Two weeks ago, a million people marched through Barcelona to protest the impending war with Iraq. If you wander through the streets, you can still see evidence of the city’s unmistakably unanimous stance on this issue. Apartments, bakeries, and schools alike have signs reading, simply, “No a la guerra.” Some have these odd pictures of bombs like you might see in old cartoons, crossed out.

It is hard for us to discern what drives this. Blaming anti-Americanism seems both too simplistic and something of an insult to the Spaniards and other Europeans who have firmly made up their minds. Why, just this morning I heard the Muzak versions of Cecilia, The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B, and, for whatever reason, Auld Lang Syne, while waiting for the subway. Nobody seemed the least bit caliente around the collar. More substantively, not one person has expressed the slightest bit of hostility towards us – at least nothing we’ve noticed. Ok, well, one guy from Iran in my new Spanish class did say, in response to a bit of idle chatter about Bush, Iraq, and matters related, “Sharon is a butcher who kills children and women.” Even though we had not been talking expressly about Israel, I won’t count that as anti-Americanism.

Most of what does exist here is disdain for George Bush, Tony Blair, and Jose Aznar, Spain’s President. People have told us that the biggest reason why this war is drawing such a huge response is because it is embarrassing to see European leaders ignoring the wishes of their own constituents to back Mr. Bush. Indeed, many of the signs in the Barcelona anti-war demonstration featured Aznar applying his tongue to a part of Bush’s anatomy where even the Crawford, TX, sun don’t shine. A sort of crude Esperanto.

It is sort of amazing to us, too, that Aznar is willing to buck the tide, because it seems pretty darn strong. Can you imagine a public school in the US right now hanging out a “No War” banner? While one small-college basketball player makes headlines for turning ninety degrees to the left? While demonstrations are ridiculed, and the most heralded political statement in the land seems to be the renaming of French Fries? With many economic issues being decided by the EU, even if only de facto, it seems hard to imagine anyone forgetting about this slap in the proverbial face and voting for the Partido Popular again. (In Spain, voters choose a party and the party then selects the president).

Of course, some of this unanimity leads, as it always does, to foolishness. One bit of graffiti proclaimed that while the USA uses you, Osama loves you. Not too many people would agree with this particular statement, but there is certainly an element, at least among those predisposed to make their statements with spray paint, that is finding this war-to-be more an amusing diversion from general rants against the Euro, the rich, or the fact that Catalonia still has to answer to Spain’s government than a real concern.

The fact is, quite simply, than just about everyone here is Catalonia and grew up in Barcelona. They share a strong common culture, forged by centuries of history, as well as surviving the reign of a dictator and fighting to preserve their language. It is only in the past ten years or so, in fact, that Spain has experienced any immigration at all, unless you count a swarm of pickpockets from all over Europe that spends summers and holidays on La Rambla. There are many South Americans, North Africans, and Arabic people here, as well as a growing Pakistani community. The novelty of all this means that as bad as we thought Americans were at talking about race, it’s even tougher here.

A Chinese-American woman in my Spanish class reports that people openly stare at her on the subway. She’s often propositioned, asked about Japanese food, and asked, without other pleasantries (like, “Hola”) where she’s from. Her answer, “Chicago,” hasn’t been cutting it – “No, I mean where are you from?” While we have been explaining these types of things (“Ohhhhh…you’re Jewish? Wait here – I know another Jew. I’ll get him.”) away with the idea that it was simply a lack of experience and the absence of suitably subtle language, she’s not having any of it. She said, “I took my fiancé (who is from Barcelona) on a trip to China, and no one propositioned him.”

Very well. It remains hard for us to tell where it all comes from. Just last week, I went out for a beer with Albert for my birthday. He is still meandering through his 25th year, looking for a purpose. Recently, for example, we signed up to allow him to demonstrate a 3000 Euro vacuum cleaner on our apartment, which could use it. This was a required part of his door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman training. He quit before we could get the free vacuuming, which is a shame for all of you who are coming to visit. Gloria has assigned me to help him find a career path, though I am not, you could imagine, the best role model at this time. The day he claimed to have started writing his life story, she almost throttled me.

Anyway, so there we were, talking about his future, in Spanish. I was not understanding everything, a fact I attribute more to his flakiness than my comprehension. He asked why I don’t like to do out drinking every day. I told him that it cost money, and that I have to get up for class and work every day, anyway. He told me I was conservative. “Not like your brother,” he said. “He has adventures. He went to Italy, Brazil….”

“What do you think this is?” I said. “This is an adventure. Think me. Believe me. Now my brother works in an office of lawyers. He wants to turn into a lawyer, I think.”

“Is it because you’re Jewish?” he said. “I have heard that Jews are very careful with saving money.” Since we live (in the building, Mom, not in the apartment) with a couple of guys from Israel whose weekly cocaine budget could keep Leah and me in ham for weeks, I would think he would have at least had a different prejudice than that one.

“No,” I said. I tried to explain it in a way that wouldn’t sound defensive, but clearly it did, because the next thing I knew he was saying, “No pasa nada, perdona, perdona,” and changing the subject. We moved on to chat about something else. While I don’t think he had his mind changed in the two-minute exchange about how not all Jews believe the same things about money, he definitely saw that he had better kick this one under the rug, and fast. Perhaps that’s the first lesson in better cross-cultural relations. Soon after, he paid for all the beer, which I suppose is the second lesson.