El hantavirus sale a hacer turismo

Se viene anunciado desde hace tiempo por parte de las autoridades sanitarias internacionales, que el continuo trasiego de personas por todo el mundo incrementa exponencialmente las probabilidades de que un brote vírico localizado acabe transformándose en una pandemia. El reciente caso del crucero holandés así lo ha puesto de manifiesto. No hay más que ver la diversidad de nacionalidades (¡23!) que ocupaban los camarotes de esta nave, que partía de la Patagonia argentina para realizar miles de kilómetros de travesía visitando santuarios naturales protegidos, haciendo creer a los adinerados viajeros que participaban en una misión científica repleta de aventuras. 

De no poner límites, o cuanto menos, dejar de soplar el fuelle que alimenta el fuego de estos masivos tránsitos turísticos, todo parece indicar que lo que hace siete años constiuyó  una situación excepcional, cuasi inédita en la historia de la humanidad --la pandemia del Covid-19 iniciada en China en diciembre de ese año, y que aterrizó en forma de pandemia mundial dos meses después llevándose a 14 millones de víctimas--, acabe por resultar una situación más o menos cíclica a la que habrá que hacer frente con trágica frecuencia. 

¿Qué hacer, entonces? 

Las soluciones son muy complejas, al estar implicados aquí derechos, libertades, ocios y negocios. Sin duda, las medidas restrictivas aplicadas en ciudades o países ya muy saturados, pueden ayudar. Desde tasas turísticas a normas que restrinjan la llegada de visitantes y la oferta de viviendas turísticas y plazas hoteleras. Pero, una vez más, considero que aquí la educación tiene mucho que hacer. Hacer consciente a quien viaja de las enormes consecuencias medioambientales, sociales, culturales, sanitarias y económicas de su aparentemente inocua decisión de viajar por placer a destinos cada vez más lejanos y cada  vez más amenazados, debe ser una prioridad para las autoridades de todos los países. Educar desde la escuela y los medios de comunicación en la idea de que viajar tiene consecuencias funestas. Que no existen las "Cero Emisiones" --un bulo del greenwashing--, pues el mero hecho de estar vivos ya nos covierte en agentes contaminantes. Que viajar no es un imperativo para ser feliz, que viajar destruye y contamina, que viajar altera los lugares y las costumbres, y que no es la única ni la mejor manera de conocer mundo. Que, tal vez, la mejor forma de asomarse a culturas olvidadas sea leer los ensayos de Margaret Meed o los de Marvin Harris; o que para contemplar la feliz hermosura y la prolija cultura de un grupo de chimpancés, el camino sea abrir los escritos de Jordi Sabater Pi, ilustrados con gracia y precisión; o que las mayores emociones nos aguardan entre las páginas de los clásicos de cualquier cultura. Beatus ille: austeridad, paciencia y compasión conforman el único camino posible hacia una pacífica y humana conformidad gozosa, tan ansiada, tan buscada por los vericuetos de lo que puede ser vendido y comprado, que no conducen sino a estados de ansiedad que van retroalimentándose. 

Sobre todo, si en nuestros viajes seguimos como dóciles rebaños las rutas y destinos marcados por los intereses de las grandes empresas turísticas, que solo actúan por mor de la mayor rentabilidad económica, sin considerar los trascedentales bienes y valores --intangibles y necesarios-- puestos aquí en grave riesgo. 

¡Cuántas cosas se resolverían si fuéramos capaces de ser dichosos sin necesidad de salir de nuestra propia habitación si quiera! Con una buena compañía humana o animal, literaria o musical, o gozando sencillamente del silencio o la contemplación del milagroso discurrir de la vida desde el otero de nuestra ventana. 

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The Fermi Paradox and Self-Devouring Worlds

©A. Casado Capell:
“At the Museo José Guerrero in Granada, Spain.”

Will there be other thinking beings inhabiting some remote corner of our immense and silent galaxy, made up of more than three hundred billion suns and countless planets? I have often wondered this while contemplating in awe the spectacle of the starry night, now so threatened by light pollution. Could the path of my gaze perhaps intersect with that of some other sentient being who, at this very moment, is looking toward this tiny galactic corner of mine?

