1993 - 2009

Never again will you wait until everybody has sit down to eat to ask going out.

Never again will you fall asleep in an impossible position.

Never again will you follow the one who's sweeping the floor in order to check if it is done properly.

Never again will you raise your head and close your eyes when I scratch you under your chin.

Never again will you chase my feet when I'm wearing slippers.

Never again will you run in circles around the flat in your daily five minutes of madness, from the living room to the balcony, to the bedroom, to the corridor, to the living room, ...

Never again will you call from the door for the one who's just gone out to take out the rubbish.

Never again will you have that ironic look in your golden eyes, as if you already knew everything.



Never again will you ask someone to turn the tap on for you to drink water.

Never again will you gently lick our finger tips with your scratchy tongue.

Never again will you miaow us to complain when we come back home after having left you alone for one or two days.

Never again will you rub your head on my knees as I duck to say hello, recognising me every time I come back home and marking me as your property once again.

Never again will you threateningly hiss guests who try to stroke you on your back.

Never again will you hide your paws under your body if it's cold.

Never again will you foretell my mother's intention nor will you ever run again to hide under the bed before she gets you into the bathtub.

Never again will you get yourself into paper bags nor will you ever again be afraid of plastic ones.



Never again will you quietly ask us for food as we eat, gently touching our arms with your paw.

Never again will you go out to scout the stair landing, the most mysterious part of your indoors world.

Never again will you keep us in suspense as you walk on the railing of the balcony.

Never again will you fall down to the courtyard from a third floor and get only a scratch on your snout.

Never again will you leave the thinnest grey hairs on our clothes.

Never again will you set up a big fight every time we take you to the vet.

Never again will you fall asleep on our coats just minutes before we have to leave.

Never again will you make us worry about your ageing ailments and the bad health of your kidneys.



Never again will I marvel at the softness of your fur as I stroke you nor will you ever again show your acknowledgement by purring.


I know that the next time that I'm home, in Tarragona, my heart will hope to find you behind any door, but I will never see you again.

Now sleep, sleep forever, sweet Grisona. Go back to the soil and keep shining in our memories.

Conservationism

Lately I have found myself thinking and reading about life on our planet, about its first babbles, its current state and its future.

My awareness for conservationism has been shaped by readings and curiosity about the environment since my teenager years. But I think the true roots of this awareness, my realising the role we humans play about Nature, lay way back in the past, in my childhood, with two songs written by Joan Manuel Serrat, a Spanish Catalan singer that is part of the subconscious psyche of almost all members of my generation, thanks to our parents and the miracle of gramophone and compact cassette.

Pare digueu-me què li han fet al riu que ja no canta. Rellisca com un barb mort sota un pam d'escuma blanca. Pare que el riu ja no és el riu. Pare abans que torni l'estiu amagui tot el què és viu. Pare digueu-me què li han fet al bosc que no hi ha arbres. A l'hivern no tindrem foc, ni a l'estiu lloc on aturar-nos. Pare que el bosc ja no és el bosc. Pare abans de que es faci fosc tanquem la vida al rebost. Sense llenya i sense peixos, pare, ens caldrà cremar la barca, llaurar el blat entre les runes, pare, i tancar amb tres panys la casa, Ai, dèieu vostè... Pare si no hi ha pins no es fan pinyons ni cucs ni ocells. Pare si no hi ha flors no es fan abelles, cera ni mel. Pare que el camp ja no és el camp. Pare del cel avui ens plou sang. El vent ho canta plorant. Pare ja són aquí! Monstres de carn amb cucs de ferro. Pare no, no tingueu por, digueu que no, que jo us espero. Pare que estan matant la terra. Pare deixeu de plorar que ens han declarat la guerra.

