Sant Jordi’s: A Britalan’s Guide

In a col­umn in this mag­a­zine some 20 years ago I coined the term “Brita­lan” to refer to those British peo­ple like my­self who had taken up per­ma­nent res­i­dency in Cat­alo­nia. It re­ally caught on… this is, as far as I’m aware, the sec­ond time it’s ever been used.

After 30 years of liv­ing here, I no longer con­sider my­self an out­sider. I eat calçots with­out wear­ing a bib and I re­spond del­i­cately rather than lung­ing in when peo­ple greet me with two kisses. But if there’s one day that proves my fully as­sim­i­lated Cata­lan cre­den­tials, it’s Sant Jordi’s Day – that glo­ri­ous, chaotic and deeply Cata­lan tra­di­tion where books, roses and pub­lic barg­ing be­come na­tional pas­times.

On April 23, the streets of Cat­alo­nia trans­form into some­thing be­tween a lit­er­ary fes­ti­val and a Black Fri­day sale at a florist’s. Every sin­gle pave­ment is oc­cu­pied by book­stalls, every shop door­way blocked by peo­ple clutch­ing roses.

One of the great­est per­ils of Sant Jordi’s Day is se­lect­ing the right book. It’s not just a pur­chase – it’s a de­c­la­ra­tion of per­son­al­ity, in­tel­lect and po­lit­i­cal align­ment. Buy the wrong book for the wrong per­son, and you’ll be dodg­ing icy stares at fam­ily gath­er­ings for years.

Thank­fully, after three decades of cul­tural im­mer­sion, I have per­fected the sys­tem:

For your part­ner: Some­thing po­etic, prefer­ably by a Cata­lan au­thor who was trag­i­cally un­der­ap­pre­ci­ated in their life­time.

For your best mate: A his­tory book about Cat­alo­nia that sup­ports ex­actly his view on in­de­pen­dence. Choos­ing the wrong one could re­sult in the end of your friend­ship.

For your boss: Some­thing lit­er­ary but ac­ces­si­ble – noth­ing that sug­gests you think you’re smarter than them. That’s a rookie expat error.

For your­self: I pre­tend I’m buy­ing a Cata­lan clas­sic but sneak an Eng­lish novel under my arm. Thirty years in and al­though my Cata­lan may be fairly flu­ent, I still strug­gle with ex­per­i­men­tal po­etry from the 1930s.

Of course, no Sant Jordi is com­plete with­out the rose-buy­ing rit­ual. Tra­di­tion­ally, men give roses to women, though in mod­ern times, roses are ex­changed by every­one. This means that by the end of the day, I am prac­ti­cally a florist, wan­der­ing home with an arm­ful of roses. If, un­like me I should has­ten to add, you are of a de­ceit­ful char­ac­ter, you can of course “regift” roses given to you. Just don’t get found out.

When my wife was still with us, I would buy her a beau­ti­fully wrapped rose and pre­sent it dra­mat­i­cally, as if I’d just re­turned from slay­ing a dragon. Unim­pressed by my the­atrics, she would take it with a ca­sual “Gràcies, carinyo” be­fore re­turn­ing to her book.

De­spite the mad­ness, the crowds, the tac­ti­cal book choices, and the lin­ger­ing fear of of­fend­ing some­one’s lit­er­ary tastes, Sant Jordi’s Day is, with­out doubt, my favourite day of the year. Where else in the world does an en­tire so­ci­ety stop every­thing to cel­e­brate books and love? Where else do peo­ple will­ingly buy po­etry with­out being forced to by a school cur­ricu­lum?

And so this year, as I step out into the sea of book lovers and rose en­thu­si­asts once more, I feel proud to be a fully as­sim­i­lated Brita­lan. Now, if I could only make it through the day with­out el­bow­ing a pen­sioner in the ribs, I might truly earn my place here.

Opin­ion