Today was vaccine day, baby.
With this single dose of Pfizer, I can already get my “Covid passport”, aka European digital certificate, which allows me to move freely within the European Union.
In Spain, those who went through Covid took only one dose of the mRNA vaccine (in my case, Pfizer), not two, as international studies indicate that the benefit of a second shot for antibody development is negligible.
It would be interesting that in Brazel they also release vaccines with this protocol, right?
And speaking of Brazelzelzel: Last Thursday (1), the same day the digital certificate went into effect in Europe, Spain announced that Brazilians will still not be able to enter the country for a while.
Until next July 20 at least, Brazilians without a home or Spanish passport will not be able to set foot in the country, except in the event of a stopover, and without leaving the airport.
“And anyone who has family in Spain, right?” A dear Brazilian friend asked me yesterday.
Nananinaaam. Until further notice, only Brazilians who have a Spanish residence or passport will enter Spain.
And even these must present one of the following documents: full vaccination certificate, negative Covid test carried out up to 48 hours before arriving in Spain or proof that they have gone through the Covid and have recovered.
Well, so far is the service time of this column. Now I’m going to let go and say what I think about this life that I need to evacuate (copyright Claudia, Ivan Lins and Ronaldo Monteiro de Souza) from my bunker beyond the sea.
We took a week without the obligatory mask on the streets in Spain. After a (long as hell) year of hidden faces, freedom. Emotion.
Last Saturday (26), the first day of mascharistic freedom, I left my home moved, hesitant, vulnerable. You understand me.
Since I hadn’t done it for a long time, I examined my naked face in the elevator mirror (by the way: sad, those relentless lights from elevator surgery, we leave the house wanting to run out of steam and we run into frog version – change, Schindler, for the sake of our self-esteem).
And I thought of two thoughts:
I have aged a lot this past year, and the only reason I hadn’t noticed too much was that often a mask covered the inexorable.
And this fppp2p32 X 1 year old mask left me with some p *** marks on my cheeks, which are no longer small.
Stepping out onto the street after that brief monologue on the elevator (and now feeling not only vulnerable, but a little depressed, thinking about Botox and the other Paranaues), I walked in fear. No exaggeration. Sipping the fresh, sunny morning air in a slightly eerie and vaguely criminal mood.
Then, driven by uncontrollable anxiety, I couldn’t stand it, guys: with my heart pounding, feeling pretty loka, I took the blue mask out of my pocket and wore it to my face, like the oxygen from Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet. I breathed with relief the warm, protective breath of this surgical material on my mouth. Who would say.
More calmly, I became aware of a curious herd behavior, hmm, around me: contrary to what I imagined, and at least here in Barcelona, a lot of people chose to continue to wear the mask in the street in those early days, especially the elderly – precisely the population that is practically 100% immune.
I guess many choose (we choose, because I did the same) to walk down the street with their masks on in that already classic favorite relaxed position – under the chin. We walked something more free, but prepared for the moment to enter bars, supermarkets or public transport, where it is still mandatory to use the said.
Or is it the sheer masquerade attachment phenomenon (or the phobia of the outside, I haven’t found a suitable expression yet – does anyone have any idea?) isn’t it just me?
With the go-no-go of reducing cases in Europe, summer arrived on June 21 – but without the usual mass of foreign tourists keen to enjoy Barcelowna.
This, combined with the fact that Barcelonians usually leave the city in July and August because of the holidays, has created a ghost tourist town, which I walk in these days among a haunted, hated and – again – somethin ‘town. depressing thing.
Yeah, get depressed. The great threat is over, they say, but there are now several small popcorns in the air. Crisis. The doors forever closed to many companies.
And a feeling (quite personal) that has not left me these last days: that Barcelona, the city of Condal, main star of the second most visited country in the world, lost last year some of its glamor, its varnish of fantastic destiny, where we come to eat paella, take selfies framed by the sunset of the flamingos of the Mediterranean or let off steam on apepês.
Something like when the lights are on after a walk and you’re faced with dirt on the dance floor, drunks and your face in the bar mirror, makeup all smeared, wrinkles howling under the light- obscure cruel LED lamps. And girl. Time passes, wrinkles accumulate, life goes on. Real life, part of life, what really matters.
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