La playa no nos pertenece

Pese a lo mucho que estoy disfrutando este periodo de mi vida en la zona de la costa amalfitana, no puedo ignorar la tristeza y el horror que me produce la transformación que ha experimentado la región desde hace poco más de un mes: las numerosas amplias playas del lugar, antes vacías y accesibles, están ahora cercadas y ocupadas en su totalidad por ringleras de tumbonas y sombrillas perfectamente alineadas que una debe alquilar si quiere gozar del privilegio de ir a la playa. Las hay quienes incluso reservan con un día de antelación, para garantizarse una buena tumbona en la línea de playa, entre el mar (más fresco) y el bar (mayor rapidez en el servicio de bebidas).

La idea de privatizar una playa, además de indignante, resulta del todo ridícula. Este paisaje de mar, arena y rocas, hogar de todo un ecosistema marino, es fruto de la mano paciente y generosa de la Naturaleza, motivo por el que debería ser objeto del debido aprecio, respetado y protegido como bien común (no exclusivamente humano). El hecho de que algunos individuos de nuestra especie lo hayan cerrado al público para tratar de enriquecerse a su costa —y que las autoridades locales lo permitan— tan sólo confirma lo infinito de la codicia humana, con su imparable onda destructiva, y cuán deshecho se encuentra nuestro vínculo con el mundo natural, al cual pertenecemos por mucho que nos esforcemos en fingir que no es así. Prueba de ello es que prefiramos sentir nuestra piel contra el plástico inerte, cocktail en mano, en un ambiente controlado y artificialmente organizado, a experimentar la naturaleza viva del entorno marino: jugar con los granos de arena entre nuestros dedos, sentir las gotas saladas que se evaporan al calor del sol, y la fuerza de las olas que arrastran nuestro cuerpo en el agua, caminar descalza por las formaciones rocosas (no libre de dolor), o dejar nuestras huellas por la franja de arena húmeda… todas ellas sensaciones que ninguna cantidad de dinero puede comprar.

Pero este paisaje de mobiliario plástico y simetría artificial en el medio natural muestra algo más que la codicia y la desnaturalización del entorno, es la imagen de la obstinación humana: la hostelería italiana se resiste a toda evidencia de cambio, y en su lugar se prepara para la llegada de turistas con el convencimiento de poder retomar su actividad habitual al cien por cien, como si nada hubiera sucedido. Y, en efecto, pese a que la amenaza del virus continúa al acecho, las turistas no se hacen de rogar. Son muchas las personas que se suben a un avión para escapar unos pocos días a la playa; su desesperación por tener vacaciones es tal que hasta parecen aceptar con alivio el tradicional impuesto revolucionario para turistas, ese que tasa con un coste excesivo todo producto turístico. Con o sin covid, las vacaciones continúan siendo el derecho inalienable de la clase media europea al que ninguna está dispuesta a renunciar. Tal y como sucedía en la “vieja normalidad”, satisfacer los deseos individuales está por encima de toda consideración social o ecológica sobre el impacto de nuestros actos. El turismo de masas ha vuelto.

Tantos meses de adaptación, tanto tiempo para la reflexión, y no parece que hayamos aprendido nada. Quizá no debería sorprenderme que así sea, pero esta vez, ingenua de mí, tenía mayores esperanzas en la especie humana. Al fin y al cabo, hemos sido partícipes de una demostración de solidaridad sin precedentes, al modificar nuestros estilos de vida para proteger tanto a seres queridos como a completas desconocidas por igual, lo que prueba nuestra capacidad de trabajar juntas por un bien común, de priorizar la persona a lo material. Además, se ha hecho evidente que el decrecimiento de nuestra actividad económica y el aumento de un modo de vida local permite una recuperación veloz de flora y fauna y reduce nuestra huella negativa en el planeta, hecho que debería llenarnos de esperanza, al tiempo que nos da pistas sobre las buenas prácticas para el futuro.

Por un instante, parecía que la vivencia conjunta de esta situación tan fuera de lo común estaba asentando las bases para una vida más comunitaria, basada en una ética del cuidado (de una misma, de otras, del planeta) por encima del individualismo destructivo. Pero basta un vistazo a la costa amalfitana, llena de gente de todas las nacionalidades, acomodada en una tumbona de pago, cocktail en mano, para comprobar con decepción que el modelo de mercado capitalista persiste, y que el egoísmo sigue guiando nuestro modo de vida. Business as usual.

