On 11-9 as the British call it, much of the world was thinking about the impacts of the planes that crashed into the buildings full of people a few years ago. Not so the spunky Catalan people in Girona. They were having a fiesta, with six foot wide pans full of public paella , and music and dancing. I asked someone what the schedule was, and planned to turn up to two music events in Plaza de Catalunya, where some big men were quickly erecting a stage.
On one of my giddy wanders through the town though, I happened upon an assembly which was described as “Catalunyan Singing”. Not understanding many words of what was going on, I could only gauge what was occuring by my eyes. There were hammers and sickles. Catalan flags. Fists punching in the air, and books on independence all around. It transpires that Catalonia wants to be independent of Spain.
I wandered off as the crowd dispersed, and mused on what it would be like if California declared independence. I quite liked what bits of California I saw. It would be a nice place to live apart from the danger of it disappearing into the sea. Maybe the Catalonians should dynamite a big trench between themselves and Spain, and fill it with water, claim it was tectonic movement.
Later, I headed towards the stage to hear some music. I expected it to be dismal based on my experiences of shiny-waistcoated, middle-aged men singing in a boat racing fiesta in Cadaques. What I didn’t anticipate was a bunch of black clad mercenary types with long truncheons. Or ten riot vans parked on just one of the streets towards the playa.
The reason for the iron fists in not-so-velvet-more-like-leather gloves soon became apparent, as I turned down a few streets and met a very lively crowd of young revolutionaries in a protest march. I never got to the front of any of the anti-war marches in London, but I bet none of them was led by a vehicle like the one here: a tractor. The tractor negotiated the tiny streets flanked with scooters and curious punters like myself towards the playa. People fired inordinately loud fireworks along the same tiny streets, just above people’s heads. Scooters were moved out of the way of the mighty Massey Ferguson, that worldwide symbol of independence. A short old woman with her shopping bags walked down a tiny street in the opposite direction to several thousand young protesters, as they emerged into the playa and waiting beer stall.
I had to go to lie down shortly afterwards, as I was feeling weak and giddy. From my room I could hear commotion until about 3am. Unfortunately I can’t find any coverage in the regular western media, so I can’t figure out what happened. I couldn’t see any blood in the streets this morning though.