Goodbye, Canal Saint Martin

Today I bid farewell to Canal Saint Martin, my center of gravity since I moved in early November 2005. Had arrived in Paris exactly on 30 June the same year, a day before joining UNESCO. That was several days before London was proclaimed host for the 2012 Olympic Games, further deepening the melancholy atmosphere of decline of the last times in Jacques Chirac’s presidency. That was also exactly twelve days before turning thirty.

But I did not get to the canal until November. I had to land in the City of Light as it should, with a good history of nomadism in Paris at some point I will have to sit down to write in detail. I spent a month in my point of arrival at Regis’ place in Rueil-Malmaison, a chic suburb west of Paris, beyond La Défense and Nanterre; August and mid September at Leszek’s, in Malakoff, in the South; not even three nights in the Goutte d'Or, in the heart of Africa in Paris; and survived an entire UNESCO general conference sleeping on a sofa when I was given asylum at Ruth’s in rue Amiral Mouchez, in the thirteenth arrondissement, south of Paris, next to the Butte aux Cailles and the Parc Monstouris.

The small study on the Quai de Valmy, with its wonderful windows on the locks of Recollets, became the balcony of the Tiger: my haven, arrival and departure point of my comings and goings, of the so far three times I left Paris for long periods, always to return there sooner or later. In October 2006 I left for three months to work in the poorest region of Senegal, to return in January and find the canal full of tents for the mobilization in support of homeless people. Only a few months after my return, in early August 2007, I changed the Parisian summer to the damply cold winter of River Plate. I returned from Uruguay just when autumn had taken possession of Paris and the plane trees on the canal had undressed for the winter sleep. Not even a year after that I emptied the studio and packed my bags again to leave for my second African adventure: to Namibia and Zimbabwe, in that spring of 2008 that I started in my African paradise, to finish it in winter in a country that was disintegrating in the grip of a former hero turned into an operetta tyrant. To the canal I returned, physically and morally shattered, in July 2008.

I bid farewell to my everyday geography. The quiet drinks at l'Atmosphère at the corner of the rue des Recollets, or at the Jemmapes, on the other side of the Canal; those moments reading in the sun –when there was sun- on a Sunday afternoon lying on the grass at square Villemin with its view on the canal, after a meal started with an appetizer of oysters bought at the market next to Hôpital Saint Louis, just out of my swim at the Parmentier swimming pool. The walks up the Canal to go to the cinema at Bassin de la Villette; my mornings of seeing a whole city waking up and finding her already awake and mad with noisy traffic on the Place de la Republique; the garbage trucks which seemed to be in the room despite the double glass, and the indefectible queues that formed each day past seven in the evening. The cleaning of streets at seven in the morning, and the calm and stillness of the Canal closed to traffic on Sundays. The long afternoons in spring and summer, with the banks of the Canal full of people picnicking. And the branches of plane trees, which seemed part of the decoration of the house and reminded me at every moment which was the season.

And so many other things, of all the times passed in this peculiar corner of Paris, which was a disreputable industrial suburb for a long time, to become relatively recently an increasingly chic area, the territory of the "bobo" (Bourgeois Bohème). I leave this corner of the rive droite where both Montmartre and the Marais were within reasonable walking distance.

And I leave with the certainty that even if I go for a better place, I'll miss this part of Paris that became mine. A much more common, informal and easygoing Paris than the flamboyant west of the city. A part of me remains forever on the Quai de Valmy, between the water and the plane trees on the Canal.

Impressions from Colombia

For the first time in my life I started the New Year in the Southern hemisphere. This time close to the Equator, and hence with warm weather in December. A deeply felt and intense journey in all its aspects. Long awaited, as it was pending since 2007 when I had to postpone it, and as the last part of 2009 was hard to walk through; ideal, as I could take part in the celebration of one of my best friend’s 30^th birthday –a Colombian-; deeply felt, as I was in a moment of change and in the best company.

Here are some impressions, knowing that each of them would merit its own entry:

Soroche: the altitude sickness that hits with sudden and big changes in altitude. The body feels the decrease in the percentage of oxygen, one can feel dizziness and any physical exercise becomes difficult, if not painful. I felt it slightly upon my first landing in Bogotá, and much more strongly yesterday when I went from the sea level to three thousand meters in a bit more than an hour. The stroll in Montserrate –the sanctuary that dominates Bogotá, consecrated to the patron saint of Catalonia-, became complicated.

