Spaniards are said to suffer from anti-Americanism. From the sinking of the Maine to “NATO no, base out” going through Franco’s Entente with Washington, that trip of “Ike” Eisenhower (we called it “Ike”) to Madrid in the middle of the Cold War Crowned From the real incident De Palomares and the trauma of seeing Fraga in “Mayba,” not to mention that convulsive 2003 “No To War,” we’ve always preferred to consider ourselves reticent about Uncle Sam’s influence. .
Nothing further from reality. While we discard our traditionalism, the Berlange spirit of “Welcome Mr. Marshall” beats in us, and nothing makes us sexier than a gringo, and that a tenant of the White House, especially if he’s a Democrat, we noticed. . There arises our proverbial Arab hospitality, which makes us the best hosts. I remember going to see the sunset over the Alhambra from the San Nicolás viewpoint in Clinton; Biden’s most recent for a NATO summit, and most recently a former President, Barack Obama, for Barcelona on the occasion of Bruce Springsteen’s final concert, accompanied by his Catalan followers and from many other places in Spain, who are the Legion and There are religions, haven’t stopped chanting “Born in the USA” for nearly forty years.
In the latter, no details remain to be discovered. We’ve learned which hotel Barack and Michelle stayed at, what they ate for dinner with Spielberg, we’ve seen them stroll the Rambla to the admiration of crowds under the brilliant spring sun, and even They also make pilgrimages to Montserrat amid cheers. The only thing missing was the barca box. And then we call ourselves anti-American!
I am not. I grew up under the umbrella of America, under the USSR. Strange that this is one. Nor mythological. But I can understand the allure to the (still) most powerful man in the world. One day I met Obama. It was at the Climate Summit in Paris in 2015. In that huge hangar at Le Bourget they were trying to stop the apocalypse. A few days earlier, Paris experienced the Dantesque hell of the 13-N attacks. The atmosphere was silent. Things were not going well. Talks stalled. One and a half degrees up and the world will go to hell. A messiah was needed to save them, a parousia against time who would ensure humanity’s survival. At the time, Greta was too young for such redemption. In the corridors of the conference room one would run into heads of state whom one had seen only on TV or in the newspapers, followed by a group of tense advisers, and then four-glass cabinet-like bodyguards, with tight jaws. and brush the hair. He opened the way for Putin, Erdogan, Trudeau or Maduro.
Speaking to a colleague in the plenary room, I noticed a shift in strength. Looking up, it felt as if a whole set of teeth were staring at me. Two protruding ears emerged on either side of that smile. “Hi, I’m Barack Obama”, he said with that swag before extending his hand to all of us working there. Like we didn’t know who the guy was. As if he needed any introduction. At that point we all give him our girlfriend’s wallet, watch or WhatsApp We all try to manage the sheen of charisma as gracefully as possible which I have never got from other politicians I have met.
“How are you, Mr. President?” we stuttered awkwardly in our best House of Cards presidential English. Obama is one of those guys who takes up the whole place, like those bombs that go off when they go off. soak up the oxygen that surrounds them. Shortly after, he takes the podium and delivers a speech of his own, with the wisdom of Harvard and the flow of Tupac, a homily that makes you think humans are extraordinary, the world a fucking is the place that must be saved, and climate change, the last bridgehead of the Normandy beaches. And he’s gone, leaving us alone with conscience. And a settlement was made. And camped among us. Born in the United States.
