1. In the more tidy Raval district, near a must-visit bookstore like La Central, I pop into a pastry shop and café to order a decaf iced coffee. I've arrived early for a meeting that's going to be long, and just in case, I also order a small croissant, one of the ones they have in the window. I notice the clerk has difficulty understanding me. Or rather, he doesn't understand me and tries to confuse heads by approximation. I repeat everything to him slowly, with this pedagogy that swings between good faith and stubborn resistance. I confirm that yes, I'm getting a bit of a headache. I trust it's decaf—which is already a bit much to trust—but the ice never arrives. At the same time, he serves me a croissant. One of the thick ones, the normal ones, the kind that make you want to go crazy. I tell him I asked for a small one. He doesn't understand either. I gesture with my fingers, to show him the size. I point out the croissants on the counter, and then he does change them for me, not hiding his anger. Not because of his mistake, but because of my linguistic intransigence. "It was with ice," I say, without losing my patience or my good manners. He shrugs. He has no idea what I'm asking for, and then I point to the ice bucket. When he realizes that ice is ice He tells me he doesn't have any, that they've run out. And I give him the kind of eye roll that has caused me so many problems in my life, and I explain that I absolutely don't want a hot cortado, that I don't feel like it. And, when he's already served it on my tray, he asks me if I want it or not. I say yes, so as not to seem like a completely bad person, pay him the three and a half euros, and sit on a high stool to scald my tongue. I take a sip and leave it. I'm convinced it's all the caffeine in Colombia concentrated in a small glass.
2. Behind me, while I'm devouring the croissant with my heart racing, a French couple comes in and orders a German-looking pastry with an English name. They're served without a problem, they pay, they eat it at the counter, and that day will be a year. I didn't give up, but they didn't understand me, nor did I get what I wanted. The tourists do. And there wasn't even any effort to speak Spanish. This is our daily bread, and often, out of haste or convenience, you send the party to Can Pistraus and end up ordering things in Spanish. Yesterday, Justo Molinero, in an interview with ARA, noted that "Catalans are too polite and have this habit of switching languages immediately." A habit? That's a nice way of putting it. This week, fellow journalist Jordi Robirosa, who often fools them with his big mouth, posted an apocalyptic headline. "In three or four generations, Catalan could be a residual language." And how do we plan to react?
3. The National Pact for Language seems to have passed away before it was born. During the Aragonès administration, Minister Natàlia Garriga had worked hard, discreetly and efficiently, to find a consensus-building text that everyone would feel comfortable with. The text was passed around among the decent political parties for amendments, improvements, or tweaks according to each party's whims. But there was a minimum common denominator for an agreement that now, with Salvador Illa as president, seems to have been shelved. It's of little use to us to create a Ministry of Language Policy if such a basic tool as the National Pact doesn't move forward due to the trickle-down politics of the government and the opposition. If they can't even agree on that, they can go and shove it together. On Sant Jordi's Day, at the time when roses begin to drop in price and publishers are euphoric, there was a demonstration "for the language." The writer Màrius Serra urged us to never play defense, but to attack without hesitation. "Naturally, firmly, and joyfully." "Tough, resourceful, and tireless." Who's up for it?
