From time to time, the magic of viral phenomena gives us extraordinary documents that provoke a mixture of rage and hilarity with which Barcelona residents can distract themselves during the dog days. In fact, the news in question is related to such a climatic bonfire that forces us to wander half-dazed and choleric through life; as my fellow citizens will know, a few days ago X's fortune popularized the video of a fragment of the Ciutat Vella Public Hearing where our councilman, the eternally eternal socialist Albert Batlle, tried to combat the anger caused by the solar fervor of recent times with a historical analogy, recalling how thirty years ago he did not conjugate the idea of "climate refuge" because the common people, simpler and uneducated, simply spoke of cold or heat. Emboldened by his reflection, the wise Batlle concluded nostalgically, recalling that he had an aunt - already dead, "and may she be in heaven" - who spent her summer afternoons in El Corte Inglés, a very useful remedy to avoid an ocean in the armpits and, in turn, thus foster a city that is still "the best store in the world".
"We are not going to put fans or climate shelters on every corner," Batlle instructed my neighbors, who already anticipated the subsequent citizen outrage on social media. Personally, I must confess that these types of boomer moments of municipal management provoke a lot of tenderness in me, because listening to this PSC public servant (who has the corners of the city meticulously mapped out like no other active politician, after more than forty years in the high chair; which can only result in a delicious enlightened cynicism) reminds me of what my progenitor might say about this very hot topic. Are you saying you're hot and don't have air conditioning at home, madam? Well, look... please go to El Corte Inglés and you can buy one of those horrible white shirts that are stuffed on the fourth floor, "Women's Fashion", advised by one of those saleswomen from Badajoz who can't even say "bon dia" after more than forty years of residence in Barcelona. Then go to the terrace, admire the views, and "tal dia farà un any".
As always happens with experienced people, Batlle is not lacking historical reason. I also had a maternal great-aunt, "may she be in heaven," who enjoyed summer visits to El Corte Inglés as if entering the establishment in Plaza de Catalunya implied breaking into the Vatican accompanied by the Holy Father. My progenitor inherited this genetic frenzy for department stores, inserted into one of the most indisputably ugly buildings in Europe (which, not to be out of tune, is located in one of the most indisputably dreadful central squares on the continent), and even today she goes to the "Corte" with a frenzy that I cannot understand. For those things of Freud -and despite the fact that, objectively, it has an excellent supermarket and a very correct all-you-can-eat buffet- I have always considered the simple possibility of entering this store as the worst of all possible bad ideas and, if I have had no choice but to do so, I have experienced the stay as one of the most difficult tortures for a Barcelonian.
That said, someone would do well to remind our admired Batlle a very simple fact; thirty years ago, our aunt went to El Corte Inglés when average temperatures almost never reached thirty degrees. Now they often exceed them, as has happened during this disgustingly tropical June, so the random aunt who today agrees to rush to the aforementioned place may succeed... but she will run a very high risk of entering as a corpse. In parallel, Barcelona's population has increased exponentially; we are many more people, more boxed in (in socialist language, we suffer more "densification") and the psychological effects of an afternoon of fever are more difficult to bear. Does Barcelona have what current politics calls "climate refuges"? Intuitively yes, but most of these -however beautiful and cool they may be, like our Montjuïc for example- are too far from the urban center. There are alternatives, of course, like libraries, places that no longer respond to the enjoyment of books, since the common person goes to them just to cool their rags.
In this sense, yours truly has gotten used to spending summers in the Ateneu Library (I take this opportunity to say that, before entering the kingdom of the dead and although I will never preside over the Learned House, I will get it named after Eugeni d'Ors), a beatific place where, in addition to enjoying good readings, I can recover the liveliness of spirit thanks to the icy air conditioning and the half-tranquil atmosphere every afternoon. Many fellow members come every day with admirable punctuality, and have no problem napping while pretending to browse the London Review of Books or the latest novel by the bore Jaume Cabré. Therefore, I find it strange that the illustrious Mr. Batlle, a fellow member of the entity, has not taken advantage of the heat to promote Ateneism, even if, following a tradition of the most ancient members like myself, he thinks that the fewer we are, the better. He will never say this, as lately socialists embrace boomer "cuñadismo" while shunning their ancestral cultural elitism. In this, it must be said, municipal authorities have lost glamour: before, being bourgeois was super progressive.
Whatever happens, dear readers, it seems that summer will make us burn our patience. If it's any consolation, the author of this Punyalada - a freelancer by profession, an existential state happily close to slavery and very far from the privileges of lifelong councilors - never vacations and will continue to appear on your screen every Saturday.