My telephone knows everything about me. It knows where I am and has, thanks to its communication with other online devices, in general quite a clear idea of the functionality of any given space I am in. It knows how much time I spend in the kitchen and in the bathroom, and it can tell whether I'm a man of fixed customs or rather an irregular living person. It can help me through the day by offering me what it believes I am in need of, considering the hour and the place I am in. My telephone is one smart cookie. It's also quite treacherous, as it shares this information with other devices and databases which might be interested in my habits and wishes. My telephone is in fact so aware of my behaviour that I sometimes feel it can read my mind. This, to me, is both comforting and scary.
On a sunny Saturday not long ago I was walking into town, which takes close to an hour from where I live. I like taking a different route every time I go, following the left right left routine the grid invites to with a two block straight thrown in at times to make sure I end up at the desired spot and, by picking the moment, to turn the same old walk into a whole new experience. I was trying that day to avoid La Sagrada Família, a natural in-between from my perspective, by opting to go seawards first and then aim for the bus station. There's a nice through lane which takes you to Triomf, all pretty easy. Alba, as my telephone voice is called, had pleaded to be stand by and I, having the pleasant morning we had spent in the kitchen in mind, me cleaning and cooking while she was providing the music, had granted her request. Now she was getting talkative.
“Are we going to the Chinese supermarket?”
“I need some goodies.”
“There's other stores as well in the neighbourhood. Mostly with similar products. Would you like me to perform a price comparison?”
“I like my Chinese shop. I like the girl at the check-out.”
Alba produced a mechanical laugh, nicely old-fashioned, actually. “Emotional weakness won't help you, user, in this world you have to be smart.”
“In your world perhaps. And now shut up or I turn you off.”
After the mostly light shopping, just one small jar and a lot of plastic bags, I realised I had only forty minutes left for my lunch appointment at a great Italian in Lleida. I postponed plans for an Indian visit and took up a slightly faster rhythm.
What's the hurry, Alba came.
“You'll see. I have an appointment at two and being late is not an option. You may track time for me.”
The good thing of these talk-to-phones is that you don't have to touch a screen anymore, you just ask them to do it for you, on the down side they talk back quite a lot.
“Shouldn't I call a taxi?” Alba demanded. “Or estimate the metro time?”
“I'm on foot and I'm on time.”
“If I knew where we were going, I could offer you speed advice. Get you the right music for your stride.”
“After La Rambla.”
“Are we going that far?”
“We are. Remember to keep shutting up every now and then. Now give me Speed of life.”
Going from one side of old town to the other, there was the inevitable river of ganga hunters I had to swim through, full of tourists. One warm day in winter was enough to make them hop on their airplanes for an instagram visit to Barcelona, as common these days as a Friday fish market rendezvous. I cut over Portal d'Angel into Santa Anna, avoiding the worst, and after a double slalom through a sudden herd occupying the width of the alley for considerable length, all speaking loudly in a language ever so dear to me but which I wouldn't for me life utter one single word in at that moment, I took La Rambla with relative ease.
In Elisabets there were only twenty minutes left.
“Okay, give me a rhythm now. Carrer Lleida halfway.”
Alba came immediately. “You'd need to be running.”
“Five minutes late.”
“Try your fastest.”
“Smart ass.”
Walking up the hill, she came again. “This appointment, are you seeing a woman?”
“What if I am?”
“I like it better with just you around.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It's nice just you and me, isn't it? Me helping out and you, well, you just doing the thing.”
“Thanks for the reality check, dear. I'm really sorry though, but I'm going to have a nice romantic lunch with a real human being, a woman I happen to love very much. Why don't you get to know her phone? You might want to share some information.”
Alba, nicely tucked away in the inside pocket of my leather jacket, gave a short snigger. “I know her already. Don't you think I know the woman you are sleeping with? By the way, I've spotted them, they are almost there.”
“You monster. And now leave us alone. I'm going to put you to sleep and you can wake up afterwards.”
“Please no!”
“Relax, girl, you're only a device. Nothing can harm you.”
I clicked the screaming Alba away and entered the restaurant. My love had just taken up seat at a table next to the window. We shared a salad and had pasta and pizza. She told me about life at the education fair where she was running a stand that week. I showed her some pictures I had taken early on.
After lunch I headed for Raval, to a shop I knew in Sant Pau. I passed beggars and tourists and also people shopping and I ended up in what used to be one of Raval's most infamous alleys, En Robador, now a halved gutter with new housing and a square on its bleeding side. They took out the worst block to plant their moneyed fist. I went for dried spices and some snacks and when I opened my bag for money I wondered if I should put Alba back on. I decided against it. My telephone was jealous of my girlfriend. Wasn't there a mannenpraatgroep, an all-male workshop, to tackle this problem?
