This week everything ends
And, meanwhile, the signs of the end of the world are manifesting where no one looks.
Although it goes without saying that the smile of Aena executives is never a good sign, from experience we know that every time someone from the Board of Directors uncorks the cava it's because an islander has died, so the fact that they are all enjoying themselves thinking about the fortune they will make thanks to the new direct route between Palma and the Arab Emirates would confirm our worst nightmares: we locals are condemned to extinction or life in reserves, we'll see. In any case, I don't rule out a future like "Hunger Games" in which Madò Pereta and el Casta have to fight to the death in the devastated plots of Pla de Sant Jordi to decide which of them can continue living on the island and which of them will have to leave it – preferably finished off and cremated. With a bit of luck, they can ask our new masters to scatter their ashes in the desert, the one from which the millions that will begin to be invested in that asset called Mallorca come, and where, unfortunately, but only temporarily, there are some annoying tenants – us, oops! – who will have to find a way to be useful, let's see if they leave us a little corner in the laundry room or the garage to sleep, and while we're at it, we'll do their laundry and watch their cars.
At least Etihad's arrival at Son Sant Joan doesn't have the misleading effect of the opening of the direct PMI-NY line, which we all received as confirmation that the Islands were part of planet Earth, fawning like the nouveau riche we are because we could finally go buy cheap Levi's at Century 21.
The reality is that we natives were just the chaff in a larger operation and we all know how it ended: Mr. Marshall has arrived and started buying, as if we didn't have enough problems already. It hardly ever rains in Mallorca, but when it does, paradoxically, it always rains on a soaked person.
As I said, however, at least this time, except for members of the royal family and some other businessman fond of tax evasion, none of us Mallorcans have anything to do in Abu Dhabi.
We're already hot enough here.
Although, on second thought, and as a total fan of The Best Movie Ever Made, that is Mad Max: Fury Road, I might consider selling what little I have and moving to the desert with all my belongings vacuum-packed in my Ford Orion. It would be the perfect opportunity to impersonate Tom Hardy, whom I have always admired for the countless nuances in his way of growling. If we add a bit more fantasy, Madò Pereta could be our Imperator Furiosa and el Casta, the Mallorcan version of Immortan Joe. Perhaps fighting for a sip of water and our lives in a post-apocalyptic desert isn't so bad after all, is it? Maybe it was always our destiny. That would explain our tendency to applaud and celebrate our executioners.
Or as Tom Hardy would say: Ugh!
