Diagonal Mar again. I don’t know why I keep walking there. Maybe because the towers glare at you like smug teenagers. All glass, all angles, the kind of architecture that wins awards from people who never have to live in it. Supposed to be sustainable. Efficient glazing, fancy shading, something about “thermal balance” I read once in a brochure that smelled of new ink.
I went up once, to Rob’s flat. Rob’s Irish, IT job, thinks he’s clever until the electricity bill comes. Place looks like a magazine spread — white sofa, fake plant, a view that makes you want to take a photo even though you know you’ll never look at it again. But the air? Heavy, like walking into a greenhouse. He had the air-con blasting. Didn’t help. We drank Estrella cans on the balcony, sweating in silence, then gave up and went inside to sweat some more.
Next month his bill doubled. He rang me. “Smart building, my arse.” I told him to move. He said the pool downstairs makes up for it. It doesn’t.
The funny part is how they sell these places. Banners screaming eco-friendly living. I walk past and see curtains drawn tight at noon, balconies abandoned. Machines rattling all day, draining wallets. Call it whatever you like — sustainability, progress — it’s just people roasting in boxes.
Meanwhile Pepi downstairs is still plugging in her little heater. Different income bracket, same story. Everyone burning money just to keep their flats habitable. WSB14 banged on about “passive design.” Ten years later, passive means sitting in a chair and hoping the air doesn’t suffocate you.
Emily doesn’t care. She just laughed when I sent her a sketch of the tower. “Looks like Minecraft,” she texted back. Maybe she’s right. Blocks on blocks, no thought about the bodies inside.
Rob still defends the place. Says the gym’s decent, the pool’s clean. Fine. Enjoy the treadmill, mate. I’ll stick with my rattling boiler and walls that at least let air through.
I keep walking past those towers. They gleam, they buzz, they hum like showrooms. I count the cranes nearby, lose track after six. Odd numbers count, even ones don’t, don’t ask me why. By the time I reach the metro my shirt’s stuck to my back and all I can think is: the city learned the words, but not the meaning.
