There's one activity: looking at construction sites, but another, more groundbreaking, is looking at fields, including the farmer. The tourists stop, park wherever our gentleman suggests (the ford of the first house they find, the path, the dumpster area), and start commenting on the situation.
The farmer might be pruning, digging, or doing any other manual, silent activity (if he's clearing brush or using the tractor, for example, they quickly tire). Then, they start commenting, intensely interested, as if the farmer weren't there and couldn't hear them. "What's he planting?" he asks. "God knows," she replies. "Dad, what's he doing?" the boy asks. "He's growing the vegetables we'll eat," the father replies didacticly. "Look how nice he has it, huh?" the woman asks. "And working under the sun, my goodness," says the grandmother. They do it in good faith, without any malice. But, of course, it's as if I were commenting on the beauty of all of you, with you in front of me, as if you were a painting.
After a while, they'll ask to record. The peasant man or woman will say okay (only three people today wanted to record). Then they'll ask if they can step aside (they're not wearing period-inspired enough clothes, perhaps) and if, for the video, they can turn off the radio. The eldest daughter will step on the rapeseed (rapeseed looks very cute in Insta photos) and strike a pose similar to one of the young ladies on Rue d'Avinyó. The father will bend down, step on a favera, politely apologize, and start shooting. "What is owed?" he'll ask when he's finished. The peasant man or woman (who listens to opera, drinks wine, goes to the theater and movies, and reads, like them) will say nothing. And will think that the next day they might wear a beret.
