temporada baixa
The further south you go in Catalonia, the higher the buildings are along the coast. Excessive urban development has turned it into a giant esplanade flanked by immense apartment blocks sparsely populated throughout the year. As a friend of mine once said to me “A very scary place to live in during the winter.”
The palm trees, premeditatedly placed as if they were dominoes, line off into the distance along the boardwalk and around absurd roundabouts. Walking around the affront to intelligence that is Marina d'Or, you realise that the those who make the decisions to build here have to be either corrupt or inept. Or surely both.
All along the coast, the streets, apartments and hotel-cities are filled by a vacuum. Beauty spots and stretches of land in a never-ending sprawl of asphalt, swimming pools and bad-taste. In the summer, a gushing to and fro of towels, swimsuits, cars, bikes, paellas and beer that cannot be stemmed. The rest of the year, most of the year, is a picture of closed Persian blinds. Closed for (no)holidays. Low season.
The palm trees, premeditatedly placed as if they were dominoes, line off into the distance along the boardwalk and around absurd roundabouts. Walking around the affront to intelligence that is Marina d'Or, you realise that the those who make the decisions to build here have to be either corrupt or inept. Or surely both.
All along the coast, the streets, apartments and hotel-cities are filled by a vacuum. Beauty spots and stretches of land in a never-ending sprawl of asphalt, swimming pools and bad-taste. In the summer, a gushing to and fro of towels, swimsuits, cars, bikes, paellas and beer that cannot be stemmed. The rest of the year, most of the year, is a picture of closed Persian blinds. Closed for (no)holidays. Low season.