Notes from my balcony

In the South of Italy, during the warm months life unrolls mainly in the balconies, turning this suspended structure into the busiest living space of the house. Equipped with all sorts of gadgets and outdoor furniture, balconies become a window into the lives of its dwellers, from the teenage student who prepares for their exams to the smoking patriarch, the playing children or the dormant pets, a sketch of the rhythm of each family member is revealed to any neighbouring attentive eye.

During the months that my eyes have been part of this local landscape they like to pass time observing these comings and goings of people, spontaneous depictions of the Italian small-scale life. It is especially in the early mornings and late afternoons—the hours when the temperature is still bearable—that they regale with the activities of the most interesting beings who inhabit the balconies: the old ladies.

A short observation suffices to acknowledge that the Italian nonna—the grandmother, the matriarch—is the real owner of this setting. Here she takes notes of her surroundings, discerns the new and the old faces in the neighbourhood and ensures the stability of yet another day. Here she converses with other nonne to update each other on the most recent happenings, and small-talks with the nearby residents in a mutual daily recognition. Such brief exchanges often take the form of a particular sign language which unfolds as follows: the salute of a waving hand starts it off, then a sideways shaking hand answers that her state is so-so today, as it was yesterday, and as (she knows already) will be tomorrow, accompanied by a shrug of her shoulders that conveys resignation to this fact; on a third act, the most Italian gesture of all, the tips of the fingers touching each other with the hand facing upwards, which in this context signifies—I have come to understand—“what did you expect? That’s the way it is.” Like that, the conversation comes to an end. Tomorrow it will happen all over again.

In understanding this balcony code, one becomes aware that there is a covert liaison among these women, a network of sorts that provides comfort and support from the daily struggles, relief from the monotony of life, and that seems to be passed from the oldest inhabitants of the block to the next generations. For one careful observation tells of lives that, despite the age disparity, are condemned to a similar destiny: wide open balcony doors reveal kitchens in which women cook and clean while men eat, women sweep the floor and wash the dishes once the men are gone, women hang clothes of varied sizes that are clearly not their own, mothers and grandmothers look after the little ones of the house while they play outside… In essence, the presence of the women in the balconies is conditioned to the accomplishment of tasks. Among them, I am a rare specimen: a woman enjoying leisure time on the balcony; a foreigner.

Only the old ladies, retired but still responsible for the house work, have the benefit of dragging on a little while hanging the laundry, expectant to enjoy a little sunlight or the promise of a conversation. This is how I have managed to be somehow included in this circle of women, as an odd exception, born from the need to talk of my two neighbours, Signora Teresa and Signora Rosa, and their curiosity about my persona. Both of them, day and night to each other—one being the eternal pessimistic while the other is a ray of morning sun—, are deeply fascinating women who have lived through some of the roughest periods of their country (the War, the fascism and the post-war climate of insecurity and divide) and have nonetheless succeeded at providing for their families both through work and at home, while their respective husbands were mostly away.

Such an image is not unfamiliar to me: my very grandmother, when not older than I am today, was left alone for years with three children, my grandfather sailing away the seven seas to provide for them. Once I was around, her first granddaughter, I cannot remember a single occasion in which she was not finding any chore to do or someone to please, or rushing through the streets to go to the many precarious jobs she held in her old age, that were slowly robbing her of her health. Now, finally retired and with all the time in her hands, she continues to busy herself around the house, and she can often be found hanging the laundry in her garden or watering the many flowers and plants to which she tends. All those years, and still she is unable to dedicate a minute to herself. Probably, she wouldn’t know how to.

Despite their different nationalities, many are the similarities between the life my nonna and my two neighbours had—a life marked by scarcity that was especially hard on women, demanding too much of them and conceding too little—and continue to have: alone with their husbands, a waning health and unachieved dreams, they remain the care providers for their spouses and their common home, for their daughters and their grandchildren; the sempiternal backbone of the family life and the communal life. Had it not been for these women, the sweat and tears and blood they put in to carry through their difficult times, in a time when being a woman was the main hardship of all, I would not be here, in this balcony, calmly enjoying the summer breeze and receiving their tips for cooking pasta. None of us would.

How could we ever repay everything that they have done for us? Impossible. But maybe we could start by acknowledging and listening to their stories. Sometimes, just listening is enough proof of appreciation and respect. Listening says that we care, and after all the care we have received from them, this is the minimum we can offer them. But there’s more. From their experiences we can also learn everything that has changed for women since their time and everything that is left to be changed—as my observation of the surrounding balconies has shown. From her own balcony, Signora Rosa perfectly phrased it for me: “I have already done my part, now it’s on you.”