The Wild Southwest

by Jordi Corominas i Julián

L’Hospitalé de Llobregá es una ciudad orgullosa de sus señas de identidad. Sus habitantes son conscientes de ser la segunda población de Cataluña, dirigida por el político que más cobra en España: Celestino Corbacho. La gente de L’Hospitalé de Llobregá ha madurado con el paso de los años. Su mérito es el de llegar de la nada, por obra y gracia de la inmigración franquista, y construir un estilo propio que abarca moda, lenguaje, música, arquitectura y nombres personales. La cercanía con Barcelona no es impedimento para la consolidación de una fuerte cultura local, avivada en los últimos tiempos por la llegada masiva de inmigrantes, en su mayor parte sudamericanos.

L’Hospitalet de Llobregat es una localidad de población indefinida, ¡pero muy grande!, que limita con Barcelona. La mayor parte de sus habitantes hablan castellano, tienen bajo nivel educacional y trabajan para la gloria de la capital catalana, madre eterna que da dinero a sus hijos menos aventajados. L’Hospitalet es la punta de lanza de la periferia, el antiguo cinturón rojo donde escuchan música de Estopa y exhiben en la televisión nacional lo peor de la raza, como Carlos Yoyas de Gran Hermano. Lo único bueno de L’Hospitalet es el portero del Barça, Víctor Valdés, e IKEA, hermanado con el de otra zona periférica: Badalona. Lo único que une a Barcelona con su vecina es el dios consumo. Fuera del vil metal, el interés es nulo y se piensa que adentrarse en las calles de lo desconocido es como conocer el Bronx o algo peor, un tercer mundo dentro del primer mundo.

L’H pretende ser una mezcla de lo mejor de L’Hospitalé y las lecciones cosmopolitas de la Ciudad Condal. La influencia de estar en su entorno tendría que ser notable; sin embargo, hasta ahora no se han visto resultados como los logrados en la zona Forum, reactivada a la especulación y a la homologación burguesa con motivo del ridículo evento de 2004. L’H aspira a dejar de ser el patito feo, desea aprovechar de su cercanía al aeropuerto, mejores instalaciones, m´s atención ciudadana, buenas perspectivas sociales y educativas y un saneamiento urbanístico que le permita dejar de ser el absurdo hazmerreír cargado de típicos como Bellvitge, los charnegos (racismo catalán), obreros, delincuencia y vulgaridad.

¿Conocemos L’Hospitalet? El Homo Barcelonensis tiene una idea muy relativa de las realidades que tiene a un paso de casa. Su natural pereza le impulsa a crear microcosmos urbanos de los que no sale ni aunque le paguen. Por eso ignora, en gran medida, cómo se vive al otro lado de la frontera. ¿Existen los quillos y los cholos o sólo son una alucinación óptica del estrés laboral? ¿De verdad dicen “neng” cada dos por tres? Más que dejarnos seducir por la broma, creemos necesario sumergirnos en el tejido de nuestro supuesto pariente pobre y descubrir, con ojos seudo-vírgenes, qué ocultan sus tan denostados muros: ricas teselas de un mosaico incompleto, que sólo será completado si recibe la atención que merece su diferencia e independencia de estilo ante el monstruo BCN y su hambre diseñada.

Little Sister of Mercy

There was albergue, and then there were lemons

by Tiffany Carter

Back about 1265, yet another weary pilgrim arrives late one evening in Provençana. It is dark, and he is hungry and cold. Ambling, nay, trudging along he comes happily upon a masia and, “Ho,” he calls. “Ho!” A leathery old codger walks out with a stick and, “Who goes there?” he says, blinking a wilty eye, “Com et va?” Our man had hoped for a more cordial welcome and sighs, “Me dirijo a Barcelona, amigo. But Christ I don’t feel like walking anymore.” The old man looks him up and looks him down. “Them old Barcelona city gates has done closed up fer the night. Ye ain’t goin nowheres. And ye cain’t stay here neither.” His eyes flash and his teeth glint as he chews his tongue. The weary pilgrim knows that he isn’t staying and that he isn’t going. He puckers his brow and backs away.

