Layetan landscape

George Orwell described Via Laietana in 1936 as a street where cafés, hotels, and official offices were collectivized by the preeminent anarchism of the CNT. People greeted each other with "cheers" and "comrade," and many balconies waved revolutionary flags. The fact that the street was renamed Via Durruti is one of those extravaganzas of history that, told today, sounds like science fiction.

The recent renovation of Via Laietana, hyped to the max by the City Council, inspires me to take a stroll without the stress suffered by those who venture onto it. The expedition begins on Urgell Street, just a metro away from the L1 line that takes me to Urquinaona. The working-class majority occupying the carriages doesn't seem very keen to call each other "comrade." Hypnotized by their cell phones, they don't even notice that a user has just boarded who looks so much like the great actor Pol López that it's very likely he is the great actor Pol López.

In Urquinaona, a Guardia Urbano patrol regulates traffic. The renovation has redistributed the space: we now have two downhill lanes (one for taxis and buses and one for, so-called, normal vehicles) and, uphill, a bike lane (in theory, uphill only) and another for buses, taxis, and authorized vehicles.

The traffic jam includes genuinely Barcelona variations, such as three vans parked with impunity on the sidewalk (wider, admittedly) or, on the bike lane, skaters and cyclists using it in the wrong direction. It must be the legacy of Orwellian nonconformism, which never knew the misery of the High Police Prefecture. I go over to see if I can hear the echoes of when my father was tortured, but instead of being abducted by the Creix brothers, I'm about to be run over by a pack of tourists armed with trolleys and killer flip-flops.

I resist the temptation to gobble up some porras at the Xurreria Laietana

I resist the temptation to gobble up some porras at Xurrería Laietana or splurge at Afrika Latino, a supermarket that, if I remember correctly, I'll half-open in another life. Opposite, the headquarters of the Workers' Commissions, which, depending on whether you go up or down, is on the left or right. In front of one of the large buildings still under construction, a sign promises June 2026 as the completion date.

I arrive at Idrissa Diallo Square, which commemorates the Guinean migrant who died in a Foreigners' Detention Center in the Zona Franca. On the balconies, the only flag surviving the persistent traffic jam is the LGBTQ+ pride flag.

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I get on the legendary 47, which has to invade the bike lane to pick up its passengers, and I see a skater in front of me—sunglasses, shirtless, tattooed—riding in the opposite direction, making great gestures and, at the top of his lungs, shouting indignantly at the driver for not letting him fully enjoy the privileges of Can Pixa. I suspect he wouldn't have spoken like that to Manolo Vital.