Father, please tell me what have they done to the river that it doesn't sing anymore? It runs like a barbel dead under a handspan of white lather. Father, the river is not the river anymore. Father, before Summer comes again hide all that's alive. Father, please tell me what have they done to the woods that there are no trees? In winter we won't have fire, and in summer no place for us to rest. Father, the woods are not the woods anymore. Father, before it gets dark let us store life in the larder. Without firewood and without fish, father, we'll have to burn the boat, grow wheat among the rubble, father, and use three locks for the house, Oh, would you have said... Father, if there's no pine trees there'll be no nuts no worms, no birds. Father, if there's no flower there'll be no bees, no wax and no honey. Father, the fields are not the fields anymore. Father, it rains blood from the sky today. The wind sings about it crying. Father, they are here! Flesh monsters with their iron worms. Father, no, don't be afraid, and say no, I'm waiting for you. Father, they're killing the earth. Father, please stop crying because they've declared war on us.

This sond, as I was saying, resides so deeply in my subconscious, so stuck in my soul, that big tears run down my cheeks every time I listen to it. The same happens with the next song, Plany al mar (Lament to the sea).

Bressol de vida, camins de somnis, pont de cultures, ai!, qui ho diria, que ha estat el mar? Mireu-lo fet una claveguera, mireu-lo anar i venir sense parar. Sembla mentida que en el seu ventre es fés la vida. Ai!, qui ho diria sense rubor? Mireu-lo fet una claveguera ferit de mort. De la manera que el desvalissen i l'enverinen, ai!, qui ho diria que ens dóna el pa? Mireu-lo fet una claveguera, mireu-lo anar i venir sense parar. On són els savis i els poderosos que s'anomenen ai!, qui ho diria, conservadors? Mireu-lo fet una claveguera ferit de mort. Quanta abundància, quanta bellesa, quanta energia, ai!, qui ho diria?, feta malbé. Per ignorància, per imprudència, per incosciència i per mala llet. Jo que volia que m'enterressin entre la platja, ai!, qui ho diria?, i el firmament. I serem nosaltres, ai!, qui ho diria? els qui t'enterrem.

Cradle of life, paths of dreams, bridge of cultures. Who would have thought it? That has been the sea. Look at it looking like a sewer. Look at it coming and going without stop. It's hard to believe that in its womb life was created. Who could now say that without a blush? Look at it looking like a sewer, fatally wounded. Looking at the way that it is stripped bare and poisoned, who could believe it gives us our bread? Look at it looking like a sewer. Look at it coming and going without stop. Where are the wise and the mighty ones that they call themselves, who would have thought, conservatives? Look at it looking like a sewer, fatally wounded. So much abundance, so much beauty so much energy, who would have thought?, totally ruined. Out of ignorance, out of imprudence, out of irresponsibility and out of meanness. I wanted to be buried between the beach, who would have though?, and the firmament. And it will be us, who would have thought?, the ones who'll have to bury you.

Underwater

There is a small country in Micronesia that I feel especially bond to. The island nation of Palau consists of 8 major and some 250 minor islands, has less than 20000 inhabitants and its highest point is less than 250 meters.


(picture: lonely planet images)

It is not difficult to imagine how do Palauans (and most of the islanders in the world) feel about ice melting on the Poles and the accelerating sea level rise associated. Many countries, like Palau, are going to see their coastlines dramatically affected. Other nations will simply cease to exist.

That's why Palau and some other small islands are willing to present a resolution calling on the UN Security Council to address climate change as a pressing threat to international peace and security. Avaaz, an international NGO, started raising signatures to help support these small islands. I believe the first step to solve a problem, maybe the most important one, is to realize that we have a problem.


(picture: woody1778a)

Many years ago my father received a post offer to buy a special edition of all stamps of the Republic of Palau, which was being offered to people bearing this name around the world. He did not take the offer at the time, although he lamented not having done so afterwards.

I always thought maybe some day I would receive such an offer, too. I really hope that it is not too late for Palau and for all threatened small islands around the world.

Follow your nose

One of the consequences of the enormous evolutive success of the human species has been the loss of contact with Nature. We live in stone boxes, some meters above the ground, days and days can go on without ever touching any soil with our hands, we drink bottled water and almost everything we eat comes on white trays in plastic wrap.

