The one notable thing that distinguishes Barcelona from all the other Spanish speaking lands in which I've lived and visited is that I don't feel like a walking oddity. There are no gawkers, finger pointing, long stares, or awe struck strangers and faggots running up to ask, ¿De donde eres?!
Why, Blackland, you ignorant peasant.
No, Barcelonians - or whatever the hell they call themselves - realize black people exist outside of the moving pictures; and, so, I've rarely felt a dozen pairs of eyes watching me as I go about my business.
Have you any idea how awkwardly delightful it feels NOT to be surveillanced?
Why, a black man can get used to this!
Customer service, more times than not, though, still takes a coffee break when I come to the counter. It is these instances on which I seize the opportunity to be the Ugly American and demand better. For a black man to be an Ugly American is advantageous.
Prejudices against dark skinned peoples don't get tossed out like outdated computers or big lapel jackets. In Catalunya's case, there are loads of Africans, Brazilians, Cubans, and some Dominicans who, while desired, are not all that wanted. Not really. So when I am slighted by mis-association I do what any red-blooded American does: I get loud and pompous and wonder why in the hell can't anyone around here speak English.
It works. And that's a good thing.
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