Searching For Catalan In Perpinyà (Perpignan)

Since embarking on my Catalan language learning journey in Barcelona two years ago, I’ve grown curious about the areas outside politically-defined Spanish Catalonia where the language persists.

One of these regions is known as “Catalunya Nord” or Northern Catalonia, a region in Southern France which hugs the Spanish border.

Do they really speak Catalan in this part of France? Is it like being outside of Barcelona? Do they have weird French-Catalan accents?

While considered a part of the broader Catalan-speaking world, my friends in Barcelona gave me mixed answers about its modern-day use.

“They do speak Catalan there but only in some places and it’s different.”

“They don’t speak it anymore, French has dominated.”

Driven by my curiosity and affinity for the Catalan language, I planned a pit stop in “Perpi,” as the locals call it.

(Perpignan is how it’s written in French and French and Perpinyà is the Catalan spelling. I will use both, because it’s my article.)

As it was, I would already be passing through it. To kick off the spring, my girlfriend and I planned a trip that would begin in London and wind us south until we reached Barcelona. After London, our next stop was Paris.

For both of us, it was our first time in Paris. The French capital is regarded as one of the world’s great cities, and as an urbanist and travel nerd, I knew I had to see it.

Yet, my impression of the French capital was mixed. Without a strong grasp of French, its beautiful bookstores, museums, and culture felt just out of my reach. When I thought about where else I would want to go next in France, Perpignan was the only city that really interested me. Not Lyon or Nice or Montpellier or Bordeaux.

I wanted to go somewhere that I felt I had some kind of connection to, however small. That place was Perpignan and the prospect of learning more about a different part of Catalonia.

I convinced Shylin with the prospect of perfect Mediterreanea weather, food, and her favorite dessert, crema catalana.

So we threw out the tourist recommendations, and booked a train from Paris down to Perpignan. The city is the last stop in France on the Paris-Barcelona high-speed train, so it was also a convenient route.

Would I Discover Catalan All Around Me?

I didn’t know if, upon arriving to order a coffee, it would be okay to default to Catalan and assume they would understand me.

Should I ask them if they speak Catalan first? Should I do it in my piss-pour French or just enter with the Catalan “bon dia” and go from there Catalan?

If they did or didn’t speak Catalan, how would that shape my experience of the Southern France city?

There was only one way to find out: go there for myself.

When I Got to Perpignan, I Saw Hints of Catalan Language and Catalonian Culture

For someone trying to seek it out, the Catalan influence is undeniable.

I got excited as I noticed some street and road signs in Catalan. Even the name of the train station was in Catalan, “El centre del mon.” (Catalan for “the center of the world.”)

The buses had vibrant designs that showcased the Catalan yellow and red.

I saw local government buildings and postings that also used the Catalan flag. In one of the central walking streets, Catalan flags draped everywhere.

The architecture reminded me of not only Barcelona, but other towns outside like Mataró. Even the smell of the streets made no mistake that I was in the Mediterranean, circling the influence of Catalonia.

If it’s in the streets, it has to be used right? My excitement built up immediately. I wanted to speak to the first person I passed on the streets, but I had to find a more appropriate social situation.

We got off the train, dropped our bags off, and then I went to a coffee shop.

When I got to the coffee shop, I opened with my soft, shy “boujour.” Then, it spilled out of me. “Parles Català?” I asked the barista. The nice young man with a thin French build shook his head no and smiled.

I proceeded in my poor French. Unlike Paris, though, I didn’t see a hint of impatience on his face, or a desire to switch to English.

Although it was a pleasant interaction, I was disappointed. Once outside the public sphere of street signs and bus imagery and in a private enterprise like a coffee shop, I saw no hints in Catalan whatsoever. 

Would I Find Catalan Speakers at The Catalan Restaurants?

I didn’t find Catalan there. Walking around, my ear scanned like a radar for sounds of the language. I thought I heard a mom speaking it to her young daughter but as I listened more closely, I doubted myself.

Perhaps it was a mom passing down a dying language in France to her daughter. Perhaps the Catalan words were my imagination’s creation, wanting her French to be Catalan. 

For dinner, I thought my best bet of speaking Catalan would be to go to a traditional Catalan restaurant. The yellow and red flag draped on the outside, and we went in.

A young woman with a soft smile again made me feel much more at ease than I had that morning in Paris. I tried my luck again as she walked us to our table.

“Parles Catala?” I said. She paused. She clearly didn’t and didn’t know how to respond. “Español, si quieres.” Her Spanish sounded, well, French, but she held her own. I suppose it’s not uncommon that Catalans on the Spanish side of the border come and ask that.

This happened several times in Perpi. When it was clear my French was bad, the next language they attempted was Spanish. We stuck with French while eating.

She handed us the menu in Catalan, and I lit up with joy. I saw “pollastre a la planxa,” “pa amb tomaquet,” and other Catalan dishes I recognized along with many others I didn’t.

I Didn’t Find Catalan Anywhere In Everyday Life

I hadn’t heard a single spoken word of Catalan. They didn’t even understand it when I spoke to them. If there was any consolation, I hadn’t yet talked to anybody who was over 30 years old. Perhaps, as is common with endangered languages, it was mostly reserved for the older generations, I wondered.

