At home, we have always shied away from crowds and general hustle and bustle, which ---apart from turning us into neatly boring individuals--- has caused us a certain allergy to the universe of xerinola and major festivals. But we also live in a proudly Mediterranean home, so we don't make a fuss when civility and order break down (momentarily, of course) to indulge in a conjugal slip with chaos. In this sense, we are pleased that any major festival ---far from resembling the Forum of Cultures or a cocktail of CCCB intellectuals--- is a fiery space where one can indulge in a pixadeta fora de test or an affectionate carnal encounter in a corner. All this dime-store metaphysics comes to mind because our City Council has prohibited bars in Gràcia from installing bars and beer taps outside their establishments, in order to better control the foreseeable tons of vomit and urine on the street.
Drawing on the legalistic and progressive dictionary, the administration argues that the regulations (apparently, already in force years ago before the controversy) will lead to more inclusive, sustainable, and less crowded festivals. The thing has a certain irony, because neighborhood associations will be allowed to have bars to sell all kinds of drinks on their streets, under the excuse that the prive is one of the main economic supports when it comes to decorating the streets of the neighborhood. This exception to what the posh call "convivial norms" is not the only one, as any festival-goer can see how, for many years, in Gràcia, quite questionable music concerts are organized at hours when we should all be sleeping. For all these reasons, I understand very well the anger of our beloved baristas; not only because of the discrimination I mentioned, but because they are singled out as the primary cause of any debauchery.
In fact, the ability of establishments to better distribute alcoholic service areas with outdoor taps is something that ---far from promoting chaos--- usually facilitates the ordering and distribution of crowds. In turn, and an old expert in drunkenness issues is speaking to you, I let you know that if a person has the noble intention of traveling to Gràcia to get drunk and end up staining the public road with their urine or excrement, they will do so anyway, even if they have to bring the beer barrels from home. If the administration is concerned about the excessive sale of alcohol and the hypothetical lack of civility that beer orgies can entail, it has a much easier option than limiting the work of hospitality professionals; namely, to try to make the police do their job and fine people who litter the street. But promoting a natural hubbub like festivals and playing the saint by pretending to regulate it, you see, turns out to be a hardly swallowable double-standard alehop.
If the reader is a lifelong Gràcia native, they will be tempted to respond that my opinion is a product of foreignness and that, if I want more beer for others, I should come and clean up its consequences myself. Don't get nervous, since I live in Ciutat Vella and am more than used to constantly encountering tributes to Jackson Pollock in the form of vomit and surfing down the Baixada de Santa Eulàlia with all the joy in the world among an immense catalog of excrement. I understand that the administration wants to facilitate festivals that are as compatible as possible with understanding and coexistence; the only thing I dare to dispute is that all of this has anything to do with the fact that 120 establishments in Gràcia can install their beer taps for only fifteen days. Here it is necessary to amend human conduct, if that is the case, not the work of professionals who take advantage of it to earn a decent living.
For centuries, like most residents of Gràcia, I have avoided the festivities to avoid ending up with destroyed eardrums and an extra dose of alprazolam. But this year I will happily rush to the place and take advantage of the presence of our beloved baristas—an essential part of Barcelona's culture—to afluixar la mosca and drink a couple of non-alcoholic beers in one of those dreadful squares in the neighborhood. If I suddenly feel like peeing, precisely thanks to the baristas, I will be able to go to their restrooms to expel the remnants of said horrifying liquid. After consuming, I will return home half-nostalgic, with a little envy of my fellow citizens who can still taste oats as God intended, with their natural quota of alcohol. And if there is an infinitesimal part of my taxes that are necessary to clean up the remains of the battle, well, as things are going, I will continue to pay it with great pleasure.