Medellín: an animal. The most interesting city I have seen for a while. With a lot of effort, intelligence and imagination evolved from being the international symbol of narcotrafficking to become a city open to the world and with legitimate aspirations for innovation and leadership. It is very impressive, it reminded me of Sarajevo for its placement among the mountains, but in a tropical version –it is known as the city of eternal spring-; it encompasses all the contrasts of a country so unequal, diverse and fascinating as Colombia, from the mansions in the exclusive areas to the slums that colonized the mountains out of poverty and internally displaced persons, slums which gradually gained their dignity.

Stars: it had been a long while since I had last seen a sky filled with so many shining stars as I could see during the nights at the national natural park of Tayrona, in the Sierra de Santa Marta, where the Andes meet the Caribbean sea. Uribe’s government wanted to turn the place into a massive tourist resort. For once, the environmentalists won the battle to preserve a real jewel. It cannot be reached but by foot and access is restricted. Here is where Colombia should continue emulating Costa Rica rather than the Dominican Republic; quality over quantity in tourism.

Fruit juices: nowhere else I could enjoy fruit juices so much. The culture of fresh fruit juices in Colombia is as great as the variety of available fruits. A fresh juice is anytime a nutritious, hydrating and refreshing element that helps overcoming the rigor of tropical heat. In our latitudes the culture of fruit juices became reduced to tetra packs and to a certain and somehow exclusive culture of healthy lifestyles. A real pity. This is one of a number of things we could learn from Colombia.

The people: warm, extremely gentle and considerate, with an idea of service that I had never seen anywhere, not even in the USofA, where everything including customer service is determined by profit and nothing else. We do not have want you want? We are sorry but we will help you find it even addressing you to our competitors, as our goal is making your life comfortable. Really impressive.

More impressions to follow, if time allows.

Times of change

Since 6 September I have been working without interruption except for one day, Sunday 13. I was seconded to one of the Commissions of UNESCO’s Executive Board. Amongst the decisions to take there was the nomination of a candidate to the post of Director-General, which is tantamount to the election of a Director-General, unless there would be an unexpected and never seen before battle at the upcoming General Conference.

During these very exciting weeks I could observe from the inside an intergovernmental negotiation at the highest level, to put it in nice words. A great learning moment that, for the time being, will only be commented in private as to all its various dimensions. Nine candidates; five ballots. An opaque process with people negotiating in our name, as they stand to “defend the interest of our [respective] country[ies]”, which has in my view two fundamental problems: on the one hand, everything happens in secret, behind closed doors. This leaves too wide a margin for this high interest of our respective countries (States is a much more appropriate term) to become “so high” that in the end it relates much more to the interest of a small minority than to the general interest. This happens quite often. In the end, if one lives in a more or less democratic state, at least there is some space left for accountability. Otherwise everything remains in the unique and private domain of an elite. An elite that, for most countries, is nothing but one of the main obstacles to human development.

On the other hand, I have fundamental doubts about the interest of humankind being the result of the mere addition of the interests expressed along these division lines that we have given ourselves basically through centuries of fights. To put it differently and using an example, if we look at what is happening in terms of response to Climate Change, we can see everyone concentrating mostly on short-term interest, while it seems that no one really thinks about a longer term, in this very future generations everyone invokes. Yes I know, this is a much longer discussion and my view is rather pessimistic. Anyway, there will be more entries.

In any event, the final result of this game is Egypt 27, Bulgaria 31. While I warmly welcome the fact that for the first time in history there will be a female Director General of UNESCO (Yes, a WOMAN, Mrs. Irina Bokova, this is indeed historic!), I remind and underscore that I was always a great fan of Mr. Hristo Stoichkov, whom I could see live many times, scoring many goals. In addition I express my satisfaction of the fact that, lately, there are no problems in my private life. It must be that I actually do not have one.

More information will follow. For the time being I can say that I am happy. And that I would not be if the Egyptian candidate had been elected, out of both candidate's profile and vision statements. There will be more, in person. By now it is time to carry on working, since as my mother use to tell me, “it is those who are tired who do the work” –free translation from Catalan, as the rest of the article-. Moreover, my salary is paid by the taxpayer. So have a good night.

PS: the pictures are, respectively, from early August and from yesterday. It is “the yard” at UNESCO’s HQ. The corner is Av. Lowendal with Av. Suffren.