“Le silence éternel de ces espaces infinis m’effraie!” exclaimed an anguished Pascal, filled with emotion and with those reasons of the heart that reason itself cannot understand... And years later, Immanuel Kant emphasized: “Two things fill my mind with admiration and awe: the starry sky above me and the moral law within me.”

Given the abundance of the basic materials from which life is made—carbon in particular—and the extraordinary age of the universe—almost infinite when compared to the meager history of the hominid family—there must be, or must once have been, many highly advanced technological civilizations in our galaxy. The mathematical law of large numbers shows us that any event, however improbable it may seem, will eventually occur if the number of trials is sufficiently large. Nietzsche hinted at something similar as well—and the Pythagoreans many centuries earlier—in his theory of the Eternal Return of the Same.

And yet, to this day—despite the self-serving efforts of opportunistic pseudoscientists like Iker Jiménez and his circle of acolytes, whose business depends on superstitious ignorance—we have no evidence whatsoever that this is the case. No radio signals or any other kind of communication, no remains of artificial satellites or extraterrestrial spacecraft.

Could it be because our methods of observation are inadequate or imperfect, or perhaps—as Enrico Fermi himself proposed, Nobel Prize winner in Physics in 1938—because every technologically advanced civilization is doomed to self-destruction?

When Fermi formulated his paradox, he himself was witnessing the emergence of a massive new power of self-destruction, previously unknown: nuclear physics applied to the construction of the first atomic bomb. He was immersed in the sinister Manhattan Project. Today there are enough weapons to destroy the entire planet, and those who control them are not people with whom I would share my home. But we have also accumulated other weapons of mass destruction: pollution, extreme inequality, and injustice.

After centuries of being laborious Sisyphuses of the futile, we have now become blind figures of the Apocalypse.

Are we ourselves just another autophagous civilization, already engulfed in its own irreversible process of self-destruction? Or perhaps—might it be Gaia herself who is exterminating us in legitimate self-defense!?

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Le hantavirus part faire du tourisme

Cela fait longtemps que les autorités sanitaires internationales l’annoncent : le flux continu de personnes à travers le monde augmente de manière exponentielle les probabilités qu’une épidémie virale localisée se transforme en pandémie. Le récent cas du paquebot néerlandais en a fourni la preuve. Il suffit de regarder la diversité des nationalités (23 !) qui occupaient les cabines de ce navire, parti de la Patagonie argentine pour parcourir des milliers de kilomètres en visitant des sanctuaires naturels protégés, faisant croire aux voyageurs fortunés qu’ils participent à une mission scientifique pleine d’aventures.

Si l’on ne met pas de limites, ou du moins si l’on cesse de souffler sur le soufflet qui alimente le feu de ces flux touristiques massifs, tout semble indiquer que ce qui, il y a sept ans, constituait une situation exceptionnelle, quasi inédite dans l’histoire de l’humanité — la pandémie de Covid-19 débutée en Chine en décembre de cette année-là et qui est devenue pandémie mondiale deux mois plus tard, faisant 14 millions de victimes —, finira par devenir une situation plus ou moins cyclique à laquelle il faudra faire face avec une tragique régularité.

