The topless eco-vending machine

I would love to tell you that I am one of them, one of those assertive people who say what they think and make their voice heard. I am not. I am one of those who, in the face of a conflict or a slight threat, shrinks. Mind you, a few hours later I win all the dialectical arguments in the shower. You should see me: I am quick, with sharp arguments, and I make my point of view known. I can even afford the luxury of using irony, all while elevating my position over my adversary. In the shower. Alone. Very sad, all of it. Therefore, when I confront someone, you can be sure that it must have been something serious. And that is, precisely, what happened to me this summer.To put you in context, we have spent a few weeks on vacation in the north of Mallorca, near the area where my grandparents were from and where I used to spend my summers as a child. My new routine has consisted of waiting to see the sunrise (an advantage of a child who doesn't sleep), going to the beach at 9:00, and returning at 11:00. And, involuntarily, becoming a sort of 'topless' Captain Planet. They say it: not all heroes wear capes; some don't even wear the top part of their swimsuit. And if there is one thing I cannot understand and that I handle worse every year, it is the issue of public showers at the beach. I can understand showering, rinsing off the seaweed —so much, so very much, that we've had this summer and that has gifted us empty beaches in the middle of August—, but not staying in the shower for more than a minute. If it were up to me, the button should give you an electric shock if you touch it more than once; like a Mediterranean version of The Hunger Games. You came to the beach: whether you like it or not, you will take home some grains of sand between your toes. Spoiler: wetting your flip-flops will only make the situation worse, as now you are a sponge with legs. If my huffs and grumbles haven't bothered you, along with a baby in my arms looking at you just as badly as I am, I don't know what will. My tactic is simple: I wait patiently for a shower turn —two, because I feel generous—, I start shifting my weight from one foot to the other, exhaling louder and louder through my nose. And then I go straight into action and explain in English that we have no water in Mallorca and that we should be finishing up... Most people are surprised; some act as if it has nothing to do with them, and others get confrontational. I would love to think that they are equally bothered by: the grains of sand and the crazy woman who goes topless who speaks to them in three languages so they can choose which one they want to be offended in.

At the town's sandcastle contest, some young people are filling small buckets with water from the shower. I approach them and explain that it's better to take water from the sea, that it's better not to waste clear water. They, and their three heads taller than mine, shrug their shoulders and turn away. Later, the small children come, following the example of the older ones, and I explain it to them again, Club Super3 style. And then comes a mother. A local MOTHER! Like that, in capital letters, so that the gravity of the situation is noted. I tell her to take water from the sea, that if we tell the children not to do it, we should lead by example. “There is seaweed in the sea” is her reply. My urge to kill is increasing and today I don't intend to wait until I reach the shower. “It's a sandcastle contest. It's seaweed, not anthrax,” I reply. I congratulate myself on such a sharp comment and in her response she limits herself to saying that I should go and scold the teenagers. We get into an argument while I tell her that they already know and that I am quite embarrassed to have to scold an adult. The woman starts yelling at me and I, with a child in my arms, tell her that I am perplexed, that doesn't she see what is happening around her?! She insists that it is her right (legitimate, I imagine?) and encourages her children to fill more buckets, until her little one asks her to go take water from the sea. “No, you will do what I tell you, because I am the adult and I said we are taking it from here.” I will only say that I understand Michael Douglas more and more in Falling Down.

My figure as an eco-avenger should not exist. At a time when half the world is burning—moreover, right at our doorstep—, when the mercury climbs to temperatures worthy of Mad Max and with a bleak future, what are you doing with your lives? Resources do not magically come out of a button, no matter how much it has seemed so to us all these years. Water is a scarce commodity and at this point there is no excuse for playing the fool. I read news about hotels that pay ridiculous fines while entire villages fill buckets to face water cuts; of artificial lakes and parties where they swim in the abundance of those who think their wealth will keep them safe and sound, and I believe we still don't understand what this is all about. Yes, we should all get out of our comfort zones and help make each other better. However, our paper straws, reusable cups and waste separation cannot carry the whole weight of the climate fight, nor endure the ravages of eco-anxiety. Because small changes begin with us, yes, but let us not forget the artificial lakes, the wives of footballers who take a jet to go buy chorizo or corporations turning a deaf ear to a world that shows us it can take no more.