Go down to Palma, phew

PalmaGoing down to Palma has become one of those things one does because there is no other choice. I go to my mother's place, to the house where I was born, and also to work. I don't go there for tourism, but lately I always have the feeling that, to get there, I have to cross a world that has invaded the place where I need to pass. I even have to have a special permit to enter this part of the city. Those who saturate it, however, do not need any authorization to do so.

On the way to Palma, you remember that prophecy made by the poet Miquel Cardell when they inaugurated the Llucmajor-Campos highway: they had built it so that those of us coming from that area would arrive at a traffic jam sooner. He got it right.

You enter the city in front of the Cathedral and the party begins. Between the Marina and Port Authority buildings, where any normal citizen wouldn't be allowed to park even a bicycle for thirty seconds, you find two, three, or four coaches blocking the road, picking up tourists with all the peace in the world. And if there are no coaches, there are the tourists waiting for them. Hundreds, piled up in the shade of the four trees there, like sheep waiting for the heat to pass.

You turn towards the Hort del Rei and the situation improves a lot: now you have taxis there. Taxis waiting for tourists, tourists waiting for taxis, tourists waiting for the tourist bus, tourist bus waiting for tourists and, in between, me, with my special permit, trying to get to my mother's place. It's like a kind of board game: the winner is whoever manages to get home without running anyone over or losing their patience.

Next come the pedestrian crossings. There are two or three in that stretch, but it's as if there were twenty. Because you stop the car, let fifty tourists pass, and when you think it's over, three more come out. And then ten more. And then a couple taking a selfie with their backs to the Cathedral who, suddenly, decided to cross. That's without counting those who throw themselves onto your car at any corner, at any traffic light. Yes, you have the green light; they have the red, but they don't give a damn.

Finally you arrive at your street. And there is nothing left there designed for you, neither shops, nor bars, nor restaurants, nor services. The neighborhood where you lived your life is a showcase for people who will spend two hours there. Around the Born, a matcha tea costs six euros. An ice cream, six and a half. And if you enter a place, they tell you that they also have the menu in Spanish. The only thing missing is for them to ask me for my passport.

Then there are those who do not understand why the unrest is growing. Well, it is because a moment has arrived when your city treats you as if you were the visitor. When you were entering Palma, however, you saw two cruise ships in the port, two floating monsters that carry more passengers than many towns in Mallorca have inhabitants. And you opened a newspaper and saw the Minister of Tourism, representatives of the hotel association, small businesses, and the restaurant industry, all singing the praises of cruise passengers and cruise ships. They say they do not pollute, but I think that everything I have explained until now is pollution.