The absence of money at the event wasn't an oversight, but an act of contempt. The Hotel Santa Catalina, that palace once owned by the British bourgeoisie and now managed by a Mallorcan chain specializing in all-inclusive sun and beach resorts, hosted the Las Palmas Chamber of Commerce luncheon. And there, the truth was served cold and bitter: there was only emptiness. Attendance was so meager that it's whispered there was a larger gathering at the event commemorating the 40th anniversary of the Mapfre Guanarteme Foundation. The meeting, an event that in the past was the sole gathering of power, is now absurdly split into two events on the eve of the CCE luncheon, proof of the sterile ego of the employees who run these employers' associations today.
Santa Catalina, a haven for the elite of Las Palmas who clamor for control over the South, was the stage for their own silent defeat. The absence of the men and women of Maspalomas and Mogán—those who generate the real money and sweat under the sun—was a resounding statement. Even the president of the FEHT (Federation of Hospitality and Tourism Businesses) of Las Palmas wasn't there. None of those who run the hardware stores or lay bricks deigned to appear. The message is clear: the capital has lost its ability to mobilize the island's productive sector.
The most vocal figures in southern Gran Canaria were Juan Acosta and, above all, Santiago de Armas. De Armas, who managed to escape with his resignation just before the shareholders' meeting of Lopesan's German subsidiary and the oversight committee of the former IFA (Asturian Trade Fair Institution), was able to do so. The virus corroding the Chamber is the monotony of power. The rest of the economy, the engine that drives the roads and sells basic goods, is invisible. While the men from the North play at being important in that luxurious dining room, their mouths are filled with vague pronouncements. They spoke of "plans" and "the future" without anyone asking about tomorrow's bread and butter.
But the greatest misery, the one that reeked of cowardice in every sip of wine, was the silence surrounding company retirement plans. They stay put. They cling to their titles until death drags them from their seats. There's no vision for the future, no succession plan. Only the fear of relinquishing power. The luncheon wasn't a working meeting; it was an exhibition of outdated vanities and a precise portrait of arrogance: the capital pretending to be the center, while ignoring that money and real energy lie a hundred kilometers away.
