One of Barcelona's most adorable characteristics is its magical ability to turn urban contingency accidents into a collective tragedy and the subsequent outbreak of hysteria among the neighborhood. This happened, for example, with the issue of palm trees, following the unfortunate death of a fellow citizen due to a palm tree falling in the Raval. In any town, a situation like the one described would be a topic of gossip among neighbors for two or three days, and the old folks, with that adorable nastiness of villagers, would even end up describing the accident victim in question as "poor Antònio, the one with the palm tree." But in Barcelona, we have an unprecedented number of cultural critics per square meter, and the fact that the deceased was a trans woman, with a hard family life behind her that led her to become homeless, turned the accident into a murder.
Despite having passed inspection by our learned gardeners to certify its solidity, Barcelonans practically came to believe that the fallen palm tree had self-rotted with all the malice in the world because it had the perverse intention of ending sexual diversity and the oppressed of the city. Columnists exercised in writing a lot of cheap philosophy about "the invisible Barcelonans," and those responsible for Parcs i Jardins perpetrated an autopsy on the aforementioned palm tree that would make Michael Jackson's dead body laugh; well, lo and behold, not even Carles Porta has been able to clarify the reasons for that arboreal debacle. As was to be expected in a situation of unrest, at the beginning of this month, the City Council proceeded to cut down 540 of the city's 2,500 date palm trees (although, two years earlier and due to a similar accident, only 58 genuinely dangerous specimens had been detected).
The thing is very funny because, if the Raval accident had been caused by a deranged seagull or a rabid Doberman, I would say that no one would dare to kill hundreds of these little animals. But palm trees, my poor things, have become the new psychosis of Barcelona residents. I have been able to personally verify this by walking through the Raval; where before there were fellow citizens crowded in the shade of the palm groves, flocks of children playing soccer and godmothers sharing gossip, now only the coldness of emptiness remains. If almighty God had given the gift of speech to trees, one of their spokesmen (chosen by suffrage among all the palm trees in the city) would exclaim: "Barcelona residents; what the hell have we done to you?". I join the invisible (or rather mute) clamor of the palm trees. Honestly, I don't think they have ruined us in such a way as to end up gassing them all.
I join the invisible (or rather mute) clamor of the palm trees. Honestly, I don't think they have ruined us in such a way as to end up gassing them allI demand a pardon (or who knows if an amnesty!) for our palm trees. In fact, my Barcelona existence has as its fundamental pillars the Eixample Grid and the Chinese Livistonas of the Ateneu Garden. I have learned to read, to smoke and to love next to these extraordinary trees from Japan and, if any instance (no matter how high) dared to decapitate them, I would defend them to the last atom of life. The foreman of the municipal grove, Joan Guitart, already recognized recently that –as a result of the accident ravalero– trees that posed no danger to citizens had been cut down. Who knows if, unhinged by the palm tree hunt, our politicians will end up dispossessing me of life companions that I dream of as eternal. We will have to embrace them tooth and nail, while we will pray that no other species (animal or plant) becomes the new scapegoat for group paranoia.