The same doorway, two photographs separated by more than a century and the same square that today is hard to recognize for those who grew up there. The comparison was made on social media by a resident of Biniaraix, following the controversy caused by a private party at the Bar-Bodega which ended up occupying a large part of the square during the village festivities.The old image shows the building at the beginning of the 20th century. As the author of the publication explains, it was sent to him by Joan Marroig Piu and it corresponds to the mother of his great-grandfather from Can Piu, who managed the grocery store that was in that same premises before the Bar-Bodega was installed there. Next to the historical photograph, there are others of the bar and the square in ancient times, and two current images.The assembly has served to bring to the table a feeling that is repeated in many of the comments: that the conflict this summer is not just a matter of a party, but the symptom of a deeper transformation of what had been for decades one of the meeting places of Biniaraix."I was born and raised in Biniaraix. I have stepped into this bar thousands of times, since back when it was run by Madò Antònia and her son, Pedro Antonio," explains another neighbor in a post that has also gone viral. She remembers the ice creams she used to buy there during summer afternoons, the games in the four corners of the square, and the parties. "She feels Biniaraix is like our home," she states. And she adds that what saddens her most is "seeing what is happening," because she believes it is no longer just a question of having a menu in Catalan or not, but of feeling that "the people from here no longer count."

The bus makes a sweeping turn of almost 180 degrees, and, as if showing it to me, offers a panoramic view of a vast open area filled with piles of earth, scrap metal, and machinery. This entire scene unexpectedly bursts into my gaze, lost in thought as I stare out the window. Is this the airport construction?I ask myself, elusive. I wish I hadn't asked myself this question. I don't want to know the answer. A pang of anguish shoots into the pit of my stomach. I try to look away, but the vehicle keeps circling, between merges and roundabouts, and there's no horizon to take refuge in. Everywhere I look, I see only powerlessness, unease, a legacy: a terminal that—if you'll excuse me—never ends; commercial planes, private planes, planes every minute; an army of neatly lined taxis; trolleysNorth Face suitcases, very tall people.

A lemon tree stands guard in the courtyard of Jaume Gelabert's family home. After his parents died, he bought half of it from his brother and renovated it to return to where he was happy, in the Palma neighborhood of Son Espanyolet. Sitting in front of the tree, he recalls how, during his childhood, neighbors would come to pick lemons, the doors were always open, and "everything was shared." Today, something of that neighborhood life survives in a tall staircase that, through the walls, the owners pass around when they need it. "Why buy more if we have one? Why should everyone have everything?" he argues, advocating for a way of life based on human connection. However, the neighborhood's tranquility was shattered when, starting in 2018, Norwegian businessman Erik Oren bought a dozen houses in the area to transform them into tourist rentals with a capacity for more than 150 people. At that point, two models clashed: that of a community that understands housing as a space for living and belonging; and that of tourism-real estate investment, which sees it as an asset to maximize its profits.

Half a century ago, humble people lived on Puig de Sant Pere in Palma. The Baluarte and the Can Sales library, but it has entered—like so many places in the archipelago—into a process of gentrification, that is, the purchase of homes by well-off European citizens.