Some of our forefathers' abilities disappeared (as most surely our toes will do). Others are still there, but I do not believe they would be of any use now, had we have to survive and succeed in the hostile environment the first great apes lived in.

Yesterday I was thinking about that as I discovered, on a bicycle tour along the Danube river banks, some cereal ears. I'm pretty sure they are the same ears with which I played as a kid in school. We ripped them off with our pointing finger and thumb (I still can clearly remind the noise they made) to throw them to the other kids, because they would stick to the clothes, especially to wool pullovers. (*)

I was very aware of how the memory was built in my mind, first seeing the ears at the path sides, then picturing myself ripping them off, then touching them, then remembering the noise, and then the warmth of the memory...



On the other hand, when it is a smell that reminds me of something, it comes to me almost immediately, as if the nose had direct line with the memory. Although they seem to be lost memories, they just need the right smell to be made appear sharply, with every little detail, as if I was living that again.

I always thought I have a good sense of smell. I suppose it is to made up for my short-sightedness and a certain increasingly hearing loss. I think smell is one of the most directly connected senses to our brain. Not to the most "conscious" part of it, but to that almost "reptilian" brain that controls our instincts. Because smell was already there before consciousness appeared, and memory was probably there, too.

I like bicycling to the office because, on this time of year, I am able to smell wild garlic even not being able to see it (did I mention my short-sightedness?). I like the different smells that fill up Salzburg's passages depending on the day of the week, depending on the time, depending on the passage. The passage going from Mozart's birthplace and Universitätsplatz smells of coal and sausages every Saturday noon. Close to Konditorei Schatz it always smells of cakes. Balkan Grill's passage always salutes our noses with the smell of a misterious spice blend and Nagano Restaurant's passage smells of soya sauce and seaweed.

I like the sense of smell, because it is proof of our past in the wilderness, as being able to distinguish a threatening smell from the smell of food could mean survival or death. Because it reminds us that we are nothing but little animals, somehow evolved, but still animals. I like it because my heart misses a beat when I smell the loved one behind me. I like it even though sometimes, when people use too much perfume, I almost can't breathe in the lift. I like the sense of smell because, sometimes, it brings about memories of my childhood, as we threw those cereal ears to each other, as we had not started chasing girls yet...



(*) Mar says they called them the boyfriend plants, because the number of ears sticking to you was the number of boyfriends you had...

Books on the tramp

If there is a day when I miss being in Catalonia it is April the 23rd, Diada de Sant Jordi and World Book Day. It is an old Catalan tradition to give a rose and a book to the loved one. Last Wednesday I longed all day for the smell of the roses and the never ending bookseller stands all over La Rambla.

It is World Book Day because Miguel de Cervantes died on April 23rd 1616, and so did William Shakespeare (funnily enough, though, and thanks to the late British adoption of the Gregorian calendar, they died ten days apart!). Garcilaso de la Vega died on an April 23rd, and Shakespeare himself was born on a 23rd April, too, so everything pointed to this day.

And thinking of books, I remembered I wanted to tell you about BookCrossing. Are you ready to enter the biggest library in the world? Do you enjoy reading? Would you like to do it for free? Are you up to have some fun without leaving your city? Take a look at their website!

I love such crazy ideas, those initiatives that are based exclusively in people's good will and brotherhood. And though they work. And they make me regain faith in the future of mankind every day. Last week we catched two new books. Someone released them just on our supermarket's windowsill. That easy.



Plus, Mar gave me a rose and a new book for the Diada, and I gave a rose and a book to her. We've been doing so every year since we are here. My parents told me that they have another book for me, too.

So, I guess I have some homework to do now.