Duracell Rabbit runs out of batteries

The president of the French Republic, Mr. Nicolas Sarkozy, left yesterday the Val de Grâce military hospital, were he had spent some hours after a sudden faintness during his daily jogging.

Mr. Sarkozy’s forced visit to hospital gave rise to comments of all kinds. The political class unanimously expressed its encouragement to the President. Meanwhile, pundits from all sides speculated, argued, glossed and pontificated about the virtues and defects of a political animal defined as hyperactive by fans and critics alike. The former denounced again “l’hyperpresidence”, which they see as the president exerting total control and protagonism contrary to the traditional distant leadership of the V Republic, what turns even the government ministers into spectators with no other recourse than running after the presidential initiatives, in a potentially dangerous transformation of the executive power and hence the very balance of powers. Meanwhile, the latter commended again a tireless and selfless man who tries by all means pushing for reform in a rather conservative country which sees itself in decline but yet resists change.

Personal views aside, we are talking about someone famous for being a hard worker, who rarely touches alcohol –which could explain his curious press conference right after a meeting with Mr. Vladimir Putin (see this video), who exercises regularly, some say up to torturing himself, and above all, who has a heavily loaded agenda full of travel within and out of the country. By the way it seems that the first lady has shown her disgust with comments appeared in the British press, which attributed the presidential malaise to her ardent demands. Such comments are coincident with the French vox populi. In any event, what Sarkozy suffered seems no more than an occasional incident which should possibly lead him to lower his pace a bit, but nothing more.

However, this incident raised again the question of information about the President’s health. Sarkozy committed to following the practice established by François Mitterrand of publishing health bulletins every fortnight, with transparency. Mitterrand did establish this practice, yet the bulletins proved to be worth very little. Later we learned that he spent practically five years of his last mandate fighting a prostate cancer which consumed him, leaving him barely capable to do his job. For the time being, Sarkozy’s moves on this were no more than cosmetic, since he did not hesitate in firing one of his spokespersons who was too zealous in providing information about a minor surgery intervention. Secrecy about the President’s health is justified with rather spurious arguments –national security, as he’s the person retaining the nuclear power? Disincentives to power or succession fights?-, and his nothing but another element in the liturgy of power, and on something French people love: secrecy itself.

Ferraaaaaaaaaaaaaan!

It is Monday, late afternoon. It has been, as all Mondays, a long day, especially since the good weather permitted a full enjoyment of the weekend. I managed to get home early enough, so I have some spare time after leaving for dinner at Jaïr’s, to welcome a Scots friend based in Beijing who is visiting.

I lay on my bed, reading. I’m finishing one of the most interesting books I read lately: “The uncertainty of hope”, by the London-based Zimbabwean Valerie Tagwira. The novel describes life in Mbare, a disadvantaged suburb in Harare, in 2005, when the government launched Operation Murambatsvina (“drive out the trash”, in Shona language), which consisted in fighting informal trade and all problems associated with slums through a very straightforward approach: forced expulsion of all inhabitants and demolition of any form of housing that lacked an officially approved building plan. Eliminating the disease by killing the patient, in a context where the economy was nearly collapsing by structural problems of the supply chain which would continue for years and would eventually unchain the spiralling hyperinflation that I could see in person. This operation only reinforced the conditions of poverty that was supposed to alleviate.

It was not easy to enter into the story, but shortly afterwards the novel completely captured my attention and became another of those cases I love: when commuting to work becomes too short of a travel, when I allow myself a minute standing on the platform to finish a chapter, when sometimes sleeping hours are affected, but never too much…
-“Ferran!”
I think I heard a voice shouting my name. So now I hear voices? Am I nuts? I carry on reading.
-“Ferran!”
Yes, it was my name! I realize my windows are open, it is hot outside. It must be someone who knows where I leave and who is looking for me… What a strange thing!

I look through the window and the mystery vanishes with an enormous surprise. My friend Anand! He used to be my neighbour, up until he went back to India by the end of 2006. My landlady put us in touch, and that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, made out of long conversations about music, cinema, life and whatever else was on. I was absent on the occasion of all his recent visits to Paris. Today I am very pleasantly surprised.

We met and we established a good relationship as neighbours, which is something rare in Paris. While these things become increasingly scarce in the “developed” world, I come from a culture where neighbours are always well known, sometimes even an extension of the family. This is uncommon in Paris, a particularly anonymous city where people, be it out of shyness or complete lack of interest, very seldom make contact with neighbours, unless there is a leak or something similar. Actually people are famous in Paris for speeding up to close the door of the lift or of their house to avoid contact with neighbours. By the end of the spring, the municipality organizes every year “la fête des voisins”, so people have a space to meet!

