Barcelona. Mes que mi club.

So by now you've probably surmised that I am a Cule.  Firstly, its pronounced like Kool-Aid, minus the D and secondly, I am seriously sipping the Barcelona Kool-Aid.  Ever since my amigo Nile (what's good homie?) and I embarked on a journey to the Camp Nou on a rainy night February in 2006, I have been hooked.  Actually, it began shortly before then...

I decided to spend the Spring semester of my junior year of college abroad, "studying" in Barcelona.  I use the term studying loosely because I spent most of my time in a bacchanalian stupor.  When I wasn't smoking cigarettes and drinking Guiness in a Catalan-Irish Pub, I was bouncing from bar to bar in an endless chase for free chupitos.

I guess you can say I stumbled upon Barcelona.  As a Hispanic Studies major at Trinity, I had planned on studying Spanish literature.  My advisor suggested I take a course titled "Barcelona" in order to gain a better understanding of Spanish history.

"What was there to know about Spanish history?", I asked myself.  Ferdinand married Isabella, Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492 and Spain benefitted from his discovery.  After that, some guy named Franco took over and somehow Spain has a king again.  Ok, so I was a little foggy.  What I did not know was that my futbol life would be changed forever.

Without getting into the riveting details, I learned that Barcelona is the capital of a region named Catalunya.  This region, prior to the marriage of Isabella and Ferdinand, was one of the most prosperous empires in all of Europe.  Complete with their own culture and language separate from that of traditional Spain, the Catalans are proud of a past relatively untainted by the invasion Moors (see Charles Martel).

Following the marriage, Catalunya was suppressed over the years - for having opposing languages and cultures was seen as a problem within Spain, a country whose identity was in serious crisis following 700 years of Moorish rule.  This suppression and even, at times, oppression continued on and off throughout Spain's history.  It continued following the civil war, when Francisco Franco prohibited the languages of the Basques, Galicians and Catalans to be spoken.

And what did the Catalans turn to in these moments of despair?  Their beloved Futbol Club Barcelona, of course.  In lieu of waving the yellow flag with four bars, Catalans waved the blau and grana of their regions most important cultural icon.  When FCB played Franco's favorite team, (you guessed) Real Madrid, the mostly Catalan roster used it as an opportunity to give the dictator the old "up yours".  When you watch the Classico at the Camp Nou today, the mosaic made up of Barcelona's spectators pulsates while they belt out the Catalan lyrics to the club's anthem "Tot el camp".  It is a passionate reminder to the rest of Spain that the Catalans aren't going anywhere.

"One flag unites us all"

The stories I heard about the shrewd Catalans and their ability to persevere moved me.  I wanted to visit this mythical land where they didn't speak Spanish in Spain.  I won't tell you the lobbying I had to do in order to convince my Colombian father that his son was going to Spain but not to a city where Spanish is spoken (which is not true, but that's another story).

In the end, I got my wish and was permitted to study in Barcelona.  Very soon I was about to be introduced to Carles Puyol (and his hair), Ronaldinho (at the bar) and Leo Messi (just a baby).  That story will have to continue tomorrow, along with the preview of the game I said I was going to write.

Adeu.  Fins dema.