The story I am going to tell you takes place in the city of Barcelona and is as small as it is immense and as amusing as it is astonishing.
Early in the morning, I take the Ferrocarriles and get off at Peu del Funicular. If I come across as an influencer and you want to do the same, keep in mind that you cannot get on the first car, which does not open its doors because the station is very narrow (every day, desolate cyclists in the first car curse their luck). From there, I take the funicular and get off at Carretera de les Aigües to perform the ritual: run a bit along that 7-kilometer and 850-meter viewpoint and go down one of the paths to the city to have some bravas at Bar Tomás, as a reward. The road is full of cyclists, runners, dog trainers, and hikers. Many runners complain—using an expression that only a local would understand—that the promenade is so crowded that "it looks like La Rambla." I love running among strangers, but now, it's true, you have to try to dodge them because of the pandemic. The road, unpaved and full of fountains, shows you the whole city, whenever pollution allows: the port, with its containers and cranes, the Sagrada Familia, the blue cucumber that is the Agbar tower, and some houses with rooftop pools, which I always imagine belong to footballers.
[subscribe_newsletter_esp]Once the relevant kilometers are done, I take a downhill path, and jumping, with the elegance of a goat with Steandhal syndrome, I reach the bottom. And then I think that maybe I won't have time to have the bravas if I don't take a bus. And so, I head to the nearest stop (those of us who don't have a driver's license are a Blanche Dubois of translation: we always depend on the kindness of strangers or public transport). I sit down and do what one does: read mobile messages, smiling with a goofy face. With perfect punctuality, the bus arrives, practically empty. For ethical reasons, we will preserve its number and letter. Let's make a new paragraph. We are about to reach the climax.
The doors open, you hear that sound, like a horse's sneeze, that buses make. I go up the stairs. But the driver stops me with a shriek that leaves me dry: "Hey, hey, hey! You can't get on without a mask! I'm not going to let you on!"
The mask! You're right. I carry it in my fanny pack, with my phone, my T-10, and twenty euros. For running, it's not mandatory (as I write these lines) and, when I sat down at the bus stop, I forgot to put it on. I put it on and apologize: "Oh, yes, excuse me! Where is my head? My goodness." Then the driver looks at me with sad eyes. And exclaims, disappointed: "What a shame...I felt like arguing...".
I burst out laughing, and he, with me. He felt like fighting, and even more so if it was, as in this case, for a noble cause. He would have felt so relieved... The funny thing is that he, unlike that man at the crosswalk who preemptively scolds a car driver just in case she doesn't stop, has confessed it. In fact, a while ago, running along the Carretera de les Aigües, I had a couple's argument with myself (obviously, I won it) that left me feeling new.