The Argentripper

Javier Saviola made a lot of goals in River. Javier Saviola made a lot of goals for the U20 National Team in the world championship held in Argentina. Javier Saviola goes to Barcelona: me too. Of course he is going to win millions of dollars in Blaugrana and I am going to cover the Grec Festival, which has Buenos Aires as a guest city of honor and will present a wide range of artists from various disciplines. I am happy the same: I will know the land of my ancestors, and incidentally I will move away a bit of a reality where the new sport is how far the country risk soared in the day of the date.

In the taxi that takes me from the airport to the hotel, anyway, I feel I did not move too much. When passing by a carrer , the driver looks at me through the mirror and warns: "When you go to La Rambla do not take that street, which is full of Moors. That is the problem of this city. Ninety percent of thieves are Moors. " Suddenly I feel that we are on Avenida Corrientes and the lord is listening to the racist diatribes of Daniel Hadad's soldiers on Radio 10. Yes, there are many Moors - and many gypsies - in the streets of Barcelona, ​​but they hardly look at me. They often have two, three, five dogs. Then they will explain to me that it is a way to avoid problems: as the law forces that, if they take the owner to the police station, they have to take to the pichichos and to contemplate certain rules of protection to the animals, the police prefer to save the paperwork.

Lo del Grec is an authentic Argentine invasion. Susana Rinaldi, Adriana Varela and Cecilia Rossetto guarantee the well-sung tango; Juanjo Domínguez gives a concert that freezes the time in Montjuic, under a white sky of storm, in a place that before was a quarry and now it is a beautiful amphitheater with something supernatural: by the level of the ground, you see old trees, of gigantic canopies and logs that barely stand a meter and a half off the ground. One might think of the depressive android of the Intergalactic Traveler's Guide or even of Tyrion Lannister, but it's 2001 and neither the Garth Jennings movie nor George RR Martin's books - much less the series- have yet seen the light. There is also China Zorrilla imantando people with a show made only of her telling anecdotes; the people of Catalinas Sur brought El Argentino Fulgor and Belén Blanco looks like Kleines Helnwein . There are other international shows, Brad Mehldau, Gilberto Gil and Milton Nascimento, the Nederlans Dans Theater, the Théatre Zingaro (which presents a work entirely represented on horseback). The only one that does not finish arriving is the local Joaquin Sabina: appears a day later, and minutes before opening the room where he must present himself is "somewhat indisposed" and suspends the function. The next day he proposes to Borja Sitjà, director of the festival, not to play or sing but to do something similar to that of China Zorrilla. Sitjà sends him to make a statue in the ramblas.

In the middle of that week, we take the train one morning and we go to Sitges: I have to interview them for the newspaper, and we agree that the best climate possible for a report is nailing a few claritas - beer with lemon juice- accompanied by razors to garlic next to the Mediterranean. We compare the context with the Cement dressing rooms or the nights in the Rojas with Goodbye and good luck : we toasted. Is hot. We take the t-shirts and give a pitiful show with our pale torsos, contrasted with the bronzed gay biceps and topless Amazons that swarm on the beach.

On the tabletop Casablanca tells that he walked around the city, photos to everything. Who was in the Temple of the Sagrada Familia, walked along Gaudí Avenue, went into another beautiful building and was about to raise the camera when he discovered a sign that said "waiting room." The relatives of patients in the Hospital of the Santa Creu I of Sant Pau looked at him rare.

The last night of Marrapodi performances, we return to the Macocos and say goodbye. All except Rama, who will continue to Galicia to visit family members, return to Buenos Aires the following afternoon. In the morning I decide that it is time to go to the Sagrada Familia, Gaudí's top work that he did not get to see finished, because, looking at the proportions in the middle of the street, he groped under the wheels of a tram. Even without the accident, Don Antoni could hardly have come to see the finished work: we are in the 21st century and the works continue. I go round the ground floor, pick one of the needles and climb an endless spiral staircase. I look at one of the bridges that join the needles and I find Rama and Salazar. There is no doubt about it: the Argentines have magnets.

As Rama has one more day before leaving for Galicia but is no longer officially an artist of the festival, I smuggle him into my room, where there is plenty of room. At night we go for drinks and we end up in a thundering nightclub. Every twelve steps one approaches and asks: "Tablet?". A couple of times I say "No pill, thank you. Chocolate?". They look at me as if I have asked for vitamin C. The bowls are the kingdom of ecstasy, they do not conceive anything else. Nobody pays attention, they all dance in theirs. The next day someone tells us that this is a gay nightclub. It actually looked like a nightclub for eunuchs.

Rama leaves, even dribbles breakfast in the dining room and no one notices his smuggling presence. That night I go to Poble Espanyol, a strange hybrid that represents all the architectures of Spain: I see Massive Attack but I can not get a single Spaniard to invite me even if it's a dry one. They know nothing of the international solidarity of the posts.

Saviola does not win in Barcelona.

Related news