The people from Barcelona have already arrived in Empordà. Aspects of more than scientific objectivity certify it: first, diminutives have dramatically increased (we hear "calitas," "pastelitos," "croquetitas," and other linguistic abominations said in abundance), and then there are also equally dreadful aesthetic changes like a nauseating profusion of white linen pants or highly nauseating gastronomic ones like the "shrimp menu." But, above all else, the arrival of the people from Barcelona is noticeable because, in the Baix, bad temper has increased radically; until a few days ago, everyone smiled in the market and bakeries were meeting places of an almost Greco-Roman Novecentismo. All this has changed in just forty-eight hours, and now everyone looks like a grumpy dog. Forget Afghanistan or Ukraine: this is now one of the most tense places on the planet.
My dear taxi drivers from Palamós (who long for the early arrival of autumn) also confirm it. The roundabouts in the center of Palamós look like the intersection of Broadway and Sixty-eighth Street. Everyone blasts horn symphonies and there's no one here who can pick up clients peacefully. I understand them perfectly, and I understand that the Ampurdanese citizenry lives in despair with the arrival of beings as vulgar, invasive, and ill-tempered as we Barcelonans are. But they must also understand the ethics of my beloved city. Here in Empordà, people from the Eixample do not come to rest, nor to forget for a couple of weeks their addictive and tiring relationship with work. In this beautiful place in the world, people come to despair, to queue for hours to reach Castell and lay their towel a hundred meters from the sea, praying that family coexistence leads to a divorce or, even better, to a myocardial infarction.
This dirty war will end at the end of August. Everyone knows it, it's prophecy, and the only possible methodical way to endure these weeks of battle will consist in weathering the storm and getting by. At home we have all this very well sorted out: we live hidden in Vall-Llobrega, next to Palamós and in the middle of the mountain, which allows us to coexist with the beauty of the landscape without busting the balls of the locals. We go shopping at the market, of course, but I have developed a super-fast technique to fill the shopping cart like a real sprinter. I sing each order with a well-studied calculation, I limit myself to firing off four sentences about the day's temperature, and I get the hell out of the town in no time. I don't bother anyone, you see. I go down to the beach in running mode in the morning, which saves the people of Empordà from seeing my pathetic and sweaty belly, as well as the dying breath so typical of cigar smokers.
As for the rest of the practical matters, we will spend each and every day of vacation without occupying the locals' establishments (it's no effort; most of the bars and cocktail lounges in this country are of an unparalleled sordidness), nor will it even cross our minds to go for a voltet along the Camí de Ronda and, much less, to perpetrate something as tacky as going to see Oppenheimer in Platja d'Aro. On the other hand, our boycott of initiatives for pixapins like the White Summer (or any event that dares to stick a food truck in our beloved land) will be total and unappealable. I understand that all this may seem like acts of little importance, but I know for a fact that my beloved people of Empordà will thank us for them like rain in May. In a few days we will return to the city, since the pure air demands an extra dose of Diazepam from me. When September dawns, we will return to celebrate normality.
The Barcelonans have arrived in Empordà. If you hear the word fresqueta, cross to the other side of the street. If someone orders a Seagrams gin and tonic, proceed to stone them. If someone dares to have a barbecue, urgently call the police. And if they have the nerve to quote Josep Pla, just kill them.