Que faire alors ? Les solutions sont très complexes, impliquant droits, libertés et affaires. Sans aucun doute, les mesures restrictives appliquées dans des villes ou des pays déjà saturés peuvent aider. Des taxes touristiques aux règles limitant l’arrivée des visiteurs ainsi que l’offre de logements touristiques et de places hôtelières. Mais, encore une fois, je considère que l’éducation a ici un rôle essentiel. Sensibiliser les voyageurs aux énormes conséquences environnementales, sociales, culturelles, sanitaires et économiques de leur décision apparemment anodine de voyager pour le plaisir vers des destinations toujours plus éloignées, saturées et menacées, doit être une priorité pour les autorités de tous les pays. Éduquer, dès l’école et par les médias, à l’idée que voyager a des conséquences funestes. Que voyager n’est pas un impératif pour être heureux, que voyager détruit et pollue, que voyager altère les lieux et les coutumes, et que ce n’est ni la seule ni la meilleure façon de connaître le monde ; que peut-être la meilleure manière de découvrir des cultures oubliées est de lire les essais de Margaret Mead ou ceux de Marvin Harris ; ou que pour contempler la beauté heureuse et la culture prolifique d’un groupe de chimpanzés, il suffit de se tourner vers les écrits de Jordi Sabater Pi, illustrés avec grâce et précision ; ou encore que les plus grandes émotions nous attendent entre les pages des classiques de toutes les cultures. Beatus ille : austérité, patience et compassion constituent le seul chemin possible vers une satisfaction paisible et humaine, tant désirée et recherchée à travers les méandres de ce qui peut être vendu et acheté, et qui ne mène qu’à des états d’anxiété auto-alimentés.

Surtout, si dans nos voyages nous continuons à suivre comme des troupeaux dociles les routes et destinations dictées par les intérêts des grandes entreprises touristiques, qui n’agissent que pour maximiser leur rentabilité économique, sans tenir compte des biens et valeurs transcendantaux — intangibles et essentiels — mis ici en grave danger.

Combien de choses seraient résolues si nous étions capables d’être heureux sans même avoir besoin de quitter notre propre chambre ! Avec une bonne compagnie humaine ou animale, littéraire ou musicale, ou simplement en jouissant du silence ou de la contemplation du miracle de la vie depuis le promontoire de notre fenêtre.

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Spain, Terrace of Europe

 

Plaza de La Romanilla (Granada), occupied by bar terraces

“How much water has to fall before we admit that it’s raining?”

That’s how El Niño de las Pinturas addresses us from a wall in Granada’s Realejo district.

So then, let’s see how much water. In the immediate surroundings of Granada Cathedral, four large hotels have opened in the last four years—adding to the many that were already there (and at least two more are planned or under construction); likewise, several buildings devoted exclusively to tourist apartments have been opened. We’re talking about more than a thousand new beds in this small urban area. One Sunday morning, as I passed through Plaza de las Pasiegas by the cathedral, I saw an elderly woman come out of her doorway and, as a large group of tourists went by, she exclaimed bluntly and bitterly, “We’re going to end up eating suitcases!” Now it’s my turn to ask, along with the Niño: how many new fast-food outlets and souvenir shops that displace traditional commerce will open in the wake of these new hotel beds? And how many new bars and restaurants with their corresponding terraces? How many people will stop buying or renting a home in the neighborhood due to rising prices caused by mass purchases by large investors drawn by the scent of real estate profit? They now call the effects of this renewed vandalism gentrification. After the pandemic, we were asked to show solidarity with bars. Fine—but not at any cost. Who shows solidarity with the elderly person whose final years have become a living hell because of the bar opened in the square where they live, or because that same square has turned into a multi-purpose venue for fairs, concerts, rallies, processions, and all kinds of events? Or with the mother who, every day as she leaves home with her baby, must weave her way through several hordes of louts stuffed into ridiculous penis costumes? For a long-suffering resident of our historic centers, the definition of silence is simply less noise.

El Niño mural in
Realejo (Granada)

 No, this cannot be happening. And yet—how it rains! But there are more questions: how many more terraces must be installed in Granada’s Plaza Bib-Rambla to turn it not just into an uninhabitable place for residents, but into something impassable and inhospitable for anyone who enjoys strolling through a beautiful historic setting—stopping to look, to talk, to watch children play, to hear its fountain or smell its linden trees in spring, or simply to read? It is a clear example of the occupation of a space that, by its very nature, is and must remain public. How many days of unbreathable air must citizens of a tourist city endure before their city council reins in the hotels, bars, and tourist apartments that attract a noisy legion of visitors—eager to consume—arriving by plane, bus, and other polluting vehicles? How many families and elderly people must be forced to leave their homes in historic neighborhoods before this new barbarian invasion ceases?

