You are already a Barcelona native, Robert!

This week, sports news has been tinged with events and fear when we heard that Robert Lewandowski's watch had been stolen. Indeed, last Thursday, Barça's new star was signing autographs at the Ciutat Esportiva de Sant Joan Despí before a training session when a thief took advantage of the presence of fans to steal a 70,000 euro watch from him. Our muggers are of extraordinary athletic competence; this is the only way to explain how the pickpocket in question could usurp the luxury tick-tock and sprint faster than our beautiful striker (a 34-year-old man who, medical reports certify, has a 28-year-old body and gazelle-like speed for which Barça's zozis would activate any lever) until disappearing among alleyways. Let no one be alarmed: the story has a happy ending, the Mossos detected the scoundrel and the jewel, and Lewandowski will now be able to arrive on time everywhere. Unlike the common folk, Barça players always have uniformed people around them.

The news is categorical. Beyond a simple theft, Lewandowski has experienced an initiatory rite of welcome to the city, a symbolic baptism of Barcelonism. Any individual who carries a Patek Philippe of such value, as we know, has a high chance of ending up starring in an involuntary restitution race (this August they say that Passeig de Gràcia looked like a real athletics track). In fact, dear Robert, now you are a true Barcelonian! You just need to kick a rat in Plaza Catalunya, have a group of cockroaches sneak in through your window, and have them pee on your doorstep... and you can consider yourself fully integrated into our city and more Barcelonian than the Collserola tower itself. Statistics show us this; thefts increased by 51.2% compared to the first six months of the year, and robberies with force by 37.2%. That Barça's stars and new signings suffer the problems of our visitors (and of the citizenry in general) is a democratizing sign of the first magnitude that we must celebrate.

I know it from experience. Yesterday, and as always, the daily purse snatching we experience on our street occurred almost at midnight. I must admit that the long-fingered thieves from the El Call neighborhood are scrupulously punctual and sprint down Baixada de Santa Eulàlia with feline speed (they never fail us, they have a Swiss work ethic and go hunting for wallets just as we take off our clothes to go to bed). But unlike Barça players, in Ciutat Vella we suffer from a precarious police presence. Since I’ve lived near Plaza Sant Jaume, it has always surprised me that in front of the Generalitat and the City Council, several Mossos armored vehicles gather, along with a string of agents with machine guns who would seem adequate to protect Joe Biden's bedroom... while in the adjoining streets I have not yet detected the presence of the Guardia Urbana even a single day. I am not in favor of living in a police state, but between the guerrillas protecting the Molt Honorable and the mayor, and the absolute desert, perhaps a middle ground could be found.

In any case, dear Robert, now we can say that you are fully integrated into Barcelona. This initiation rite, I insist, is like a kind of baptism much more important than your first official goal in the culé jersey. As a member of the club, however, I ask that you continue to stop and sign autographs for our fans. As a preventive measure, leave your watch in the glove compartment and, just in case, don't carry a very expensive pen... because here everything can fly. Welcome, now truly, to Barcelona.