Not all is lost

1. A couple has breakfast every day at the same café. They pick up the newspaper on the counter and usually sit at the same table. At our place, they still make a habit of buying newspapers for the clientele. At the bar, they have, quite simply, a variety of titles to suit all ideologies. The couple—white hair, good clothes, expensive cologne—are in their eighties, and I estimate they've been married for more than fifty years. I've been observing for many months, and the ritual, precisely because of its persistence, gives me goosebumps. They sit side by side, elbow to elbow, and right in the middle, they place the newspaper strategically, almost precisely, like the way they set a table at Buckingham Palace. The beauty of it all is that they read the newspaper together and discuss it, news item after news item. Sometimes he stretches the thread, sometimes she wants to delve deeper into a particular fact. At any moment, a headline stimulates a question, and then they delve into the depths of that topic for a while. They're never in a hurry. When one isn't turning the page, they're turning the other, and from time to time, biting into a croissant, each one turns to their own. They don't argue, they don't get indignant, they don't peek out. They speak in a whisper, without disturbing anyone. Nor does anyone else exist on the planet but the two of them, at that moment. The world passes them by, they get information simultaneously, they share the sacred moment of the day, and when they reach the back page, take a last sip of their café con leche, say good morning and until the next day. I like to see how their eyes scan wars, genocides, political misery, hostile takeovers, penalties awarded to Real Madrid, and corruption of all kinds, and assimilate it all with a tranquility of spirit and a shared tenderness that inspires a certain envy. For love, for companionship, and—let's face it—for seeing that journalism still has important hours in a hectic civilization, for the rush, for the nonsense, and for the immediate impact. Seeing them, I think all is not lost. And I'm already looking forward to Tuesday so I can see them again.

2. When I was a child and drove, I had the habit of counting the cemeteries I saw. I had the family somewhat confused with my macabre inventory every time we went abroad. From the moment you're the one behind the wheel, you have to focus on other things. But this habit of counting things, which may have become an undiagnosed OCD, has stuck with me. Now, on the highway, I count the black vans with the smiley logo, which carry small goods from a warehouse to the front door in less than 48 hours. In the community where we live, not a day goes by that I don't have to open the door to a delivery person on their way to the home of someone who isn't there at that moment. The avalanche of packages our neighbors receive, over the course of a year, is practically uncountable. Online shopping is growing exponentially, while downtown stores are closing, due to retirement or despair. In the regional capitals, on streets that had been bustling with life, businesses are being transferred that will never be leased again. And if local businesses struggle and close their doors, the streets are deserted and towns lose their life. Large shopping centers were a mistake for traditional shopkeepers. Online shopping—massive and convenient—is the second blow to the merchants who talk to you and look you in the eye. However, in recent days I've met three families who have decided not to buy anything online and instead dedicate their time to returning to the market, the neighborhood bookstore, and the local shoe store. All is not lost. But we are in the decisive generation to confront or surrender to absolute dehumanization.