Besides that, Anand did something that brings me back to childhood. He passes by, and in fact he is not even sure that I still live here, yet he sees an open window and just shouts out. Great, and even more unusual, as our culture’s evolution is such than going to see someone out of an impromptu becomes increasingly rare. A French friend completely astonished me with his reply on the phone. I just said “hey, it’s been a while, let’s get together for a drink”, thinking about sometime after work. He fired his reply: “I am free on Saturday afternoon in three weeks time”. Needless to say we did not meet.

My friend will be in Paris at least for a month and a half, as he is editing a documentary. His presence coincides with the nicest time of the year. Great!

U2 in Paris

Friday, five in the afternoon. Just tidying up a couple of things before going home for a long weekend. Tomorrow is my birthday and Tuesday is a holiday. I log on facebook. My friend Fernanda has an unequivocal status message: “I have spare tickets for U2 concerts in Paris, call me at XX.XX.XX.XX.XX”. I call her immediately.

Two hours later I have to tickets for the U2 concert in Paris on Sunday 12. This is an unexpected, pleasant and promising birthday present. I have been a U2 fan since I discovered them many years ago when they released “The Joshua Tree”, the album of their international consecration. I saw them live in two occasions: at Palau Sant Jordi in Barcelona, 1992, during their Zoo Tv Tour, when they trotted the world with a stage full of old Trabants and TV screens; and in Cork, Ireland, 2003, by the end of the Zooropa Tour, when they expanded the stage to fit big stadiums.

Since then I heard them only on their records. Now it is the “360º Tour”, a show with an open stage that can be seen all around. This will not disappoint me, on the contrary it will remind me the extraordinary sensations one can live in such a show.

It was definitely worth it. These guys are criticized for their use of pre-recorded sound, and for hiding their music behind screens and ostentatious technology. What can I say… The best live music I ever saw was by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, that is best quality music and nothing else. But U2 are much more than technology. A career longer than 30 years made them an undisputable reference of contemporary music.

That is what this concert is all about. A visit through my thirtysome. Songs from the new album, “Breathe”, “No line on the horizon”, “Magnificient”, or “I’ll go crazy tonight” where Larry Mullen Junior plays a Djembé!!! Songs from the most recent records such as “Beautiful day” or “Vertigo”, classics that leave me breathless and close to tears like “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for”… And they can still astonish me completely: a version of another new song, “Unknown caller”, where you can follow the words through the screens; halfway through the concert they use their long repertoire and play “The unforgettable fire”, which I had never heard live.

U2 has been on the first line for so long because they manage to adapt to the evolution of times, both to the music and to the technology. Meanwhile they stayed committed to a number of worldwide social causes, in a move that can be subject to criticism –as for instance the social responsibility of big corporations- but is yet remarkable and most welcome in many cases, since it raises the awareness about certain causes to people with little exposure to them. The stage goes green for the revolution in Iran while we hear “Sunday bloody Sunday”. And for once Bono remains silent while Desmond Tutu gives a speech about development in Africa, while I can see the coming of the red colours of my favourite song, “Where the streets have no name”. By the end of the concert Bono revisits the effect of the lighters and candles in a dark stadium, by asking the people to use their phones and cameras while we hear another classic, “With or without you”.

The concert finishes with a new song that in my opinion will be a classic: “Moment of surrender”. Yes, I do surrender. Great concert, great sensations, I could not have had a better birthday present.

Coup in Honduras

Military coups became increasingly unusual owing to the worldwide expansion of democracy during the nineties. The military were progressively separated from politics, out of the relative but yet existent expansion and improvement of democratic institutions, and the possibility for ruling classes to maintain social control without resort to violence. Such process was particularly visible in Latin America. The continent just went through two decades that were convulsed by regime changes from Ecuador to Argentina, yet in general the military did not interfere in political processes, at least publicly and using arms.

However, two days ago Honduras wake us up with a military coup that resonated with the worst moments of the XXth century in the region. We saw again things we though forever gone. The military forcibly deposed the president and embarked him in a plane heading to Costa Rica still in his pyjamas. They retaliated after the president had dismissed the head of the army, who had refused to install ballot boxes for a referendum. Such referendum was an attempt to modify the constitution to enable the President to stand for re-election, although not immediately but after another mandate by someone else. The Parliament opposed this referendum and the Supreme Court declared it illegal. Yet the president insisted in carrying on. The military decided to expedite matters and ignored the constitutional procedure of impeachment to forcibly remove the president from office.

