There are extraordinary facts that, despite not affecting your life trajectory due to their superficiality, you will never be able to erase from your memory. These are situations that don't happen every day, but that act as a jolt to all the ordinary things that mark our routine.
Thirty-five years ago in the city of Barcelona, on a Sunday when I was returning to my student apartment ---or rather, my student hovel---, on Passeig de Sant Joan corner Alí Bei, a young man, but older than me, came to meet me when I was calmly already reaching the staircase of my house. He looked desperate. The situation was more or less this:
--- Excuse me, do you speak Catalan, do you speak Catalan? ---I remember he asked twice.
--- Yes, of course. ---I replied confidently.
--- Are you from Barcelona? ---he asked.
--- No, I'm from Ripoll. ---I replied with the innocence of someone from the regions who had recently moved to the capital.
His interpellation using my language and my origin made me lower my guard. His attire and his delicate and polite way of speaking also helped. He was wearing a dark navy blue sailor's coat, double-breasted. Dark trousers and lace-up shoes; gent d'ordre, I thought. I've always noticed people's shoes, quirks one has. Neatly combed. Despite the feeling of unease, he spoke with composure and confidence. And the man blurted out:
--- I'm from Sant Feliu de Guíxols and my wallet was stolen this morning, I spent four hours at the police station to file the report, but I don't have money to take the train and go home and it's getting late. And with a polite appearance and a counterpoint of desperation he added: I can't be stranded in Barcelona, I work tomorrow and I don't know anyone here.
He convinced me. I made him accompany me to an ATM of the defunct Caixa Catalunya and I gave him 500 pesetas. He shook my hand and thanked me. And he asked for my phone number to contact me to return the money.
There my naivety began to waver, he could have given me his phone number too, I thought. The man turned around and began to walk towards the city center. I stood still, watching his steps moving at a slow pace. And I wondered if the train reached Sant Feliu de Guíxols.
At that precise moment he turned, briefly acknowledged me, and I lost sight of him when he turned the corner of Ausiàs March Street. I didn't hesitate anymore. I had just been swindled. What we used to call scamming. But in Catalan! I chose to follow him. At Girona Street, he stopped, and I caught him selling the same story to some elderly women.
I lunged at him and with a dry blow pushed him against a metal door. The noise caused by the impact alarmed those two ladies who, until a moment ago, were attentively listening to that very polite young man. The delinquent in the eyes of the two ladies was me.
In the end, he returned my money, and I was able to explain to those terrified grandmothers, while he walked with a firm step and without turning towards Urquinaona Square. It was difficult; the swindler's attire played in his favor.
His appearance, the use of Catalan, the complicity that came with being from the regions, and the fact that I was in "hostile territory" made me lower my guard. Those of us from the regions, when we land in the capital to live here, need to learn. 'Los de comarcas' is an expression to define all those people from outside the capital who disembark in Barcelona to study, work, or live, or even for an occasional visit. Today, many people still use this expression. Under this heading, not everyone is included; those from the metropolitan region are excluded. The insecurity of someone new to the capital is compensated by the complicity of finding another Catalan from the regions like you and with a big problem; he, like me, had no family or acquaintances in Barcelona.
The use of Catalan also helps, although at that time the situation was not as critical as it is now. But one must be very clear about things to always speak in Catalan in Barcelona. Spanish is often, but not always, the language to start a conversation with a stranger. That was never my case. Before going to university, I had already assimilated the militant habit of always speaking in Catalan.
That experience was useful to me for facing possible robberies or scams. I learned to trust my intuitions and, above all, to cross the street when I suspected problems would arise.
Thirty-five years later, two weeks ago, walking up the central promenade of Rambla Catalunya on a Tuesday morning, between Valencia and Mallorca streets, a young man, not very tall and quite thin, approached and addressed me with a phrase that sounded familiar:
--- Excuse me, do you speak Catalan?
--- Yes. ---I replied.
--- It's just that I'm from Sant Feliu de Guíxols and this morning my wallet and phone were stolen, I don't have money to go home.
I made a great effort to hold back my laughter in front of him. No, it couldn't be. The same modus operandi thirty-five years later! The only difference was the clothing and the time. He was wearing a polo shirt, shorts, and sneakers. It was a weekday at 11 in the morning.
--- I don't have cash, excuse me. I'm sorry. Goodbye.
And without further ado, I left him behind, continuing my way up the Rambla, towards Diagonal. I didn't turn around. If he had seen my face, he would have noticed a smile from ear to ear. I wondered if it could be a bet between father, the one from thirty-five years ago on Passeig de Sant Joan, and son. Or a transmission of knowledge about the trade between father and son. The smile faded from my face thinking that in this wonderful city that is Barcelona, the technique used in this scam is the invocation of solidarity from the Catalan-speaking minority. And given how things are going, it can be very successful. That is, if it finds Catalan speakers.