When lacking clarity and seeking knowledge, I turned to the place I often do: The bookstore. And I found exactly where I needed to go, a place called “Llibreria Catalana” (Catalan Bookstore).

I rounded the corner just across one of the city’s many bridges and then saw the unassuming storefront. Like many of the world’s great bookstores, it didn’t scream at me to enter, but rather invited me in.

It was a single-floor, two-room space and I was the only customer in the shop as I entered.

A woman who looked too young to be my mother, but too old to be my college classmate greeted me with a “Bon Dia” and a pleasant smile. I exploded with excitement.

“Parles Català!” I blurted.

“Doncs, aquesta es la llibrería catalana,” (Well, this is the Catalan bookstore), she replied with a friendly laugh and inviting shrug.

I felt slightly embarrassed for asking what was clearly a silly question, but after searching for Catalan for over 24 hours and not finding it, I had to ask just to confirm my mind wasn’t playing games again.

In “Llibreria Catalana” I Entered The Perpinyà I Hoped I Would Find

The bookstore was entirely filled with, as far as I could tell, books in Catalan. The only section of books in French appeared to be those about Catalonia, the language, and other regional topics.

Their second room was filled with picture books, graphic novels, and other books for kids, hinting at the bookstore fulfilling the key community role of giving the youth in Perpinyà the resources they need to learn.

As I browsed, I noticed books on politics, history, novels, poetry, and more.

I even saw a section that wasn’t books, but seeds to grow your own food! I couldn’t help but smile so wide, because I was in the type of bookstore I would own myself.

Excited to speak Catalan, my brain felt like it was moving too fast for my rusty Catalan tongue.

First, I told her how excited I was to speak to her, that I’d come here to find out for myself the state of the Catalan language in Perpignan. I asked her questions first which I already sensed I knew the answer to, that people in everyday life (ordering food, chatting with friends in the street) don’t use Catalan.

I hoped she would tell me I just wasn’t in the right neighborhood. She didn’t, but she did say that more people speak and understand it than lead on. “Some people are embarrassed to use it. Tenen vergonya.” I knew from personal experience that any language is hard to master if you can’t use it in everyday life, and I also understand the discomfort of using a language you’re not comfortable with.

As I sensed our conversation feeling like an interview, I asked her if it was okay to ask more questions (ironic).

“Of course,” she told me, again in a friendly tone that made me feel way more welcomed than I ever felt in Paris.

Her Catalan danced with an accent different from Barcelona — much more neutral like Girona and towns north of Barcelona — yet she was easy to understand. In fact, her Catalan soothed me, my brain relaxed to hear it. She spoke clearly and slowly, almost definitely for my benefit.

She told me that there are a few public schools in the area that teach it. Although, in some cases, we compared this to how students in U.S. high schools learn Spanish (not very well.) With pride, she shared about the existence of a few bilingual schools, and even a school that is all in Catalan. If it’s so rare these days, I asked her why she spoke it, knowing one person’s personal story can sometimes be more valuable than language statistics.

“I spoke it at home,” she said with pride. Then she went on to share how she was, a few decades ago, part of a small cohort of students at a Catalan-speaking school. At least privately in homes, the language was alive, and thanks to places like this bookstore, I sensed it was growing, poc a poc. 

Her tone shifted when she discussed the difficulties at local and national levels of getting more Catalan education in Northern Catalonia. I didn’t catch all the details, but I got the jist: it has been a big challenge.

She had given me plenty of her time, and I could tell she had work to attend to in the bookstore. I continued to browse the bookstore, debating between a few novels, a book of poems, and a piece of journalism discussing the life of a 100-year-old Catalan, “Una vida a les muntanyes” (A Life In The Mountains.) I feared it was a bit outside of my grasp on my current Catalan level. Yet, I knew if it was too much for me now, one day I’d rediscover the book on my shelf.

“In a year I’ll be good enough to read this,” I told her as I brought it up to the counter. She reassured me that the narrative writing style will be accessible and that I would be able to fly through it. Sometimes, I think my undying confidence and lack of any shame for speaking makes people think I’m better at speaking a language than I am, but I took the compliment.

As I checked out, we continued to chat. On the tip of her lips, I sensed something she wanted to share, perhaps the information I was looking for, but was afraid to ask.

“Tomorrow at 6pm there’s an event at our Catalan cultural center, El Casal.”

I had to ask her to spell it a few times as I looked it up on my phone. I double-checked the location. I took a screenshot. There was a zero percent chance I would miss it.

Onward I went, spending most of my next day waiting for 6pm.

Finding The Catalan Community

That Saturday evening, I walked from the Airbnb at 5:30, so I would arrive 15 minutes before 6pm. Early enough that I’d be able to get my bearings, but not too early that I’d be waiting for others to get there. My feet danced with nerves.

I know that being a foreign Catalan speaker is, well, an oddity. But I also trusted that, like all of my other experiences with Catalan speakers, I would be welcomed not only with friendly smiles but also with a sense of comradeship.

