Every time elections approach in Castilla y León, a natural phenomenon worthy of study occurs: the seasonal migration of national leaders. They appear suddenly, like cranes or spring allergies, with the difference that they bring laminated speeches, brand new casual jackets and a sudden passion for the problems “of the territory.”
For a few days, towns that did not appear on the map even in time become the epicenter of national politics. Roundabouts with a philosophical vocation are inaugurated, farms are visited where no one remembers having seen a minister before, and promises are made to listen to “the people here”, usually surrounded by microphones and with the official car in a double row.
The scene is repeated with Swiss precision: a photo with a rural landscape, a reference to the emptied Spain (very full of cameras that day), and the solemn promise that now, this time for real, Castilla y León is at the center of the agenda. All this before disappearing again towards Madrid, where the center of the agenda usually coincidentally coincides.
It is endearing to see how, for a few weeks, everyone is an expert in depopulation, agriculture and regional trains. The surprising thing is not that they come, but that they seem to discover the community as if it were a newly sighted island: ““We didn’t know this was like this.” The patient inhabitants nod. You already know it’s part of the ritual.
After the elections, silence returns to the towns, the banners are removed and the promises go into hibernation. Until the next campaign, when Castilla y León once again becomes, briefly, the beating heart of the country. Even if it’s just for the photo.
