This morning, as I was taking my clothes off the clothesline, a cap fell out on the patio. It was the first of the many times that pass when one arrives at a new house and to a neighborhood that still doesn’t know where they put the best appetizers. I hurried downstairs, perfumed as for important appointments, to speak to the doorman.
- Hi, I’m the new neighbor. A cap fell off the clothesline in the yard. How can I get it?
- What yard, the one with the garbage containers?
- No, the other one. I just don’t know how to go.
- That’s from the bar. Go and ask without problem.
Israel Merino Photography: Pablo Palomino
I went in, also for the first time, like someone asking for forgiveness for life. I straightened my hair and asked one of the waiters to help me. “It’s that it’s the child’s cap,” I said, as if that detail would make it easier, or make me feel more sorry. “Sure, ma’am, I’ll bring it to you right now,” he replied, and left me at the bar, one of those places where I know nothing bad will ever happen to me. A sparkling clean bar, full of happy things. The churros, the porras, more than a dozen bowls filled with tomato for toast with oil.
The waiter behind her was talking to a customer, and the chat was interrupted after I came in. But, once my intentions were clear (I want my hat, not a breakfast), they went about their business. “Do you know what fraud is?” He said cocky, but with the tone of those who already knew each other before. “Well, I told you,” he continued, “it is lie with intention. But look it up in the dictionary. ”
Juan Soto Ivars
The customer went out the door to get on with his day, but the one who paid attention to the waiter was me. ‘Dolo’, says the ‘Dictionary of the Royal Spanish Academy’, is “deception, fraud, simulation”, and also “malicious will to deceive someone, to cause harm or to breach an obligation contracted”.
“Yesterday afternoon, when I finished skating, that’s when I found out,” he said. I, with my cap in one hand and the keys in the other, devoid of money and excuses, I left giving thanks and good morning. But I already knew what they were talking about of homophobic aggression that seems to have not been, because everything in this life is now presumedOf course, it is something that I always linked to the programs of the heart, to avoid lawsuits and criminal complaints from the aforementioned.
I then imagined a conversation in which I would have been very happy putting my ear, which is one of my few virtues. I said to myself the usual: “If history has come this far, is what you have to talk about”. Going through life stealing ideas from others is also good for me.
Madrid is not a homophobic cityNeither does Spain, I think now. Just like I thought almost 48 hours ago, after listening to Jorge Javier Vázquez that living in fear of showing your affection in public is unbearable. Or as I think, every time a woman is murdered, how much I wish that my children and the children of others never have a toxic relationship that takes away their self-esteem and the sparkle in their eyes.
A part of Madrid, a part also of the rest of Spain, lives at a speed infinitely higher than mine. It is a large group of people who condemn and celebrate rampant. Demand, blame, scream and cry in the corners as Lola sang. They are people who do not wait, who do not digest, who do not rest. They are people who go through life giving their opinion and asking the rest to speak in this regard with an admirable and fearsome roundness at the same time. “There are intolerable silences,” a friend of mine said on Twitter after the news. Suddenly I felt singled out and did something about it. A retweet or something. Because how to keep quiet about it after such a scoundrel? Then I prepared interview questions, took the pots out of the dishwasher, made dinner, and watched an episode of ‘Only Murders in the Building’ with my family. I slept soundly despite the injustices of this cruel and ruthless world.
Madrid and Barcelona demonstrate against homophobic violence.
Madrid is a city where many things happen and much more interesting than what happens at home. Now everything is laughter and band-aids for replenish wounds and overcome embarrassment after what happened. Because, of course, at what moment we could believe that a group of eight hooded men would do that in a neighborhood like Malasaña? And how could we take seriously that a razor in an envelope was it a real threat to our coexistence and to democracy as a whole?
They seem to me perfectly plausible things. Maybe because I’m pretty naive, when not silly. Also because many years ago, when my uncle Juan got a parking space for the disabled on the street so that he could take my cousin in a wheelchair home, there were neighbors who protested against such a privilege. And not content with hissing, one of them sprayed acid on the hood of the car the first night, much to my uncle’s delight when he left for work the next morning.
Journalists are nothing, except spokesmen for ourselves. Nothing happens to wait, nothing happens to ask for forgiveness
Several thoughts occur to me on this matter. About Malasaña, not about my uncle, which did happen because I saw it with my own eyes, although then there were no social networks or insults in the comments of the articles. Don’t wait for the fuss and fuss to change now they ridicule those who did the same, in another very fast exercise of change of third, of supersonic mockery.
I, for my part, consider slowing down, wait before speaking, or do it alone between four walls, between four friends. Do not rush, invoke the skepticism of St. Thomas whenever you can. Not feeling singled out, say no when they ask me for explanations. Journalists are nothing, except spokesmen for ourselves. Nothing happens to wait, nothing happens to ask for forgiveness. Almost nothing is that important and Spain is still a country full of flaws, but it could be worse. It has been a long time, by the way, that we don’t talk about kabul. Come? Everything is going very fast.