But let’s keep asking questions, with the Niño’s permission. Who is more patriotic: the one who denounces this deranged reality, or the one who takes advantage of it to cash in (whether in money or votes), unconcerned about the destruction of a modus vivendi and an environment that is precisely what attracted that inconsiderate tourism in the first place? The one who defends those non-monetizable values, or the one who surrenders to that liquid reality of money that only cares about immediate profit? Despite its much smaller population, Granada is already the third most polluted city in Spain, after Madrid and Barcelona. As for the coastline—the other major destination—Spain had 48 beaches with black flags this past summer due to waste generated by mass tourism. The Maro-Cerro Gordo natural area in Nerja received that grim distinction due to such an accumulation of sunscreen that it has become dangerous for both human health and marine biodiversity.

El Niño mural in
Realejo (Granada)

 But when we talk about pollution, we don’t just mean water contamination or air pollution, but also noise, spatial, visual, and even emotional pollution: streets with beautiful names like Silence, Solitude, or Study turned into stage sets filled with extras and props. We’re talking about an urban space that is dirty, overcrowded, hostile, monetized to exhaustion, transformed into a giant marketplace, subjected to the hell of sameness and unrecognizability for its inhabitants. And this applies to the cities already mentioned as well as Córdoba, Toledo, Valencia, Pamplona, Palma, Seville, and many others.

Obviously, tourism creates jobs and wealth, but we must reflect and decide what kind of city model we want. And here, everyone’s participation is crucial. Successive crises have clearly shown how vulnerable an economy is when it depends so heavily on tourism, as ours does—unable to diversify sources of employment and wealth, not only material or tangible but also intellectual, moral, and cultural.

Nowadays tourism is called an “industry” to wrap it in that aura of progress we usually attribute to industrious Germans. Whoever names things controls them. And so they try to dazzle those who have suffered unemployment and job insecurity for decades. But no, it is not an industry—least of all this kind of tourism of selfies, compulsive consumption, and theme-park logic. I was taught that tourism belongs to the tertiary sector: services. (“Learn more to serve better” is the motto of a semi-private school in Granada, incidentally.) We also face another serious demographic problem alongside that of rural Spain: historic centers are being emptied to fill them with partying and pollution of all kinds. The goal—perhaps shared by authorities here and in Brussels—is to turn Spain into Europe’s great terrace: a place of fun and bachelor parties for the young, and of health tourism and karaoke for older people from wealthy northern Europe. In the south, everyone a waiter, a guide, a cleaner, or a hospitality worker. Let those in the north think and produce; we’ll provide the entertainment in our exhausted cities and beaches.

But only regulated tourism, along with the promotion of more responsible tourism models, will be compatible with livable urban environments and a clean, protected environment. And these are essential values for a dignified and sustainable life over time. There is an urgent need to rationalize the massive flow of tourism at the municipal, regional, national, and European levels. Above all, it is about education, but also about establishing rules that have already been applied in various countries—for example, limiting the number of hotel beds based on population; or introducing a tourist tax so visitors contribute to the upkeep of the places they visit and the services they receive; or limiting by area the number of leisure and hospitality venues and terraces, as well as setting hours and noise thresholds that respect residents’ well-being—without forcing them to go to court just to have basic rights like rest recognized.

Sustainability, our health, the future of our young people, of our countryside and our cities, are largely at stake in this murky business of tourism. So yes—it is raining, and not exactly water.

www.filosofiaylaicismo.blogspot.com

Infrahistory

Río Chico in the Alpujarra
(Sierra Nevada–Granada–Spain)

  Miguel de Unamuno spoke of intrahistory, the subterranean current of the “eternal tradition”. We are going to refer to that hidden course with the term infrahistory, with the old philosopher’s permission: the histories of every town and village, of every family, of every person, or even of every living being; for, humble as it may be, each existence unfolds in circumstances that can be narrated.

Every vital experience has its effects on other lives, near or far, and also on its surroundings, like the famous flutter of the fragile, hidden butterfly’s wings. These are lives whose temporal course runs concealed beneath the stage machinery of the macro-events of heroes and characters, which are always recounted, embellished, or falsified by the victors.

