There are moments when you realise—too late—that you’ve completely misunderstood the assignment. For example: showing up to a rural Catalan community gathering with a cuckoo clock in your arms, expecting praise, and instead receiving silence, confusion, and one elderly man whispering, “¿Pero qué hace ella con eso?”
Let me explain.
It started with a conversation I only half-understood (as usual). Pilar—who somehow manages to balance total chaos with village diplomacy—asked if I could bring “el cucut” to the fiesta petita. I nodded like I knew. I assumed she meant “cock,” as in rooster. I panicked, obviously. I don’t own a rooster. But what I do own, thanks to a car boot sale in Languedoc and poor impulse control, is a vintage German cuckoo clock.
So I brought that.
Wrapped in bubble wrap, still vaguely ticking, and smelling faintly of mildew and regret.
The moment I arrived, I knew. Children in traditional dress. Plastic crates of cava. A real, live rooster being carried like a prize-winning toddler. A proper Catalan event. And there I was—fresh from cultural misfire number #27—clutching a wooden relic that nobody had asked for.
I tried to explain. “Cucut?” I said, pointing at the clock. A man selling churros looked at me like I’d just insulted his grandmother. “Cucut… el ave… cuckoo?” Nothing. Dead air. Pilar finally approached, gently peeled the clock from my hands like I was handing over an explosive, and said quietly, “Querida… era un gallo. Para la bendición.”
Of course it was.
They were blessing the rooster, not re-enacting some kind of Bavarian Black Forest séance.
Derailment / reset:
Side note: the clock now lives in the shed. Every hour it yells “coo-coo!” into the silence while I pretend it doesn’t exist. Very on brand.
Anyway, I stayed. Ate churros. Clapped at the right times. Even got a polite round of applause when Pilar told everyone I was “la chica del reloj loco.” Which I’m 80% sure translates to “clock girl” and 20% sure means “time-travelling idiot”.
JC thinks it’s hilarious. He’s been calling me “Miss Horology” all week. I may unplug the fridge in protest.
So, if you’re planning to integrate yourself into small-town Catalan life: double-check the animal. Always. And remember that just because it has feathers and rhythm doesn’t mean it’s invited.
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