Picture this. French girl, born and bred in Paris, spends 4 years in the UK where her brain gets all rewired in English. No, I am not being a snob, I promise, but I feel like I have been rebooted inside and if French is my mother tongue it doesn’t feel that natural to me anymore. French is in my brain, my heart and soul are in England while my body is, very obviously, in Spain.
So here we go, a froggie with a rosbeef tongue (langue de boeuf, mwahahah) moves to the chorizos'. Well, not quite chorizo actually – enseimadas, and it seems this is a meaningful difference.
As explained in the previous episode, I moved to Majorca without any preconceived idea of Spain, or any preparation whatsoever. I had never attended a Spanish class in my life, I had thus not even the slightests idea about the language, and the culture was totally unknown to me – leaving aside the usual salsa, tortilla y corrida gazpacho. I am almost ashamed to admit that I was not familiar with the concept of Catalan vs. Castillan, this rivalry of two cultures that coexist in Spain, to the point that I once spent 30 min in a bookshop wondering whether I was meant to be buying a Catalan or Castillan grammar book. There, I said it, I was clueless when it came to all things Spanish.
People, be at rest, I have seen the light, and I am now blinded by it. I got not one, but 4 grammar books, all in Castillan, for Catalan has been moved further down in the list of languages I need to learn. One thing at a time, you see, there is mucho trabajo to be done here.
Anyway, newsflash fo Clem: Majorca is part of Spain, but it is not Spain. Once again, I have found myself in a place that defines itself as the island, by opposition to the mainland, although this time this island is pretty much self-sufficient and a trip to the mainland is seen as a hassle rather than a treat. Majorca is part of the Balearic Islands, that claims its belonging to the Catalan network – a claim that is constant, obvious, sometimes loud, but very endearing.
People, be at rest, I have seen the light, and I am now blinded by it. I got not one, but 4 grammar books, all in Castillan, for Catalan has been moved further down in the list of languages I need to learn. One thing at a time, you see, there is mucho trabajo to be done here.
Anyway, newsflash fo Clem: Majorca is part of Spain, but it is not Spain. Once again, I have found myself in a place that defines itself as the island, by opposition to the mainland, although this time this island is pretty much self-sufficient and a trip to the mainland is seen as a hassle rather than a treat. Majorca is part of the Balearic Islands, that claims its belonging to the Catalan network – a claim that is constant, obvious, sometimes loud, but very endearing.
I work for Camper, one of the most Majorcan companies, one that makes the Majorcans proud, and that they wear en masse. I am amazed at the number of Camper feet that cross my path on a daily basis, and at how every Majorcan I meet knows someone who works for Camper. My Majorcan landlord was appeased by the mere mention of my employer’s name – it cancelled out all needs for financial guarantees. Bless.
I am probably what is pompously or romantically called these days a “child of the world”, for I don’t really belong anywhere, and the nationality on my passport is not necessarily the one that is the closest to my heart today, or will be in 10 years time. Annoyingly though, every time I land in a a new place, I realise that the natives are proud people and I feel jealous. I remember my resentment in Oman, for I am not an Arab nor a Muslim, and it seemed the country or the people would never open to me, that I could not belong. I did not stay long enough to find out for sure, but it seems I could have made it in the end! Well it has been the same here, probably even more frustrating as the land of my origins is in theory rather close to Spain in location and culture.
Majorcan people are Mediterranean, and they embrace life as such. Life is not half lived here: people don’t like, they love or hate, in equally large - but never half - measure, they don’t speak, they shout, and whoever shouts the loudest always wins, they get excited or disappointed, they party like crazy or mourn for days, they sing, they dance, they feel – indifference doesn’t seem to exist. But hear this, Majorcans don’t just happen to live in Majorca, they belong to the place and own it at the same time, they revendicate their regionalism as the base of their identity. There is them - and the rest of us. That I feel very strongly, and resent sometimes.
On top of this all, and unsurprisingly for most of you, Majorcans speak Mallorquí - a derivation of Catalan which is half way between French and Spanish, but with a very nasal and foreign music to it, close to undecipherable for non-natives. They tend to speak it every chance they get, and that, my friends, can be a big fat pain (TBC).
* Dónde está el semaforo? Where are the traffic lights?