Today I walk along a narrow path that connects Cáñar with Soportújar, in the Alpujarras of Granada (Spain), traversing an Eden of distant horizons and rugged hills, virgin springs and aged irrigation channels. A harmonious blending of the efforts of successive generations, taming the natural environment with respect: their unpaved paths, their small clay-tiled houses facing south, their simple terraced gardens, and the centuries-old chestnut trees—“they are the only cathedrals I admire,” a Nietzschean shepherd from these parts once confessed to me—whose roots sink deep into the steep slopes to prevent erosion and provide leafy shade to the hands that planted them.

Two nightingales hold a prolonged conversation on this cool July morning, with the murmur of the Chico River as a basso continuo. They know no other place, desire no other life or paradise than this one they inhabit during the days of their brief existence, of their unknown infrahistory, which today intersected with mine.

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San Miguel Alto, en Granada

San Miguel Alto-Granada

     Acudí al Centro de Menores de San Miguel Alto de Granada en varias ocasiones entre los años 2013 y 2017 como profesor para examinar a internos que pretendían obtener el título de Graduado en Educación Secundaria. Entre estos púberes encerrados, fracaso de una sociedad entera, emergían signos de esperanza: algunos de ellos dedicaban su tiempo de forzada privación de libertad a aprender. Ahí se veía como en pocos sitios los positivos efectos de una educación pública al servicio de los más marginados. Eran solo dos o tres cada curso. Zagalones con dieciséis o diecisiete años a los que yo tenía que dedicar un tiempo extra para explicarles el sentido de los enunciados de las pruebas de Ciencias Sociales. Algunos de esos adolescentes no recibían ni una sola visita o llamada telefónica de sus familiares a lo largo de todo el año, me confesaban quienes se dedicaban a su cuidado. Eran las primeras fechas del mes de junio y una sencilla piscina de plástico montada en el patio congregaba al resto de los internos. Mateo se llamaba uno de los infelices aspirantes. «Maestro, ¿qué es un plano urbano ortogonal? Y ¿qué quiere decir “historia del movimiento obrero”? Yo nunca he trabajado». Unos cursos examinaba en este Centro y otros lo hacía en la Cárcel Provincial. También allí había escuela y presos que querían estudiar. En una ocasión, me encontré en ella con un antiguo alumno. Yo no lo reconocí al pronto. Fue él quien se dirigió a mí. «¿Y qué te ha pasado para estar aquí?», le pregunté a ese joven en cuya mirada aún titilaba el brillo de mi discípulo adolescente.  

Entrar en uno y otro centro era una experiencia muy similar: había que atravesar varias puertas metálicas consecutivas que se iban cerrando a mis espaldas antes de acceder a la siguiente. Un guardia armado y provisto de un gran manojo de llaves, me acompañaba durante todo el recorrido jalonado por cámaras de seguridad, que desembocaba en un patio endurecido por el cemento y cegado por elevadas vallas de seguridad. Al salir al exterior y notar la brisa libre, perfumada por los pinares aledaños y por los jazmines y rosas de los patios de los cármenes, sentía piedad de esos casi niños que comenzaban su recorrido vital con tan mal pie.

Hoy leo en la prensa local que este Centro de menores, ubicado en una atalaya privilegiada desde la que contemplar el Albaicín o la Alhambra, va a ser vendido por la Junta de Andalucía. No se reconvertirá en colegio público, ni en centro de salud, tampoco será un espacio para uso del vecindario. Un hotel. Otro más, en una ciudad que ya sangra por las heridas de la masificación turística y la especulación criminal. Ese será su nuevo uso. El diario Ideal titula, pletórico de estulticia y servil majadería: «El proyecto de un hotel en San Miguel rompe 25 años de parálisis en el cerro.» La aludida "parálisis" dará paso al exterminio de este paraje alto y silencioso, pienso apesadumbrado. Y aclara para tranquilidad de muchos en esta Pascua florida: «En el Cerro de San Miguel conviven cuevas pintorescas con unos huecos en los que se han construido chabolas sin control y que suponen focos de inseguridad.»  “Cuevas pintorescas” denomina este insigne medio de información –apenas me atrevo a denominarlo con este digno y desacreditado término— a estas viviendas antiquísimas. Debe de ser esa la expresión que usen los guías para explicar a los visitantes un modo de vida tan ancestral como sabio por sostenible y poco invasivo. Y tan común en algunos barrios de Granada: el Barranco del abogado, el Albaicín, el Sacromonte. Y con “focos de inseguridad”, ¿se refiere, tal vez, Ideal a quienes habitan en un lugar con pésimos servicios por abandono de las autoridades o está pensando quien suscribe el artículo en el malestar que genera la visión de esas chabolas al despreocupado turista que se acerca al mirador? 

