Central beach of El Médano. / María Pisaca
Every morning Hirayama embraces life as he leaves his house, enjoying the sunrise on his way to work. During breakfast, he takes out his analogue camera and photographs the green lungs surrounding the public baths of Tokyo that he cleans meticulously, unseen by citizens for whom it remains invisible. He lives alone; he does not speak to anyone. He reads before sleeping, wakes up to the sweeping motion of the street sweeper’s broom, and gently waters his plants.
The protagonist of this wonderful film called Perfect Days is happy. He enjoys the small things in a life that is too routine for a hyperconnected society addicted to likes. The film, a finalist in the recent Oscars awards in the Best Foreign Film category, reflects on simple life in the midst of a big city.
And memories flood my mind: that era when music was listened to on a cassette tape, when happiness was about feeling the sand under your feet and the sea in the background. Trading cards, playing marbles, learning to ride a bike, and searching for hidden friends in the corners of the El Médano square.
The Médano of our memories has been swept away by the wind. Kilometres of queues of vehicles searching for parking. Houses made of golden bricks…
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The simple life of our childhood. With pots and fried fish from my aunt Tona’s fish market – the kindest and simplest woman I have ever known. That Médano of pizzas from Marazul, squid from Pastora at La Naútica, hugs from Fátima at Mario’s bar, and advice from Orestila. Afternoons on the football field reciting poetry to the referee. The queen’s galas in September, the month when tranquillity returned with the “Russians” coming back – as we call the sailors from Santa Cruz de Tenerife – to the capital.
That truce no longer exists. The Médano of our memories has been swept away by the wind. Kilometres of queues of vehicles searching for parking. Houses made of golden bricks: a beach taken over by sun loungers, with not a single secluded spot to listen to the breeze, feel the sea, and photograph the waves.
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Is this progress?
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Faced with this new Médano, I wonder: Is this progress? Or perhaps… political and economic chaos? You be the judge. The debate is long and necessary. All I know is that since I left the cinema seat that Saturday, every morning on my way to work, I tune in to the soundtrack that accompanies Hirayama in his daily routine. I admire his ability to create a bubble of tranquillity amidst the neon lights, technology, and consumerism of a fast-paced capital. I seek in those songs to return to those perfect days at El Médano from my childhood.
