A (horrible) day in Marivent
Going to Marivent Palace—that building that should belong to the Mallorcans, but is enjoyed only by the Bourbons—is an adventure if the purpose of the visit is work. I've attended many meetings between the president of the Spanish government and the head of state, and the situation is as precarious as ever. The journalists covering this meeting at Marivent—with subsequent statements that aren't exactly notable for their content—seem suspicious of some macabre plot to undermine the monarchy. Upon arrival, we're searched, scanned, and sent out by dogs to sniff everything we're carrying. Thankfully, laptops, pens, and notebooks aren't yet considered dangerous objects, but I suppose it's just a matter of time.
We also have a dress code, which is characterized by gender differences—machismo? Of course it is. Men must wear a blazer, a very useful garment for braving the August chill and very suitable for carrying camera equipment.
Since we have to arrive an hour before the scheduled meeting, we're released onto an open space with a couple of pine trees, and we never know what time we'll be able to work. We take advantage of the time to catch up with colleagues and the house staff, who are the best of all. They give us some water and lemonade with a smile, which is appreciated. There's no bathroom available for emergencies, but the waiters are very kind to let us use theirs. We have to keep in mind that sometimes we've waited more than two hours, and with all that drinking, things can get complicated.
When the president arrives, we all flock to the door where Felipe de Borbón greets him. In the case of Pedro Sánchez, he usually does so very seriously to make it clear that he may not be his best friend. After the photos, we flock back down to the initial open space, where the lectern for the head of the Spanish government is set up. It's time to wait again for an indefinite amount of time, while sweat trickles down your legs and back and you lose the desire to talk to anyone.
There are no tables, no chairs, and no internet connection. We have to sit on the floor to work, and we're surrounded by security personnel who give us dirty looks. In fact, there are more security guards than journalists.
When the president arrives, he muddles through the situation as best he can, resorts to a sweaty and empty argument, and leaves. Then the security guards quickly take care of us. We grab our gear as best we can and leave the palace while we hear the dogs barking. When the door closes, we have to spread out among the bars in the area so we can write a few lines about nothing. At least they can take off their jackets, roll up their sleeves, and breathe a little.
The bar patrons stare at us blankly, while taking a sip of beer. What is this group of hackers doing staring at a laptop screen and typing at top speed?
