January is ending
Yes, today is the last day of January. It seems like it only started yesterday. Like every year, I listened to the Vienna Philharmonic concert in that gilded hall, filled with flowers and Japanese tourists. It's a festive concert, waltzes, polkas, the kind of music that's part of the city's history. This year, the conductor was rather young and charming, and he conducted with a happy expression. I don't remember his name, please forgive me. I like to listen to the concert in a dressing gown and slippers with a good cup of hot coffee in my hand. I've been doing it for so many years that it's become a ritual, and I couldn't start the year without it. There are two must-hear pieces: On the beautiful blue Danube, by Johann Strauss Jr., and the Radetzky MarchFrom his father. In fact, the entire audience is waiting to clap along to his rhythm. It seems the lucky ones who attend are only there for that moment… Starting the year like this, by force, has to bring good luck. But a year is so long that many things can happen. While the concert of that orchestra that runs like clockwork—which, coincidentally, is sponsored by Rolex—lasts, I never think about how long the year is or anything that might happen.
But we live in a fragile world, ruled by psychopaths, and we are always on the edge of the abyss.
The Three Kings have passed by, with their somewhat strange gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. I suppose Joseph used the gold to set up the carpentry workshop in Nazareth, but what did they do with the frankincense? What about the myrrh? Does anyone know what myrrh is used for? Well, let's leave it at that. Then the day grows longer, the mimosas bloom, and the twenty-second arrives, Saint Vincent's Day, when the sun touches the torrents, as my grandmother always said. On that day, eighty-four years ago, they say I was born. They say so, and if they say so, it must be true. I don't remember anything. They had no need to invent it. When I was born, Hitler was still winning World War II and amusing himself by bombing London. Dictators, tyrants, always find amusement in killing people, with fire and explosions. Now Putin is doing the same with Ukraine, Netanyahu with Gaza, and Trump hasn't yet, but I think he's dying to do it to Greenland. For now, he's killing immigrants, or anyone who looks like one, in the streets of Minneapolis.
The thing is, with all these things going on, January has been passing by. Time has left its white mark on our abandoned country; trains derail, roads are closed, and we lurch from storm to storm. Reservoirs are overflowing, and the drought that plagued us so recently is now forgotten. What will happen in February? What will happen tomorrow?
Tomorrow begins the shortest month of the year, which means less time for misfortunes.
Our president, the Right Honorable Salvador Illa, seems to have wanted to show solidarity with the country's stagnation by remaining immobile himself for a while. But meanwhile, his advisors and counselors continue their seemingly hidden work of de-Catalanizing the country (excuse me, the territory). And I'm not just referring to the language, but to the general impoverishment. Curricula are being cut back in the most important areas; science subjects are disappearing from the programs. Why? If being a country (excuse me, territory) destined for cooking is enough, then being a waiter is already sufficient. If being a territory destined for tourism is more than enough. And so, well-educated people, trained with our taxes, have to go work in the countries that pay them best. It seems there are tens of thousands of Catalans working abroad.
All the mimosas will bloom, the almond trees will blossom, the earth will continue its course, ever more difficult. And the farmers, who have fed us day after day and shaped our landscape, will find it increasingly difficult. Many will give up. The land will become barren, and we will have to feed ourselves exclusively on exotic grains and fruits and on meat from cattle that will have grazed in distant pastures. It's globalization, they say.
Catalonia will await summer, the waves of tourists who will stretch out on the sand of the remaining beaches; we will offer them creative and fusion dishes, they will be served by handsome young men and women with university degrees, who will speak to them in broken English or in Spanish with the accent of any of the countries that will send us ships loaded with containers full of strange things. We will be a very happy place…