The Garbage Wars

Poubelle is the French word for garbage, far prettier sounding than what the word represents.
Years ago, Friday was garbage soup day, when all the leftovers were blended in an onion broth and flavoured with cream. If we had guests it became a first course and was renamed Soupe La Poubelle. They loved it, and I was only in trouble if they asked for the recipe.

Here in Argelès, especially during the season, garbage is picked up daily. Around 5 a.m. the trucks rattle down the narrow streets. We have bins divided into paper/glass/tins/plastic and food garbage. Our address is printed on the bin.

During the summer, people spend a lot of time on the street, setting up tables, eating, having wine, inviting passer-bys to join them. Native Catalonians meld with French and people whose homes are secondary residents.

Last night there was high drama when two strange women walked by and dropped their garbage in one of the Catalonian’s bins. “I knew it,” M. Garcia said. “I have garbage in my bin that isn’t mine.” He went on to separate out the woman’s garbage and his. He was determined. She was embarrassed as she slunk away with her black plastic sack.

M. Fernendez checked through his garbage to make sure it was truly his. There were things that weren’t his. I had noticed British papers and beer bottles in mine, things I never read or drank, but my reaction was so what?

The Danes watched open-mouthed. “Isn’t it better to share a garbage bin than have someone throw it on the street?” one asked but the Catalonian’s didn’t understand English.

Humans tend to be territorial. The joke is my daughter marks her territory by dropping her possessions all over her house (and mine). I am very territorial myself. However, protecting garbage is so low on my priority list, that it isn’t visible after 2,900,972 listings.