Demà és divendres, el quatre de setembre.

This sentence in Catalan translates to “Tomorrow is Friday, the fourth of September,” and if you tell me that isn’t the sexiest declaration of tomorrow’s date you have ever experienced, I will assume you are either mistaken or lying.

Barcelona is located in Catalonia, a northeastern province of Spain. While every native Spaniard can be expected to speak Spanish, Catalonia boasts the additional heritage language of Catalan. It’s a Romance language generally thought to be a crossbreed of mainstream Spanish (known here as Castellano) and French; to my ears, though, Catalan sounds more like Spanish and French with a little bit of Italian and un montón de hot, dripping sex appeal.

Because its usage is limited to a chunk of the world roughly the size of Maryland, Catalonians are vigilant — even arrogantly so — about the use and preservation of Catalan in Barcelona. All the street signs and store names here are printed in Catalan; when I get on the metro train, the electronic screen on the turnstile asks me to “Introduiu títol de viatges, si us plau” (Insert travel ticket, please). Being around Catalan, in an everyday, tripping-my-feet-on-it and feeling-it-breathe-hot-down-my-neck kind of way, has revealed to me why its preservation is so vital to the people of Catalonia. The language itself has become a defining part of this rebel province’s identity, differentiating Catalonia from the rest of Spain and fostering an intimacy that cross-cuts race, age, gender and class.

Catalan is something like a decorated Spanish; a more nuanced, less boldly percussive kind. It has I-X combinations that sound like “sh” and ending G’s that come out like “ch,” subtleties that don’t exist in Castellano. Until now, I’d always thought Spanish was the world’s most wildly attractive language, but apparently I was wrong. The pattering, aromatic sizzles of Catalan are some of the most beautiful human sounds I’ve ever heard.

Yesterday, all the students on our program began taking Catalan lessons. My class is taught by a clever professor named Miquel who has alternately taught classes in Spanish, Catalan and English (during a stint at Oxford), and I can already tell that three times a week, his two-hour classes will be the best part of my day.

This morning, Miquel remarked, in his distinct (and irresistible) British-Spanish accent, that we all looked tired. “Everyone must have been up late last night. I’m sure you were up all night studying Barcelona, yes?”  With a twinkle in his eye, he added, “Field study, maybe?”

Everyone struggled to keep a straight face: Less than 12 hours earlier, we had all been gleefully shouting out our first day’s worth of Catalan vocabulary — expressions like “Thursday!” “Fourteen!” and “No, I live quite far from here!” — between fits of giggles at a local bar.

After two days of class, however, we are all able to pronounce the names of the nearby subway stops, as well as talk about the days of the week, the months of the year, numbers up to one hundred, several aspects of our education (“Yes, I began my classes yesterday,” etc.), and, most recently, other people, as we’ve just learned how to use pronouns. I can now say basic things in Catalan like “I bought these apples” (Jo vaig comprar aquestes pomes) and “This is his watch” (Això és el seu rellotge). Little by little, I’m getting closer to being able to say, Catalonia, your language is heaven; thank you for sharing it with me.