Por su parte, el diario digital Elindependientedegranada.es informa de que «La venta del Centro de Menores de San Miguel para convertirlo en hotel acentuará la turistificación, según alertan los vecinos.» ("¿Y quiénes demonios son los vecinos para opinar sobre qué hacer o dejar de hacer en un barrio?" --se preguntará, a su vez, alguien desde un confortable y bien amueblado despacho--). Y explica que este paraje estaba pendiente de una gran intervención: el Plan Especial del Cerro de San Miguel, aprobado por la Corporación hace escasos años. Su objetivo era «recuperar el entorno como gran espacio público para el ocio y disfrute de la ciudadanía». Aunque hayan pasado pocos años, parece que eran otros tiempos. Tiempos en los que, tal vez, era el vecino el primer destinatario de las iniciativas municipales. O, al menos, lo era nominalmente. Pero hoy, lo es el turista, y lo es con descaro, sin disimulos. La «industria turística», llaman a ese invento que justifica cualquier desmán. El turista, fuente de ingresos para hosteleros y grandes tenedores inmobiliarios --sector servicios, que no "industria", según me enseñaron en el cole--, no debe ser molestado ni tan siquiera pidiéndole que colabore con una mínima aportación a los servicios públicos que utiliza –y sufragan los vecinos—, a los gastos de limpieza de la suciedad que provocan o a los graves perjuicios que su presencia masiva implica. La imposibilidad de acceder a una vivienda para la inmensa mayoría de los ciudadanos o la saturación de los servicios de salud son sólo algunos de ellos.

La Junta justifica la venta del Centro de San Miguel Alto para sufragar parte de los elevadísimos costes que acarreará la Ciudad de la Justicia. ¿Y quién necesita una Ciudad de la Justicia?, pregunto yo ahora. Esta se ubicará en los dos enormes edificios que fueron propiedad de Caja Granada y se extenderá por un solar que iba a ser destinado a la construcción de un espacio musical para la ciudad. Más de 60 millones de euros ha pagado la Junta para este otro proyecto Pormisgüevista, tan defendido por los cargos públicos junteros y municipales como inútil para la ciudadanía, que, en mi modesta opinión, más que una megasede unificada con todos los juzgados, requiere una justicia ágil e independiente, lo que exige contratación de más jueces y funcionarios, y profundas modificaciones en el sistema de acceso a la judicatura y en los órganos de su gobernanza. La enajenación de un bien público se justifica con un inmenso derroche. Definitivamente, Granada necesita más escuelas públicas.

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Enlace a ambos medios: 

Elindependientedegranada

Diario Ideal

San Miguel Alto, in Granada (Spain)

San Miguel Alto-Granada (Spain) 

  I went to the San Miguel Alto Juvenile Center in Granada on several occasions between 2013 and 2017 as a teacher to examine residents who were trying to obtain the Secondary Education Certificate. Among these pubescent inmates—failures of an entire society—there were signs of hope: some of them devoted their time in forced confinement to learning. There, as in few other places, one could see the positive effects of a public education system serving the most marginalized. There were only two or three each year. Big lads of sixteen or seventeen to whom I had to devote extra time to explain the meaning of the questions in the Social Sciences exams. Some of those adolescents did not receive a single visit or phone call from their families throughout the entire year, as those responsible for their care confided in me.

