Praying for trains

The local train system, AVE, is in a mess. The newspapers here have been filled with endless coverage of the total disaster resulting from the diversion of suburban trains from the Sants train station to a temporary terminal while repairs are undertaken to the system, which has been severely damaged by cave-ins. Two weeks ago, the switch-over took place amid utter chaos as commuters showed up at the station to discover a fleet of unmarked buses and no available information as to how they were to reach their destinations. Workers were hours late to their jobs. The populace is rabid.

In perhaps a perfect simulation of the unabated tensions between the central government of Spain and the Catalunyan authorities, 900 people showed up last week at Placa Jaume I in central Barcelona to protest the train debacle, only to have the demonstration dissolve into a nasty shouting match between nationalists and Catalunyan separatists (who undoubtedly exploited the opportunity for this purpose). "Puta Spain!" the separatists shouted, setting off the ruckus. "Burn the tricolor [Spanish flag]!"

Sadly (or fortunately, depending on one's inclinations), I did not witness the fascinating melee. But AVE has taken on a fair degree of importance for me, because my sweet friend Blanche (shown above in a cafe just off Placa Cataunya yesterday) is in the running for a job as an attendant on the Barcelona-Madrid line. Followers of this blog know that Blanche is an artist supreme in the realm of hair. Although she loves her work, unfortunately she cannot sustain herself financially for much longer in a city where housing costs have increased sixfold since Spain adopted the euro as its currency, while salaries remain mired in the days of the peseta. If Blanche does not secure this job with AVE, she is seriously considering leaving Barcelona. And that would be very sad, both for the stylish women of Barcelona and particularly, for me.

Part of the application process entails an interview entirely in English this coming Wednesday. And since Blanche has had precious few opportunities to use her English in the past several years, she is pretty rusty. So yesterday, I spent several hours putting her through her paces with mock interviews and drilling her on vocabulary she would likely encounter in her new position. Last night, I pulled my American friend Barry into the endeavor. We accompanied Blanche to an English pub so packed that making one's way to the bathrooms at the rear involved ceaseless full-body contact. Here, Barry the former English teacher was much in evidence. He was relentless, refusing to dumb down his patter and unfailingly correcting Blanch's use of prepositions. It was brutal - but effective. Blanche was chattering like a bluejay before long. And now, I'm standing by to try and create a tidal wave of English fluidity that will carry my friend out of the station and onto that Barcelona-Madrid line.