The mayor of Barcelona, Jaume Collboni, has resurrected the idea of the city having a mayor at night - not to be confused with the whistle of the Sereno - and he is ready to cede the bicoca to whoever agrees with him.
And I say bicoca because in a Barcelona with almost no night, on Fridays and Saturdays, its mayor will be able to drink a few gin and tonics during service hours, lecture the teenagers – “I was also young like you and look” – and still impose some theme caspós als dijeis (wet dream of everything Spanish with two drinks).
Barcelona's dying night only lacks a "competent authority" appointed by the same City Council that combs, inspects and whores all Barcelona's nightclubs with a zeal worthy of Chicago in the 1920s.
So that more than the mayor at night, the good man or the good woman will have to issue a death certificate or deliver the coup d'état even if, in appearance, someone - someone who does not know the bureaucracy or ignores the electoral weight of the third age and this so ridiculous that the noise is torture – I can see a light of hope. No city that aspires to be the capital of something does not close from eleven at night to six in the morning...
Jaume Collboni must be thanked for his Barcelona-like way of carrying out the position, without many scandals or redemptive experiments, but it is also not a matter of playing tricks on the solitaire, as when the City Council acquired El Molino with the excuse of preserve... rogue Barcelona! But if they actively advocate to turn the head and house into a nocturnal wasteland! I refer to the facts...
How can anyone expect Barcelona to have world-class, elegant and tasteful nightclubs? Invest a fortune, take a risk and the second night the local administration starts to make your life impossible?
If one day the night mayor comes into existence - which I doubt - I can already imagine that his main and painful task will be to listen to, attend to and take care of the Rondinaire neighbor, this Barcelonan who complains about everything, to whom everything bothers him and aspires to the Barcelona of the pandemic, with that silence, the little birds and that existential emptiness.
