When they built the jetty, the bay became a lagoon. This morning, the clouds form a roof over it. As a child, for me the tip of the pier represented a mysterious boundary that I could see from home. It was adult territory. There is a photograph of a septuagenarian Gaziel sitting on the jetty, with his cane beside him. At the tip of the pier there is a modest lighthouse, like a white match with a green tip. It has large black numbers painted on it which are the geographical coordinates, 41º46.5’ N and 3º1.9’ E.
In this Catalonia for everyone that today is no one's, it is great luck to have some point of reference. When responsibility is abandoned, disorientation becomes the master of all. Being Catalan, I have a conscience and values forged in resistance, like these concrete blocks that absorb the impact of the waves. Forty years of corrosion have been eating away at the responsibility around me, squandering the heritage and instrumentalizing values until they are emptied and perverted. Like the guardian who abandons vigilance, responsibility leaves a void that predators rush to exploit in the name of ideas or money. Nowhere is this better demonstrated than in education, so degraded that they are already proposing to send police there. Education, the backbone of democracy, that is to say of freedom, reconverted into a prison. Nowhere like here is the density of the hypocrisy that covers us revealed.The arm of the pier has a long and rooted length. The port was built to move goods, mainly cork and mineral, but today it is a large nautical club for yachts, boats and sailboats that will infest the coves in August. The little train arrived from Girona, there is still a warehouse that has been converted into a restaurant, with the locomotive inside, among the tables. The small fishermen's guild is at the bottom of the port, in the corner of the cove that the quay has completely covered with parking and the giant block of the Joan I building, which spoils the sea entrance to this city, Sant Feliu, in fact Sant Feliu the African, who according to legend they threw into the sea with a millstone tied to his neck from this cove, which is why it is called, or was called before the port, Calassans or Cala Sants. Everything has been crushed under layers of concrete and asphalt, also disfigured by the breakwater at the end of which, at the tip of the quay, there is this lighthouse with the numbers of the painted geographical coordinates, which at night, when the lighthouse turns on and off, become intermittently visible until day breaks again.
