Saturday, March 22, 2025. At 5:30 a.m., the blurred night clouds, a spectral whiteness due to the reflection of the urban light, reveal a half-moon that, by contrast, appears yellow. The dense silence of dawn, their moist breath, the sensation of suspension in time. It's cold. I thought I made out the pair of bats patrolling their airspace, the one above my gardens, but I'm not sure. Perhaps they've already finished hibernating, or perhaps I've been mistaken. I don't know. They normally make regular circles, although their flight is clumsy and erratic (nothing like the elegance and aerodynamic precision of swifts). I don't know where they take refuge during the day. They often pass within a meter and a half of the gallery windows, making no sound. It's only natural that these animals have ended up giving rise to so many gruesome stories. I'd like to know if they see me, if I'm part of their landscape, or if they're just watching the insects near the streetlights. Their world is strange, upside down.
With the intention of informing ARA readers about the state of spring, a hotly debated topic, my wife and I began a tough, long hike from Gràcia to Torre Baró along the Alta de Roquetes road. The views are usually impressive, but today there's not much to be seen. The smell of wet soil—timeless, atavistic reminiscences. From the highest point of the summit, you can see the cities of Vallès and Barcelonès, which seem smaller than they actually are. From a distance, the tower that gives the neighborhood its name appears to be an imposing structure. But when you stand in front of it, it's disappointing: a fantasy. kitsch unfinished, a sad architectural misunderstanding. Furthermore, it's not used at all. Since it's been raining nonstop for almost ten days, the grass along the banks is now lush and magnificent; it has grown enormously. We're amazed by the enormous quantity of still-tender fennel, purple irises, and yellow wild rapeseed flowers that have appeared everywhere. The cacti have also revived, although we can see the fibrous skeletons of those who haven't survived the years of drought. There's a feverish, blind, unstoppable environmental determination, the same one to which Stravinsky gave an enigmatic sound The Rite of SpringThe pine processionary caterpillar's pouches, on the other hand, have taken on a brownish color, a muted tone very different from the shiny, cobweb-like appearance they had a few weeks ago (I don't know if it's due to the rains or some other reason). There are also small spring mushrooms that I can't identify. The smell of all this is penetrating, generous. Perhaps because we come from the Segrià, we can't be on the lookout for snails. Nothing: four, a poor count. However, there are plenty of tracks left by wild boar snouts in the muddy ground as they search for worms and roots.
Technically, we're still within the city of Barcelona, but it doesn't seem that way. Since it's been sunny at that time, 10:30, it has since started raining again, the landscape takes on a hazy appearance, blurred by the effect of rainwater slowly evaporating as the temperature rises. This mist obscures the tops of the Sagrada Família towers, which now seem much taller—the illusion of a limit, or rather its apparent absence, is one of the foundations of sleight of hand and, in general, of human fabrication. We return via the northern end of Nou Barris. They are steep, gloomy, uneven streets, improvised fifty or sixty years ago in a haphazard way. They have no charm or any element that could make them remotely attractive. Living here is commendable, and I say this without any irony. The aging population that laboriously and worthily built these homes between the late 1960s and early 1970s has been almost replaced by Pakistanis, North Africans, and Latin Americans. On the way down the Pedregar (what a name!), pleasant and exotic aromas waft through: lunchtime is approaching, at least for those who don't celebrate Ramadan.
The afternoon of this rainy spring has slowly waned, with a very calculated and elegant blue slowness: at 7:30 it was still daylight. In the streets of Gràcia, one could sense the imminence of Saturday night, which among young people always has a vaguely erotic dimension, and among older people a touch of nostalgia. Small human expectations, the primal but infallible cucaña of life...