The background: a President coming from the most conservative sectors who made a 180 degree turn to approach Hugo Chavez’s positions, and an elite increasingly worried about its deeply rooted privileges.
The US administration’s reaction was also unusual, but very positive in my opinion: condemn of the violent action, no public interference and ample leeway for the Organization of American States to lead negotiations. The US no longer considers Central America as their backyard? In fact all the Central American elite hold property in Miami, while millions migrate and send their remittances to sustain their families barely out of a line of poverty that is never lowered. My suspicion is that the US does not intervene in the zone the same way it used to do primarily because they do not need it.

In memoriam: Michael Jackson

Thursday evening. I get home, tired after a long working day which I finished with a good swim. One of those when you just enter home and land on the bed. Nonetheless I do not want to sleep without a bit of music. Today I feel for a classic: the last four songs of “Dark Side of the Moon”, by Pink Floyd, a masterpiece of contemporary music. One of those to listen to only from time to time, yet always enjoyable.

I listen lying on my bed, through the iphone headphones. It is the last tunes and the incidental sounds of the very end. A voice says “there is no dark side of the moon, really…” with a heart beating in the background, presumably the same one you can hear at the beginning of the record. Right at this moment, the end of the record, a text message comes in. A good friend says: “Michael Jackson is dead. :(”. Is that so? Oh… Tomorrow will be another day.

Next morning news is all over. Which is logical, given his worldwide popularity. His death came as an unexpected surprise, yet I do not feel particularly sad. I was never his fan, and I always found excessive to devote so much attention to someone who lived in his own amusement park, where he was slowly whitening while facing very serious accusations of child molestation. I found it excessive even if I could understand the reasons behind it.

However, I must acknowledge that Michael Jacksons' decease is the death of a symbol of the last quarter of the XXth century, an artist with a unique impact in the world of music, where he introduced his original fusion of styles, from rock to disco through pop and soul; also for his revolutionary innovations in dance, notably his moon walk. And most of all for being the first Afro-American artist who broke the glass wall and became a world icon for all races alike.

Michael Jackson brings me back to my childhood. I was barely nine years old when the mythical “Thriller” was released. When video clips had just appeared and were slowly making their way in terms of music promotion, Jacko released fifteen minutes of a real movie that kept us all glued to our seats in amazement, in a move that changed the genre forever. This is the Michael Jackson I will remember, the one I feel a part of my cultural background; the member of the Jackson five, the fresh creative man of the first half of the eighties. Before success, popularity and a very complicated history turned him into a pathetic character. Someone who could afford anything he liked but could never be really happy, to the point of turning his life into a circus that will probably continue after his death.

May he rest, finally, in peace.

Why Iran hurts me

Last 13 June there were presidential elections, after a long and mediatised campaign never seen since the Islamic revolution thirty years ago. The supreme leader Ayatollah Khamenei immediately sanctioned the results, by which the outgoing President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad had been re-elected for a margin wider than 60% of the votes. However, there were several powerful reasons to suspect a well-prepared rigging. Among those:
-Khamenei did not wait for the usual three days before announcing the results. These three days are used to discuss and clear any allegations the candidates may have;
-The geographic distribution of Ahmadinejad’s vote was suspiciously uniform. He even won by a landslide in places widely recognized as other candidate’s most favourable territories;
-The opposition candidates denounced their observers had been barred from the polling stations, and that ballots were missing in many places;
-The elections saw an unprecedented turnout. Such moves happen rarely in favour of the maintenance of the status quo. That would be even stranger in a society were the majority of the population had not been born when the Islamic revolution took place.

Khamenei’s reaction gave rise to huge demonstrations that had not been seen since the days of the revolution. The rest is sadly known. On 19 June, at Friday’s prayer, the supreme leader took another step the delegitimation of the institution he represents, by proclaiming that the demonstrations were illegal, not legitimate, and inspired by foreign powers, and that they would be repressed. This was said when, according to official figures, already ten people had been killed. So Khamenei was essentially giving his green light to a bloodbath, while he mortally injured the institution of velayat-el-faqih, by which government and parliament are under the guidance of the religious authority. Khamenei openly associated himself with a clear breach in democracy and with the crackdown on popular revolt.