Brot + Spiele

During last summer's Salzburg Festival, a number of stickers were found around the city, on traffic signs, bus stops and doors. They mocked the official logo of the Festival with the words Salzburger Brot+Spiele (bread and circuses) instead of the original Salzburger Festspiele. At first I did not understand what it was about, but Mar explained to me that "bread and circuses" was used in the Late Roman Empire, referring to the fact that, providing your people with enough food and distractions is a very successful way to avoid them from questioning the fairness of their governors. The stickers claimed that politics in Salzburg seem to be all about one single event (the Festival), from which the population does not really take a significant benefit, which diverts a lot of resources from other more important topics, like housing, or social issues.



When I hear people saying that Humanities are not useful, that they are of no practical use for our daily life, it always makes me very sad. Because I think that Culture, having some knowledge about our world, about our History, allows us having a little more idea about who we are, why we are here, where we are going to. We live in a world that appraises technical knowledge above all, as if it were the only valid knowledge. Technical knowledge is good, everyone should know about s = 2πr and F = ma, but everyone should know as well who Plato, Cervantes, Leonardo, Descartes were, and why are they important. Because that kind of knowledge makes us more robust against smoke merchants, against unfairness, against random will. Because Culture is like a torch, that brings light into the never ending darkness, that lets us make a fire to keep us warm while it is so cold out there...



And I think one must be curious about things, and one has to keep oneself always eager to learn. It's something like not loosing the natural curiosity of children, always wanting to learn a little more, always wanting to know why. Sometimes my Austrian friends are surprised because I know facts about Austria, about Salzburg, that they didn't know. I do not think that there is something so special, it's just that I am still curious about the world around me.



I have to thank my parents for the seed to this curiosity, although they might not be fully aware of it. I always loved reading, and I use to read in bed before I sleep (almost always I fall asleep on top of the book! :)). When I was 12 we used to live in a quite small flat, and there wasn't really much place to keep stuff. My parents bought an encyclopedia, and the only free spot by then was in my room, directly above the head of my bed. When I went to sleep and I had no book to read (which happened quite often) I would just randomly pick a volume from the encyclopedia, open it and read whatever catched my eye first. Some topics were boring, but others were quite interesting, and I leaped back and forth searching for a related topic, and another, and yet another. It was like entering a huge Library before sleeping, learning something new every night. Sometimes my “research” would last for more than an hour and I would be sleepy the day after, but it was definitely worth it. I think with that encyclopedia my parents made me, quite inadvertently, one of the best gifts I've ever had.



I am happy I never lost that curiosity. And now, with the exponential possibilities that the Net puts in our hand, my “research” acquired a new dimension: Google and Wikipedia are two of my best friends. Because you are just one click away from the next discovery, one single click away from you entering a new room of the Library.

A whole new world of knowledge is just one click away from us. Are we going to let this chance go?

PS: Our internet connection is not fixed yet. It seems it got a cold, and you know, they are quite bad this time of year. Not being able to answer random questions that keep coming to my mind is driving me crazy!

Let no one sleep...

Luciano Pavarotti died today.

I will never forget him singing Nessun dorma, from Puccini's Turandot. I don't know how it happens, but I hardly can refrain my tears every time I feel that tremendous energy from all'alba vincerò (at dawn I shall win).

Fahren Sie uns bitte zur Farystrasse: in memoriam

(Pictures from El Periódico de Catalunya online)

El Fary passed away yesterday. He was a famous and beloved Spanish singer, to whom I would like to pay my modest homage by telling a story that always brought a smile to my face.

This is a Spaniard who lives in Ingolstadt, Germany, who is a big El Fary fan.
Every time that he gets a cab to go home after party, he tells the cab driver, with a very serious face: "To El Fary Street, please" ("Fahren Sie uns bitte zur Farystrasse").
The cab driver does not understand.
"Yes, that's right: El Fary Street".
The driver gets a little mad.
The Spaniard says "What? You know who El Fary is, don't you?"
The angry Teuton gets himself an Ingolstadt street guide.
The Spaniard begins to sing "El Toro Guapo" while the cab driver points vehemently to the empty spot between Fanderlstrasse y Fauststrasse on the alphabetical street list.

Maestro, we will never forget you.