The people are me

A year ago, right now, we were confined. The burst of spring caught us behind the window panes, longing for the smell and color of plants. The honeysuckle, the pollen on the ground, the small peaches on the fruit trees, the dimorphothecas in all the pots, or that plant ---how I like it--- that you see in so many gardens, that looks like a red toilet brush and is called, of course, bottle brush. Not now, now we can go out. Now the city is again full of people who buy, smell, and go out to dinner. And we have lost the habit, which is a habit we had, I suppose, of dodging each other, of walking like busy ants, each on their own route, without bothering each other. Stupefied, we are surprised by how many people there are on the street, without thinking that, always, we are also the people.

I walk fast, they have always told me, it's hard for me to walk slowly. I know this is a reproach that some monologists and some environmentalists make to city dwellers. "People are in such a hurry in Barcelona! Are they missing the train? Why do they walk so fast?". Well, sometimes yes, they do miss the train, but why do they never complain about someone walking slowly? Or walking slowly in company, occupying the entire sidewalk. Or walking slowly, in company, occupying the entire sidewalk, holding hands.

I have already lost patience for dodging. The crowd is already difficult for me. Was it difficult before? I would say no. Plaza de Catalunya and Portal del Ángel, Petritxol street, the "camel" galleries, La Rambla... All these places were always full of people, people looking, dancing, dodging the Urban Guard, entering and leaving the shops...

"There are too many people," I say, after the walk with my daughter, looking for a swimsuit for the summer camps that, this year yes, they will be able to do. And I don't realize that I am also the people, that I also bother, that I wish there was no one and that I was the only one who had the idea of going to buy the swimsuit. The fact that I haven't been the only one is demonstrated by the fact that in Oysho, the underwear store, they have put stools, like a bar counter, for those who wait, patiently, outside the changing room.