The tourism war is being fought on the beach, and this time the front is in Las Palmas, which has "the best urban beach in the world," according to its slogan, as if Rio de Janeiro didn't exist. On the sands of Las Canteras, where the Atlantic laps the ankles of retirees and hungover surfers, locals have taken out their verbal knives against southern Gran Canaria. Playa del Inglés, they say, is a low-class destination, a soulless backdrop, a theme park for tourists with a wet-sock IQ. As if the tourist who gets drunk in Playa del Inglés were a soulless barbarian, and the one who strolls through Las Palmas a philosopher in flip-flops.
La Miplayadelascanteras (MPC) website, which functions as the emotional newsletter of this area not suitable for tourists who do not speak Italian.has launched a manifesto redolent of saltpeter and nighttime barbecues. "We resemble a low-class tourist destination," they say, pointing the finger at southern Gran Canaria as if it were the culprit of all the ills. As if the apartments in Playa del Inglés weren't owned by nostalgic, blue-shirted officials who bought cheap and now complain that tourists don't respect their siesta.
"When we talk about Playa del Inglés, we're referring to a destination that lacks the cultural and historical authenticity that should permeate Las Canteras." The little beach of Las Canteras isn't just a beach. It's a declaration of principles, a sandy barricade against cheap tourism, so they believe. In Las Palmas, where the Atlantic laps listlessly and retirees stroll as if they owned time, the residents have decided enough is enough. They don't want to resemble the south. That Playa del Inglés is the vulgar reverse of what they call identity.
In La Puntilla, they complain, there's a restaurant that barbecues right on the avenue, filling the neighbors with smoke until the early hours. Do you see that in Playa del Inglés? They forget, though, that three years ago a wooden boat, a tribute to Christopher Columbus, burned down in Santa Catalina, charred as if the discoverer had landed in Mordor. And there it is, to the horror of the southern islanders, right at the entrance for cruise passengers who disembark to spend the meager 3 euros they leave in the city before fleeing to the airport or the Primark in Las Arenas. Ironically, Columbus passed through the south, not Las Palmas. In Santa Catalina, there's free barbecue wood when the ship isn't full of squatters.
But this isn't about history, but about storytelling. And the story of Las Canteras is that of a beach that doesn't want to be a theme park. "One of the characteristics of our promenade is that not all residents are tourists," they say. People who work, who want to sleep, who don't want any surprises. As if the south were Sodom and Las Canteras were Jerusalem. MPC insists that we must foster a "unique identity," far from the vulgarity of mass tourism. As if the southern tourist's brain were in airplane mode. As if the north were a sanctuary of good taste and the south a brothel with an umbrella. And while the residents write manifestos and the tourists continue seeking sun and beer, the sea remains there, indifferent, washing away the Italian words and returning foam on a clear day in Las Palmas.