This move only intensified what the regime had been doing for decades: iron-fist repression inside the country, impeding any demonstration with tear gases, acidic water, batons and live shots, with total freedom of action for the basiji, the youth militia akin for instance to Mugabe’s thugs that terrorized Zimbabwe a year ago –and who continue doing so whenever it is expedient to the regime-; massive arrests. All these combined with intoxication outside the country, accusing everyone of interfering with Iran’s affairs while restricting any access to information, cutting off Internet, expelling journalists or restricting their movements to prevent them from verifying any information they receive, or even attacking the premises of an opposition newspaper and arresting everyone under the accusation of terrorism. Up until now, the only source of information was the people themselves, using the new information technologies.

So far the regime acknowledged some twenty dead people –while some estimates affirm that the real figure could be tenfold-; there have been almost two hundred arrests amongst dissident intellectuals and civil society figures; any attempt to demonstrate continues to be fiercely repressed. The opposition leader did not surrender and denounces his movements have been restricted. At this point the fact that Mr. Moussavi comes from the same regime where he was once the prime Minister became irrelevant. The intestine fight for power has been totally exceeded by the popular movement. Equally irrelevant as the ignominy of the vote recounting, which acknowledged irregularities in 50 districts out of 170; and that there were three million more votes than there were electors. The regime added that, all in all, this last detail does not affect the final result.

What matters is that the regime is tainted with its own people’s blood. There has been an earthquake which will have deep consequences. Iran is seeing its civil rights movement, symbol of the emergence of a new middle class and of the evolution of customs. The regime’s crackdown was for everyone to see. This will not end here.

Some say that solidarity is the tenderness of peoples. Raising my voice for a true democracy in Iran is for me a duty of global citizenship. A citizenship I had the chance to progressively enrich with affective bonds all over the world. These allow me to get first hand information, but also to share impressions, feelings and an outlook. There is also the certainty that anyone who was never deprived of liberty can rarely have a clear conscience of all that it entails. In my case I was lucky enough to grow up in a country that was just liberating itself, but my parents did transmit me the experience of living under a dictatorship. All the aspirations limited by fear; but also the rediscovery of dignity. This goes also to them.

That SIMCA 1200

I am just about to get to the office when I found the jewel in the picture, parked in a corner of Place de Fontenoy, in the heart of Paris’ VII arrondissement. I cannot help taking a picture, as this car is old enough to be very rare. Moreover, this SIMCA immediately evokes a great stream of memories.

For that is my childhood’s car. My parents had one, a SIMCA 1200, which had originally been red and I knew only in blue. Plaque B-8775-Y, it lasted from the early seventies until July 1987, when it was replaced by a Ford Orion. It must have run for more than 150.000 Km. I still remember vaguely that night, on National road II between Malgrat de Mar and Vidreres, in one of the countless allers-retours from Barcelona to Palafrugell, when we excitedly saw the meter going from 99.999 to 00.000.

I always liked that car. It was relatively rare and hence easily recognizable. I used to like its rounded forms that I preferred to other’s cars at the time. I always saw two eyes in those lights, like a smiling face that looked at me. So many hours spent at the back seats with my brother, teasing each other. Seeing a black plaque (a French one, like the one in the picture) would be a pretext to pinch the other. And so many other games that used to irritate our parents. The runs to see who would get to touch the car first after a day on the beach. And the long imaginary travels I used to do when I could sneak in the car and sit at the wheel on my own.

All that melancholy that used to fill me when we would leave Palafrugell for Barcelona and I could see the town through the rear window. The stops in Caldetes to get water at the thermal source. As a small kid I failed to understand how could it be that we could drink it after a while if it was so hot. Those huge traffic jams when going through Mataró, when I used to amuse myself observing the path taken by that coin towards the money box at the neon sign on top of Caixa Laietana. And so many other moments that come to my mind thanks to objects’ enormous evocative power. More than twenty years ago.

Private transport and second residence, symbols of a new middle class emerging from the Francoist “desarrollismo”, the same middle class that finished by forcing the coming of democracy. People who had to build their future by working and remaining passive and silent in a repressed and repressive society, in a regime that was first totalitarian then authoritarian and legitimized itself in this prosperity, yet never abandoned or denounced its violent and criminal essence. This very prosperity was the beginning of the end of that horror. Thanks to the effort of people like my parents I could grow up in a free country.