And so he walks along some more. Hears chickens asquawking and follows their beckon, and soon comes upon another casa pairal. Wary but still weary, he walks right up and calls out again, “Ho!” Someone peeps out a window. He stands and he stares, but no door opens. And then a window does and before he can say peep he finds himself drenched with the day old contents of a bedpan. “Hijos de puta!” He is fucking angry. And weary. Someone shrieks back at him and he hustles away, no pep to his step, no spunk in his spirit.

Schlepping along now wretchedly he comes again to a house. He gazes up at its beautiful finestrals gòtics. He hesitates to call out. What can he say? He calls out, “Ho!” finally, though, standing there waveringly like a two-bit poca-soltes. A cara appears hesitantly in one of those finestrals and looks down at him. He looks up at it. It is pretty and pale. It shines in the moonlight. There are lips spun of dew, there is hair long and lank. It is female, and even in his sorry state he feels a lustful tingle rush down to his verga. He is weary, wary, filthy, and now, horny.

The door opens and a man walks out and barks at him, but after noting his piteous state the bark softens to a snarl, and then, to a low growl. Our peregrino is heartened somewhat and bumbles out his request. The man gives him the look of those who decide no well before asked, and then he surprises our weary traveller with a sí. “Thank you so much, kind sir, for offering me hospital for the night. I will be thankful for at least the next few days, and I will not screw your comely daughter.”

It is the girl’s dowdy mother who cleans him up with swift sure strokes and tepid reserve, and soon thereafter he finds himself with them all at the dinner table, feasting on sopa d’arròs, and then, conill. He is happy, and after a few copas, expresses again how thankful he is for their hospitality. “Thank you,” he says, “so very much for your hospitality.” They nod assentingly and show him to a pallet where he falls instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep. Until some time later in the night; he is awakened by a rustling in his pants. “¿Qué cosa?” he whispers, only to see that young face peek up at him and direct itself right back down again. His cold member awake now in the night, he watches dumbfoundedly as she grasps his huevos with those dewy lips. “Oh,” he says. “Ho!” he sighs. She says nothing, only pulling contentedly with her agile throat.

Things might have continued on in this happy vein were it not for the sudden intrusion of the young wanton filla’s unhappy father bearing an old rusty espada. He grunts and wields, and our hero again looks on, dumbfoundedly kaleidoscope, as the weapon bears down on him. He wants to say no, and he wants to say sorry, and he wants to say thank you and no and sorry, but in the end he is only able to croak out a faint and final, “óhpitalé!” before the lights go out. And the father mutters astonishedly, “spitalet?” and drags his daughter out by the hair. The next morning they bury the sorry traveller hurriedly in the small courtyard across the way. And after a few days the daughter forgets all the smacking she had endured.

But fathers don’t forget so easily and have sometimes had enough of weary travellers seeking albergue and the young daughters who comfort them, and so, a short time later, a hostel was opened for this stream of weary travellers who couldn’t get to Barcelona. Sometimes enough is enough. Hospitalet, my ass. And thus, as well, Provençana got a new name, Little Bedroom City.

That’s not all. Much to pappy’s chagrin, a beautiful and hardy lemon tree sprouted up in the courtyard where that hapless wayfarer lay, ever reminding him of how his kindness had been returned again and again. Try as he may and try as he might, it was there to stay: no amount of pulling or chopping, or, even, poisoning, managed to sway that tree. He set down roots, baby. There were lemons, and more lemons and more lemons. And more lemons. The lemons had baby lemons. And the baby lemons made more baby lemons. And so on it continues to this day. Fertile ground welcomes eager seed.

A story like this perks up your ears and piques your interest, and we were curious now. Who and what is this city to the southwest, so close, so big, yet so completely desconocida? We discussed it and none of us had been there, really, except to go to IKEA or the Festival Internacional de Cinema Erótico. We didn’t know anything about it. Was L’H sprouting a fresh new scene where the hip would go to flee Barcelona’s preposterous rents and incessant influx of tourists? I began asking around, and I started at home. “Baby,” I said, “What do you think about L’Hospitalet? What would you like to know about it?” I got a big fat, “No res,” and when I pressed further, he clarified. “I don’t like L’Hospitalet,” he said. And so it went with others as well. Some said they knew or had known people who lived or had lived there, some had seen it from the train to the airport, someone had been to a concert over there, and most seemed at least mildly disconcerted or amused that I was expressing interest.

