Últims dies a l'Eixample

'Through the eyes of an extraterrestrial anthropologist, the denizens of Eixample live on (pre)prepared paella and sangria, dress in explorer gear and colourful T-shirts, and slip into sandals. They do often haul wheeled suitcases and indulge in monumental selfies. I was a bothersome anachronism, a hindrance to progress.'

Deulofeu is not an ordinary writer. Just as makeup artists beautify the deceased's rigor mortis, the obituaries he pens for a funeral home serve as a mummifying balm, honouring the departed and serving as a remembrance for friends and relatives.

Born and bred in Eixample, he resides in a building owned by his family since its construction —Casa Deulofeu, featured in all postcards. Now, ambition has driven the latest batch of bourgeois lineage to carve up the ancestral home into apartments and offices for rent at exorbitant prices. He, the only one of them who has not succumbed to the temptation of speculation and exodus, refuses to be ousted from home when he no longer has the age or courage to change landscapes and habits. Eixample is his particular land’s end, and he is not willing to surrender and abandon it.