“The curious incident of the dog in the night time” came to mind as we made our way to work, or rather I drove Toni to his work at our regular ungodly time in the morning so that he could start his travails at 7.00 am promptly. Except in this case it was the traffic that was notable by its absence rather than the bark of a dog.
Part of Toni’s way to work is along the
C-something or other, one of the main motorways into Barcelona from the west of
the city. Even at 6.30am the traffic is
heavy and, at St. Boi we take a slip road off the main motorway which winds its
circuitous way around the road works for a new section of motorway that have
been going on for as long as I have been in Catalonia - and still no new
road. We branch out at the notorious St
Boi roundabout to a link road that takes us into Cornella and then a few side
streets (along which major busses go!) to his place of work.
As with all attempts to use urban motorways
to get places in the morning, timing is everything. If we leave at 6.30 am promptly, although the
traffic is heavy and marginally suicidal, we get there with enough time
to spare for Toni to have a quick coffee in the café at the end of the street a
few steps away from his work, should he chose to do so.
The traffic this morning was eerily sparse
and by way of equilibrium for the spaciousness of the roads we were stuck
behind two large slow moving lorries on the slip road that slowed us down. But, lo! As we passed the usual bottleneck
where the slip road has its own slip road to join another motorway - there was
nothing. Not a single car.
To give you an idea of normality, I
sometimes count the number of seconds that it takes to get to the end of the
queue I observe on the opposite side of the road as I return to Castelldefels
on the largely empty side of the road that it not going in to Barcelona or
other major cities: my longest count has been twenty-seven seconds of tail back,
counted while travelling at 80 kph!
Nothing. Not a single angry
driver keeping as close as possible to the driver in front to ensure that no
chancer tries to cut in to save a few seconds.
In the couple of minutes that it takes to
deposit Toni and make my way back onto the major road system and pass the link
road, a small queue had built up and was visibly growing by the second. You see what I mean about timing!
We realized that the paucity was due to (or
is it “owing to”? I can never remember
the rule that I learned imperfectly back in form 4 of Cardiff High) the fact
that most people have not yet returned to work.
Schools are back on the 7th of the month, I think, and our
Catalan class recommences on the 8th. So, next Monday we will find the entire
motorway fuming with resentful workers still half asleep, dreading the day
ahead and spoiling for a traffic jam to make their return to work complete in its awfulness.
Today, however it meant that I got back to
Castelldefels in good time and turned into the Swimming Pool car park just as
the gate was being unlocked. Timing
again!
It further meant that I was one of the first
to get changed, but no matter how precisely I make it for the opening time of
7.00 am I am never the first in the pool, there must be people who have secret
ways into the complex to allow them to bag a lane!
But when I got to the pool, some of the
usual suspects were not in place. I am
there early because I have to be, but there are a couple of obviously retired
ladies who do slow mysterious strokes who seem to monopolise the outside lanes. Why are they there so early?
There are ‘serious’ swimmers who move
through the water as if they are being chased by piranha and you can almost
hear them clucking with annoyance if anyone dares to join their lane when there
isn’t another option.
These are the swimmers who will do
butterfly in a crowded lane which, “as any fule kno” is the height of bad
swimming manners. It is wrong for a
variety of reasons; first and foremost, because I can’t do the stroke for more
than a few seconds, so I take it as a personal affront; secondly, because it
takes up the entire lane; thirdly because it is very splashy, and for reasons
that I do not fully understand I abhor being splashed when I swim. In water!
Fourthly because it is a vulgar display of offensive physicality and
small-minded showing off.
Mind you, I have to say that I feel the
same for any stroke other than crawl. In
a crowded lane, crawl is the only stroke where your efforts stay (roughly)
within the width of your body and you do not encroach on another swimmer’s space.
I managed to complete my swim in a lane
that I had largely to myself, so I have little to complain about. And the cup of tea in the café afterwards was
not accompanied by the Camino of parents-with-children using the car park to
leave the car and then march the kids through the café to the school. It was oddly tranquil, and far too early for
even the most resolute of parents (who in this part of the world seem to spend
- and I mean spend - a lot of time, effort and money to getting someone/anyone else
to look after the kids when they are on holiday) looking to take their charges
for a quick or even a long swim.
Our pool/sports centre usually has a sort
of sports camp where parents deposit their kids in the morning and pick them up
in the evening, the centre will have amused and fed them during the day. This must be a very profitable part of their
activity and they have ‘camps’ for all the major holidays.
So this week will be one of non-normality
with routine being re-established on Monday of next week. When the city will be back in the safe hands of the retired. Again.
