Election Sunday

Despite its evident decline, Barcelona continues to be a leading city when it comes to reflecting the pulsations of a determined present. This very week, we learned that Mayor Collboni was forced to pay a 50-euro fine after having recorded himself cycling (commemorating the international day of sustainable two-wheelers) in a prohibited area of Carrer Avinyó. Although it is understandable that the highest city authority might be unaware of the mobility contingencies of a street – despite having it 200 meters from his office – it is surprising that none of his multiple advisors bothered to look into it a little. Negligence turns anecdote into category, and even more so in a week in which we learned that the Versalles de Sant Andreu was closing and that the destruction of modernist houses in the Farró neighborhood continues. The city is gradually dying on us.

This is the same appalling mediocrity evident during the current European campaign, which has had the merit of being one of the most inframental electoral contests in the history of democracy. It is normal for most parties in the Old Continent to speak little about the challenges facing Europe and to usually confine themselves to short-sighted internal debates, but we would never have imagined anything so vulgar. The only interest of the electoral debates (which have reached historical audience lows) has been to see how the politicians running in Catalonia have a discursive level that would not even pass the PAU. Given the general tragedy, it will be enough to pray that the awakened countries of the nord enllà (many of them led by ultra-reactionaries or progressive populists) have not looked too much at the spectacle, because in the end they will end up denying us any rescue.

The outlook is bleak, and that's why we'll have to counteract it with a good relaxing weekend, especially on Sunday. The abstentionist tradition dictates rushing to the beach, although – in Barcelona's case – going there is a high-risk sport, as the Barcelona coast only guarantees a turistada and an oceanic proportion of paellas (as expensive as they are dreadful) per square meter. I would opt for a daring act of disarray, like heading to the favorite vermouth bar and extending an originally planned intake of olives and chips into a proper hearty meal. This will help us see two in the afternoon half-tipsy; then, I recommend facing the second part of the day lying on the sofa in front of an entertaining movie, like Béla Tarr's Sátántangó (450 minutes long, says Wikipedia), which will ensure an eternal nap in pajamas and a chamber pot.

 Between this and that, we will thus get close to dusk, and one will no longer have time to go to the polling station. The best option to end the day will be to recover from the nap with a good shower and take an evening stroll through Ciutat Vella. The guiris are still around on Sundays – well, in fact, they are there every day of the year – but they have the decency to dine early. If you walk along Avinyó street towards the sea, a magnificent route to wander, don't be afraid; because if even the mayor has received a fine, I don't think the citizenry will have the audacity to emulate him. If you still have a little time until the first polls, you can reread the four newspapers you had bought in the morning to be informed (in fact, you had commented with your costella that Sunday is the great day for the press, "because there are fewer news and more content") and of which you haven't finished reading a single damn article.

After such an exciting and learned campaign as few, the citizenry has earned this Sunday of idleness and the right not to continue participating in the farce