My previous experiences in Catalonia had always been that to speak Catalan, even as jagged and messy as mine is, is one of the best ways to show an interest in their culture, their community, their ideas, and their way of life. I trusted my genuine interest would come through in my use of the language, yet I still felt a bit like a middle school boy heading out for a school dance.

As I turned a corner, I knew immediately I was at the right place. A circle of men probably only a few years older than me stood there, and I heard them speaking in Catalan.

Oh boy, the dreaded social circle. Preparing and practicing my best Catalan introduction, rehearsing the grammar in my head, I walked up.

“Hi, I’m Dave. I’m visiting Perpinyà. I’m from the United States. I went to the bookstore yesterday and the woman told me there was an event here at six, so here I am.”

“Well, perfect, it’s almost 6 and you’re here!” said one man with a soft smile and laugh.

My presence, I felt, required a bit more of an explanation.

I gave a quick story of why and how I speak Catalan, beginning with my connection to Barcelona, and continuing with my love of languages. I was thankful for the young man, who, sensing my nerves, paused his conversation to invite me inside, show me around, and offer me the “xocolata” (chocolate) they had just made.

A half dozen kids sat around a table, coloring, talking in Catalan, running around, being kids. There was a bookshelf, various flyers, messages of political solidarity with other marginalized groups, and more seeds to grow your own food.

I knew I was in the right place. I made my rounds of introduction. “Make yourself right at home,” they told me. “There’s water, snacks, and we made too much xocolata so have as much as you want.”

“This month’s book club” one flier read in Catalan. “Classes for adults and kids,” another and “April 2024: Events” another.  

The Poetry and The Accordion

In my conversation at the bookstore, I missed the part that this would be an event for a Catalan poet and accordion player to come to El Casal, and read and play. More specifically, it was called, “el pastor i el pastisser” (the shepherd and the pastry chef.) Two young men came looking the part.

I sat in a chair with everyone else and listened. “We have a guest from the U.S. today,” the poet said, looking at me.

As he spoke, his voice thundered with political zeal, and even if I didn’t understand every word in each one of his poems, I sensed its messages.

It felt a lot like what I often write about, the radical changes we need to combat rampant inequality, the suppression of minority cultures and groups, how we need to completely shift how we live to stave off the worst effects of human-caused climate change. It was right along the lines of We Need More Bricks.

There’s no better way to lead the charge than by uplifting voices and groups who have deep connections to their land, how it works, and how to help both the land and its people to heal.

The accordion only amplified these, and added more rhythm to the poetry, which made me feel a bit like I was at a punk concert. My blood coursed with inspiration, I had the urge to bop my head, a mental rush to drop all of my thoughts and be present with the words, even if I didn’t know them. Most importantly, like a punk show, I felt that everybody around me was in this feeling with them.

This is the place where the Catalan-speaking community in Perpinya comes to celebrate and pass on their culture, to push together for a world they want to create, in their community, speaking their language which had been spoken on the very ground we stood on for literally 1000 years.

It’s where they came to use their voices which have been suppressed by the French Republic to the point where you can no longer order a coffee in the native language of a place. (In North American, the actual genocide and later the ethnic genocide of Native Americans and their culture is a great comparison.)

In between poems, the accordion player said, “It’s tradition that we have the chocolate with goat cheese, but my goats decided not to produce much this year, so…. only chocolate!” We all laughed. I understood the title now, “the pastor and the pastry chef.” The goat cheese and the chocolate.

The Vermonter in me who deeply values eating locally and fighting for food sovereignty came up, my heart filled up by seeing the values of this community in action.

Afterwards, I chatted around. I talked with a young man around my age who teaches at the Catalan-speaking school, with a young woman who was excited to give me recommendations for the next city I was visiting, Girona. I ran into the woman from the bookstore.

They gave me a cute calendar that featured typical food of Northern Catalonia each month and told me, “Well, you’ll know where to find us.” They’d be right there at El Casal, sharing poems, food, drinks, and fighting for a better world.

I Had Found Catalan, and So Much More, in Perpinyà

I left with my spirits through the sky, inspired by what I’d seen, happy for so much more than the fact that I got to speak Catalan, that I had found it in French Catalonia.

I discovered one of the most inspiring communities I’ve ever seen. I saw a few dozen people single-handedly keeping a language alive, the fate of their vast knowledge, ideas, and way of life resting on the very tips of their tongues.

The Beauty of Travel is to Find Inspiration and Knowledge

Yet, I was most inspired by the community at El Casal, and the change they’re seeking to make in the world.

It makes me, more than anything, want to create my own El Casal, in my home, to fight for the change I want to see, to elevate the voices that deserve (and are even owed) a louder voice in society.

I’m leaving this lovely Catalan town, to continue onward one step closer to Barcelona with a stomach full of crema catalana and a brain full of inspiration.

To answer my original search, yes, they speak Catalan in Perpinyà, but you have to seek it out. It’s out there, and not just on the street signs, the menus, or the flags. 

I hope one day I can come back to Perpignan and order coffee with local goat milk in Catalan.