Madrid on the couch

What do you like most about Madrid? ”, They asked me as soon as I arrived; the taste of water, I replied. The only thing missing is a bottle of Nordic design and a Fijian-style label to send it as a Christmas gift to the rest of the autonomous regions. Let yourself be left with reeds on terraces surrounded by a scalextric, traffic jams in José Abascal (which so many anxiolytics have tried) and ex that you never cross again because within Madrid there are many madriles, as many as lives. Its water is the best advertisement that can be made for it, the one that comes down from the granite mountains and flows through the channels of the queen. A delicious and democratic water that keeps the throat hydrated. But the water here does not sell, but the lying of Tierno Galván, the liberal smoking of Aguirre or the beers of Díaz Ayuso.

The rise of traditional nationalism is as showy as Fabio McNamara’s language. Ayuso knows it and intends to reissue the move of the eighties, in a neoliberal and manners key, with Nacho Cano officiating as Umbral and Bea Fanjul from Alaska. But, oh the temptation to chronify the cocky Madrid, the one that now walks down the street without a mask with the excuse of the telephone! Moths keep coming out of the cupboards that the Lodens used to keep and now fachalecos army green, and many mouths are full of razor-sharp prose. Yesterday I was walking with a minor in Rodríguez de la Fuente Park, and we ran into a couple of times with a guy without a mask. We warned him that he should wear it, and instead of putting it on, he kneaded his testicles, cursing us. The minor made only one comment: “Can you imagine me being a father?”

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I arrive at the Santa María de Siena school at the same time as a Samur ambulance. In the courtyard a man lies on the ground, motionless. Has vanished after voting. It is a metaphorically democratic scene. In 15 minutes I count fifteen walkers around me. I also see ladies who smoke, with hairspray and a Bimba and Lola handbag, and the PP ballot; to Tadzios with curly hair and flawless white polo shirts with the Vox insignia. And Eduardo Noriega or Ana Belén, so recognizable despite the mask. Spring spreads the feeling of being comfortable in life, Borges already said that rain is that thing that always happens in the past.

As decisive as these elections seem, with all the epic of Spain within Spain, fascism increasingly whitewashed, on the verge of becoming a trend – and a left coalition that wants to turn dullness into sex-appeal– We know that the democratic health of Madrid can only be measured by invoking Freud on the couch.

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