’ll be up to.

On my own pretending you’re beside me,
Josh

I think I mentioned something in passing last time about auditioning for a play here in Barcelona. All I saw was an ad saying that someone was going to direct an “American Play” and when auditions were so I went – on a whim. There were lots of actors there but most of them were from England so I thought “plus one for Josh”. The play is called God Doesn’t Play Dice and it’s in English. I actually auditioned with four other people and I immediately felt a little young for the part. There are three characters in the play: two police detectives and a college professor. However, I felt good. My cop attitude was on and the Brits couldn’t keep up. I only read for one part – officer White: the cop with the attitude – and the whole thing lasted for about 10 minutes. When I was finished the director said that I could either leave or hang around for a bit. Not having to be at volleyball for another hour, I decided to stick around. After about 20 minutes (and three other actors) the director said, “I know I told you that you were done, but would you mind reading some more?” So I did. By this time it was the end of the day and he was finished auditioning so he asked the four of us remaining if we had anything else we’d like to show him (monologue, improv stuff, etc.). No one really said anything so I jumped up and said, “Do you like stand-up comedy?” and rattled off a bit of a Robin Williams routine that I had ready for just such an occasion. It went off famously. The next guy volunteered an improv game so I got mixed up in that as well and felt really good about it. Having hit the high note I was looking for, I thanked them all kindly and went on my way. Two weeks. Nothing. Then, a few nights ago, I get a phone call from the director. He asks me if I’d be interested in playing officer Chapel, the religious and more toned down cop. I say “Sure” and the rest is history. I’m acting in Spain! We’re going to perform the play here in Barcelona and for the Tarragona theater festival. And, if it gets picked up like the director thinks it will, we’ll be traveling and performing in Amsterdam and Paris! Who’d a thunk it?

I thought it was a little strange that I hadn’t seen any posters for it anywhere in Barcelona, but when Xavi said that he was going to an Alanis Morissette concert last weekend everyone said, “Cool! Let’s go!” Actually, the lack of advertisements was very strange considering the fact that Molotov – a little band from Mexico – had the city plastered for their “Fuck You Puto Baboso” Tour. But we were all excited nonetheless. We gathered about 10 of our closest friends and made our way to el Palau de San Jordi where the “concert” was being held. Xavi handed us our tickets and I couldn’t help but notice the simple fact that Alanis’ name was nowhere to be seen. Hmmm. Instead it said something about the first annual Festival de Solidaridad. OK. Maybe she’s doing a benefit, right? We get inside and the place kinda looks like a mini Madison Square Garden. Very nice. We make our way up to the “nose-bleed” section (the only area we were permitted with our cheap tickets) and find programmes waiting for us on our seats. Surprise surprise, she’s there! But so are about 10 other artists, half of which I’d never heard of. The half I did know consisted of people like Elvis Costello, Veruca Salt, and Jarabe de Paulo (a Spanish singer I really like). This was a benefit to stop using mines in third world countries. What the heck were we doing there? It looked like it was going to be a very long night. We were all psyched up for an Alanis concert! But, right before the show started, one of the gate guards came up to us and asked us if we wanted to move our seats down to the floor (the expensive seats) because the show was going to be televised and it would look bad if all of the seats weren’t filled. We said “Sure!” and were escorted down to the VIP seats for a veritable front-row view of the show. Four rounds of beer later and the show was starting to pick up. Alanis only did two songs but we ended up on Spanish national television!