So that Saturday we set off with laser-printed Google maps and hurriedly scribbled notes cobbled together from emails, giddy at the prospect of another excursion. L’Hospitalet seemed far away though it’s only 4 stops from Plaça Espanya on the red line. We got off at Florida. Unspectacular buildings like cement blocks hulked around us. It was residential and somewhat ugly. We found we needed to backtrack to Torrassa to get to the Tecla Sala, the first stop on our itinerary. We passed a playground, an enticing and possibly defunct okupa with a closed bar downstairs; we went through a tunnel below the train tracks and then left, which was north. And we stopped off at a xurreria before finding Tecla Sala, an old textile factory that has been converted into a cultural center.

L’Hospitalet remained a small agricultural village until the 1700s. In the mid 14th century the population was estimated at 250; it took 400 years to double (to 504 in 1740). The construction of the Canal de la Infanta on the Llobregat river from 1817 to 1819 gave the city its industrial push. Energy harnessed from the falls served the agricultural industry but also allowed other industries to crop up: flour mills and distilleries, and the ceramic, textile, metallurgical and chemical industries. The textile industry thrived until the ‘70s when economic crisis caused it to practically disappear, leaving factories abandoned. Tecla Sala, the most emblematic textile factory complex of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, was acquired by the Ajuntament in 1986.

We walked around. There were children outside making chocolate fruit skewers. The troops headed off to see the lauded but disappointing free photo exhibition by Chema Madoz, and Núria and I explored the building to the right, having seen there was a club for model airplane builders. It was quiet in the building. We had a vague feeling we weren’t supposed to be there. We stood outside the door of the Club d’Aeromodelisme Delta with disappointment; it seemed closed. “I heard something in there, Tiff,” goes Nuri, “Try the door.” An alarm sounded. Men of varying ages at their workstations turned and stared apprehensively. Perhaps they had never seen tourists before. Or women interested in model airplane building. Or women. One of the three. They soon overcame their shock and a couple of the guys showed us around the workshop. One of them was named Francisco. “We’re only open on Saturdays now,” he lamented. “We used to have a big 400m2 workshop, but we got eighty-sixed. There aren’t a lot of people who want to build model airplanes anymore. They just want to buy them, y a volar ya.” “Yeah,” we said. “It’s becoming that way with just about everything.”

It was time to meet up with our tour guide, Roger, a new friend and Hospitalet native I met a few months ago on OkCupid. We began the long trek down the Avinguda de Josep Tarradellas i Joan towards the Rambla, stopping briefly at the La Farga mall’s food court to have a beer at the Gasthaus Wien and play video games.

The Rambla de Just Oliveras Arús is Hospitalet’s most important and symbolic street, its Barcelona’s Les Rambles. But, oddly, Just Oliveras himself is not well known, though together with his brothers he had a marked effect on the city at a time when it was beginning to grow from a small ciutat pagesa to the burgeoning olio it is today. He was mayor several times in a difficult period when the city was grappling with her urban identity and he promoted her second expansion. He established the public bus connection between L’Hospitalet and Plaça Espanya in 1921; he put together a tourist service, making it possible to travel throughout Spain and Europe. Progressive for his time, he tried to have the grade crossing taken down from the provincial road to ease intercity transportation. A controversial figure, he was urged to flee the city during the civil war but didn’t, and was assassinated with his sister-in-law under circumstances which remain obscure. The street was actually named in his father’s memory, though.

