Crazy Catalans and the Alpine struggle for citizenship

So off we trot, courtesy of StingyJet via (as an aviation professional would describe it): a VFMS very fast moving seat that was rented for an hour at a cost of £25.

Upon arrival in Barcelona, I feel an immediate sense of belonging. Maybe that's because like my hometown of Hobart, Barcelona is port city with lovely sea air:

Exhibit A: Barcelona.

Exhibit B: Hobart:

I further reflect on this trans-hemispheric bond while exiting the airport arrivals hall and realise that as a long down trodden Hobartian I have considerable political affinity with the Barcelonians. They, like me and my fellow non exclusive Tasmanian Brethren hail from the capital of a State,  that's poised to breakaway from the dastardly imperialist forces of the occupying majority.

Until then the Catalan (ahem) nation, like her Tasmanian brothers and sisters continues to burst forth in its enthusiasm for Nationhood. As you'd be aware, Barcelona has even opened an embassy in Hobart to consolidate its diplomatic surge.

So while the greedy imperialists pillage, Barcelona continues to prepare for its role as a waypoint to a Catalan seat at the United Nations. It does this by putting commerce and efficiency first.  As a result, Barcelona is widely known as the Singapore of Spain (you knew right?).

Like Singapore, Barcelonian taxi drivers sit in different place too, which can be embarrassing if you forget when you step into a taxi, but that's another story.

Otherwise, nobody eats salty pork products there.  Smoking is also very much taboo.

Of course, the Siesta is verboten as it remains an impediment to commerce. Everything is always open in Barcelona,  especially on New Years Eve:

Don't be fooled. These doors weren't closed at midnight on the last day of 2011, they were just ensuring that they were functional while the heaving crowds remained at work, since staying up late to enjoy yourself in this part of the world is very much frowned upon.

Architecture is also particularly drab:

Move on, nothing to see here: 

Public parks are actually conference centres for the booming smurf economy:

Where people congregate...

 before going back to work for another 12 hour shift::

While public art has been replaced by mobile phone towers: 

And by narrowing streets, the car has been spared the indignity of having to transport all those inefficient people:

Spot the difference:

See what I mean?

Thankfully, as a result of my kindred spirit reaching out to Barcelona and my excellent Catalan language skills I was offered the opportunity to sit a Catalan citizenship test.

No uber-naff Don Bradman questions here. Scrub the Gallipoli mythology too. Instead it was a practical. Off to the French Alps for some Alpine training, because you never know when you need to ski for the first time.

First stop Paris where my TGV gently pulses in wait.  Until we meet, we try to look like the locals:

But our disguises are revealed as soon as we open our mouths. So we traverse the city of light quietly muttering ooh and

wow

a lot.

Then the first test. Understanding the French train system. With only year 8 high school French language skills to rely on.

See Annemasse?

That's where the train split (unexpectedly to me at least) in half, in the depths of night.

Now what is the French phrase for bumbling Australian? [ Ungle Google says it's "empoté australienne"]  But we struggled on and chose (or perhaps guessed) the correct half train to board and made it to Chamonix and not some random place in Switzerland.

So we arrived,

took it all in,

went "now what":

and passed the first stage of our test.

Now Chamonix will always be remembered for the place where I didn't meet a genuine French female ski instructor called Charlotte, but instead was taught the scientific art of skiing by none other than Glen, from Engadine, in the State of New South Wales (who had a striking resemblance to this man). How exotic. Good bloke, but still: Fail. 

So Glen taught the plough and how to look moderately competent going at slow speeds on the slopes. Here's some personal ski-cam (with sound) to prove it:

Of course, we were upstaged by scores of Euro elites in their graphite painted Audis and serious faces. The kids were even worse. Here's an example. At least the scenery was a welcome distraction from the fear of spinal injury and appearing  utterly silly.

 

I haven't got the results back from our citizenship test yet, but I very much hope I passed, but I'd be happy to re-sit.