You might remember me telling you of Xavi’s cabin up in the Pyrenees where eight of us spent a weekend last month. Well, this month we went back for the sole purpose of …(drum role)… snowboarding! Now, I had never even been skiing before, much less snowboarding. But Bob and Ann-Kristine start to actually emit light from their smiles when someone mentions snowboarding so I figured, “Hey, it’s worth a try”. And having Día del Constitución and la Fiesta de la Consepción Inmaculada in the same week, I have a four day weekend coming to me. There were eight of us again but some were newbies to the trek. Xavi, Bob, Petra, Ann-Kristine, and I were all returning, but making their first appearances in the small village of Arrós were Pascal, Ingi, and Eanna (all German). That brought the German count to an irritatingly high five out of eight. I don’t have anything against them personally – they’re all really great people – but when they’re together it’s much easier for them to all speak German and Xavi, Bob, and I don’t understand a word. It’s especially bad when you’re stuck in a car with three other Germans, like I was, for the four hour drive. Every once and a while they realized what they were doing and switched to either English or Spanish, but that never lasted long. I think I learned some useful German phrases that weekend. Anyway, the mountains were just as beautiful as before, but this time it was because they were all covered in snow. We went to Baqueira Beret – one of the nicest ski resorts in the Pyrenees. They say that’s where the King of Spain goes to ski, but we didn’t see him that weekend. Xavi told me a story of how, a few years back, the King was skiing and some kid crashed into him and broke his leg. When the kid realized who he had crashed into he sped off down the mountain for fear of his deportation or execution or something. The next day’s newspaper hailed him a hero for the Cataluñan separatist’s movement. A few weeks later his friends ratted him out and so he made a public apology to the King on national television. The King wasn’t really that upset. He loves to ski. He understood it was a mistake. How cool would that be? To be the one to have broken the King of Spain’s leg? That would be awesome! I would have loved to have been that guy. Imagine the stories! “Yeah, I broke the King’s leg. That’s right, I took him right out.” I wouldn’t gun for him on the slope or anything. Anyway, I spent most of the time on the slope with Xavi because we were on the same level, but I quickly got the hang of it (as much as you can in your first outing) and soon left him eating my proverbial dust. And then I’d fall down. And he’d catch up. But then I’d get up and start picking up speed and then lose him again. And then I’d fall down again. Then I’d start cursing my bum for being so tender. But then I’d get up and do it all over again. I’m still in the “This hurts so much I have no idea why I keep doing this to myself” stage, but I can’t wait until we go back!

Self-admittedly, I’m not a very religious person. Most of you know this. But that didn’t stop me from trying to find a local Chanukah service to attend here in Barcelona. I wanted to see what it was like. But, having approximately doubled the Jewish population upon my arrival (más o menos), it was very difficult to find a synagogue in town. My Spanish friends all confirmed the rumor that there was, in fact, one in Barcelona but no one knew where it was exactly. So I ventured to the local tourist office to ask. When I arrived, they had just closed (I get out of work kinda late) but after some kind words, the night watchman agreed to help me find it. Having a wealth of information at his fingertips, he allowed me into the closed office while he rifled through some NY yellow pages-sized books. After about 15 minutes of searching, he found that the one synagogue in Barcelona was about a block away from his house and he never knew it. Out in the booneys. With no metro service. So I thanked him kindly and proceeded to go home for some Christmas cheer with my flat mates (we celebrated Christmas that night). I tried to call the synagogue for the next three days to find out what time services were, but there was never any answer. That’d be weird: Spanish and Hebrew. I’ll try again some other holiday.

The commercial reaches of that which was once known as a holy day on the Christian calendar appear to have no bounds. Walking through ANY part of Barcelona as Christmas approaches reminds me of Times Square in New York City – florescent lights defying the night’s darkness and Jolly old Papa Noel bellowing “Ho ho ho! Feliz Navidad” to passers-by on the street. Don’t get me wrong: I love the festivities. But I thought Spain might be different. There are the subtle differences: like the fact that children don’t traditionally receive their presents on Christmas Day; they have to wait until Jan 6 – Día de los Reyes (Day of the Kings). And I think Papa Noel and Santa Claus are supposed to be different people although they look remarkably similar. Plus half of the music that’s piped through the streets is in Spanish (the other half is in English). And as Christmas grows nearer and nearer the streets become more and more crowded with tourists (as if they weren’t already).