L’Hospitalet’s Rambla was a pleasure to walk down, mucho más amable que lo de elbows and gawkers aquí. We made our way to the Centro Católico, an atypical bar featuring a full-sized basketball court and an amateur theater. Roger arrived and after imbibing some canned heat to hearten us on our way, we headed off to see Hospitalet’s historic center, the Carrer del Xipreret, a street of about 100 meters dating to Roman times when it served to separate agricultural lands. There are 27 buildings considered patrimoni arquitectònic, mostly from the middle ages, and we looked at all of them. “Is this the casa dels finestrals gòtics?” I wanted to know. And I looked behind me and there was a lemon tree. “Oh! Ho! Roger, please get me a lemon. Please?” Roger got me a lemon and Joe wanted one too, so I hoisted him up on my back and he reached up for it. “Ei!” called a crackly old woman, “Què feu? Amb una n’hi ha prou.” And then we ran for it.

It turns out that a group of resident guiris on safari can’t get to the bottom of L’Hospitalet’s reality in a night. I’m not sure that we really found what we were looking for. Actually, I’m not really sure what we were looking for. Roger says that this city that went practically overnight from sleepy farm town to one of the most densely populated cities, not just in Spain but also in the European Union, has little character of its own and is simply Barcelona’s appendix. Little Bedroom City’s character remains true to her name and origins. We had a fantastic time there and were left with the question of whether that was because L’Hospitalet was cool or because we went there together. I think it’s a little of both. We will have fun wherever we go. But sometimes Barcelona can feel a little bit...used. L’H was virgin territory. The people we met were relaxed, friendly and tickled by our presence. They lived in L’Hospitalet and they like L’Hospitalet; they are happy there and proud of their city. We encountered no pickpockets; there were no Paki rose vendors or beer-sellers, just a Telepizza on every other corner. Everything was just a little bit cheaper and roomier. It can be tot teu, amichs.

El "Tío Sam" Baila Sardanas

Els Pioners de L'H

by Julián Socorro

Cuando entró en la formación sabía que el balón recorrería varias yardas antes de que le tocara hacer su parte; aportar ese granito de arena que podría marcar la diferencia entre la gloria o la humillación total. Miró al costado del campo y las cheerleaders meneaban sus esculturales cuerpos. La ansiedad se respiraba en el ambiente y en la pizarra electrónica se perdían los últimos segundos del partido. Tres puntos abajo en el marcador; estaba claro que esta última jugada sería mucho más que un “just a play”. El mariscal dio la orden y las piezas de ajedrez comenzaron sus violentos choques. Corrió como el viento. Pura adrenalina. Yarda 30; yarda 20; yarda 10, in zone. Se dio la vuelta. Cerró los ojos, estiró los brazos y sintió un fuerte impacto en las costillas. Cayó al suelo adolorido, pero ya nada importaba: el pase había sido completo y los Pioners de L’Hospitalet se habían convertido en los nuevos campeones de la XIIIa. edición de la Copa de España de Fútbol Americano.

Pocos vecinos de L’H saben de la existencia de los Pioners. Pero quienes opinan sobre este club, el primero en la Península Ibérica que ganó una competición internacional, no faltan las sonrisas y muestras de satisfacción. Poco importa que las reglas se inventaran en otro país. Aquí aplican otras: las mismas que sirvieron para plantar los cimientos de esta ciudad que surgió impulsada por los emigrantes españoles y, más recientemente, por los inmigrantes nacidos bajo diferentes banderas. Con un 20% de ciudadanía extranjera y otro tanto de oriundos del resto de la península, la tolerancia y apertura de la gente de L’Hospitalet favorece la integración y lo convierte en un lugar donde la prosperidad goza de muchas formas y colores.

Datos Anexos: La historia del fútbol americano en Catalunya comenzó en los años 90 en Barcelona con los Dragons y los Búfals, quienes, junto a los Pioners, sentaron las bases. Al principio las cosas no fueron como esperaban y, muy pronto, los Pioners se trasladaron a L’Hospitalet. Eran tiempos muy duros y, en vez de los 22 jugadores por equipo que se tiene normalmente, ellos debían jugar con sólo 17. Con los años el club creció, pudiendo formar un equipo de cadetes. En 1996 cosecharon los frutos de su esfuerzo, al ganar la primera competición internacional en Catania, Italia. A partir de ahí todo fluyó con naturalidad: en la temporada 2004-2005, los Pioners ganaron la Liga Nacional, la Copa de España y la Copa de Catalunya.