It was early June, and a simple plastic pool set up in the yard gathered the rest of the inmates. Mateo was the name of one of the unfortunate candidates. “Teacher, what is an orthogonal urban plan? And what does ‘history of the labor movement’ mean? I’ve never worked.” Some years I examined students at this Center, and in others I did so at the Provincial Prison. There, too, there was a school and prisoners who wanted to study. On one occasion, I ran into a former student. I did not recognize him at first—it was he who approached me. “And what happened to you to end up here?” I asked that young man, in whose gaze the glimmer of my adolescent pupil still flickered.

Entering both institutions was a very similar experience: one had to pass through several successive metal doors that closed behind me before I could access the next. An armed guard, carrying a large bunch of keys, accompanied me throughout the route lined with security cameras, which led to a yard hardened by concrete and enclosed by high security fences. Upon stepping outside and feeling the free breeze, scented by the nearby pine groves and by the jasmine and roses in the courtyards of the cármenes, I felt pity for those almost-children who were beginning their lives on such poor footing.

Today I read in the local press that this juvenile center, located on a privileged lookout from which one can contemplate the Albaicín or the Alhambra, is going to be sold by the Andalusian regional government. It will not be converted into a public school or a health center, nor will it become a space for neighborhood use. A hotel. Yet another one, in a city already bleeding from the wounds of mass tourism and criminal speculation. That will be its new use. The newspaper Ideal headlines, brimming with foolishness and servile stupidity: “The project for a hotel in San Miguel breaks 25 years of paralysis on the hill.” The so-called “paralysis” will give way to the destruction of this high, silent place, I think sorrowfully. And it adds, for the reassurance of many in this blossoming Easter season: “On the Cerro de San Miguel, picturesque caves coexist with hollows in which uncontrolled shacks have been built, posing security risks.”

“Picturesque caves,” this distinguished news outlet—though I hardly dare call it by such a dignified and discredited term—uses to describe these very ancient dwellings. That must be the expression tour guides use to explain to visitors a way of life as ancestral as it is wise, for being sustainable and minimally invasive. And so common in some neighborhoods of Granada: Barranco del Abogado, the Albaicín, Sacromonte. And by “security risks,” is Ideal perhaps referring to those who live in a place with terrible services due to neglect by the authorities, or is the author of the article thinking of the discomfort caused to the carefree tourist by the sight of those shacks when approaching the viewpoint?

For its part, the digital newspaper El Independiente de Granada reports that “The sale of the San Miguel Juvenile Center to turn it into a hotel will intensify touristification, as neighbors warn.” (“And who the hell are the neighbors to have a say in what should or should not be done in a neighborhood?” someone might ask from a comfortable, well-furnished office.) It explains that this area was awaiting a major intervention: the Special Plan for the Cerro de San Miguel, approved by the municipal council just a few years ago. Its aim was “to recover the area as a large public space for the leisure and enjoyment of citizens.” Though only a few years have passed, they seem like different times. Times when, perhaps, the resident was the primary recipient of municipal initiatives—or at least nominally so. But today, it is the tourist, and brazenly so, without pretense.

They call it the “tourism industry,” that invention used to justify any excess. The tourist, a source of income for hospitality businesses and large property owners—the service sector, not “industry,” as I was taught in school—must not be disturbed, not even by asking for a minimal contribution to the public services they use (and which residents pay for), to the cleaning costs of the mess they generate, or to the serious harm their massive presence entails. The impossibility of accessing housing for the vast majority of citizens or the saturation of health services are just some of them.

The regional government justifies the sale of the San Miguel Alto Center as a way to cover part of the enormous costs that the City of Justice will entail. And who needs a City of Justice?, I ask now. It will be located in the two enormous buildings that once belonged to Caja Granada and will extend over a plot that was intended for the construction of a music venue for the city. More than 60 million euros has been paid by the regional government for this other whimsical project, as strongly defended by regional and municipal officials as it is useless for the public. In my modest opinion, rather than a mega unified headquarters for all the courts, what is needed is an efficient and independent justice system, which requires hiring more judges and civil servants, and profound changes in the system of access to the judiciary and in its governing bodies. The disposal of a public asset is justified by immense waste. Ultimately, Granada needs more public schools.

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