Aquest article no està traduït al català; es mostra la seva versió en anglès
On getting very nervous about going to London
CATALONIA TODAY – SECTION: LONG-TERM RESIDENT - ARTICLE FORTY-EIGHT
I have just woken up at half past five in the morning, and know I will never get back to sleep, on the qui vive as I now am for impending disasters. My heart rate has accelerated and my self-esteem has shrunk, pardon the image, like a penis in a springtime sea. And all this simply because I will soon be on a plane to London.
Why, I ask myself, wide-eyed and yearning for a tranquilizing Lorezepam, does the thought of visiting the city where I was born and brought up always shake me up so?
All right, I'll tell me. Ever since I decided to stop living there, London has been the psychological equivalent of a cured tumour (not the people I know there, just the place itself). To walk its streets is to remind myself that I had to leave them, way back when, because I became convinced that otherwise I would end up an alcoholic or a funny farm resident or, quite possibly, both. Indeed, I still suspect that had I stayed in London – which I have long thought of as a callous, even merciless city - I would not have made it to my current age or, if I had, I would be wishing I hadn't.
Which is why I find it particularly irritating when I run into one of those Catalans – and there are a few - who insist on cooing about how wonderful my home city is, especially by way of contrast to 'provincial' Barcelona. I refrain from asking these aspiring Citizens-Of-The-World why they don't go and live there themselves if they like it so much, and take a certain silent pleasure in imagining them trying to do so. It's as good a revenge as any other.