Media Spain, in Carabanchel Alto

Two in the afternoon on the first Friday of July. No leaf moves on the terrace and the EMT buses go up the Alcalá street with almost no passengers inside. This year Alicante is not playing, because the two must work, she in the store and he in the clinic. “We will stay here, in a house, with the most neglected pool,” she says, on the phone, while her son cleans the table with the back of her spiderman face mask. Pablo, no! The mother pounces on the child, still with the mobile in her hand. “No, maja, no. We stayed”.

Same time, but in the Madrid neighborhood of La Concepción. The Hernández they do not have a balcony where they can even put a basin. Not to mention gardens, in the building where they live for rent there are not even planter boxes. If even it seems to the father that they were better confined, because at least then it was not so hot. When the bar where he worked as a waiter closed, he thought it would be little, a week at most. Four months passed and there he is, taking care of two wild beasts that don’t pay much attention to him, because his wife, they didn’t kick her out, will double shift all week.

From the sixth floor of an office building, the M-30 It looks a bit heavier than traffic, but not too much compared to other years. Who could get in a car and go to the beach with a shit, Óscar laments, while he plays with a hydrogel bottle on his desk. They have not yet returned the money from the BBK tickets, so no festival, no pasta, no hosts. He would take vacations, but he has already consumed them. The company forced him to do it when all this started.

Let’s hope, of course, that unless the air conditioning is not damaged or our brothers-in-law cough at the next barbecue

So many people can fit in La Polaroid this week: the owner of the bar who does not manage to bill even 20% of what he took out last summer with the terraces; the kiosk to which the newspaper sale has collapsed, now it does not see anything certain about leaving the town; the large family, now confined by lack of income, who sees their summer almost as boring as that of Manolito Gafotas on his floor Carabanchel Alto, locked up with his mother, grandfather and his brother, the moron.

The first Friday in July once marked the whistle, the stampede, the traffic jam of a highway that seemed to have no end and the promise of excess knocked on the door. So much to fantasize about summer and once we get into it, we feel tied hand in hand, drowned and wrapped in those rags of the masks, almost condemned! No longer by presidential decree but by bankruptcy itself: some because they no longer have No job or income, others because they must make up for the time lost during the state of alarm … A lot or a little work, while it lasts, like a shackle that is better to carry than not having it.

On a day like this, that of the first weekend of the summer season, we will no longer plunge into the warm water of the Mediterranean or in the cooler pool of the town, but in the boiling oil of the cauldron in which we will fry from here until the next regrowth arrives. Let’s hope, of course, that at least that the air conditioning does not break down or that our brothers-in-law cough at the next barbecue.