The dog looks like the owner. Gardens too. One in a backyard, between cements, has filled paint jars, cubes, donkeys and planted pumpkins, tomatoes, capuchin, flowers of different colors mixed. On the other side of the fence that separates from the side patio, on a minimalist terrace, a sun lounger, a book on a table. The neighbor has put him in a giant ceramic pot, which he seems to paint, a giant cacti. Plants have their arms twisted, as if someone had twisted them. The first gardener doesn't know what to do with his life, he's trying a new trade, he knows a lot of things, but he thinks it doesn't work at all. The other designs event-design for Daimler or Mercedens, in order to design events.

My relatives know that I had to break my head with the issue of the possible professions I could have. And as I walked, with the feeling that everything was going wrong, that the great zucchini harvest had saved me. Something planted in my window bearing fruit!

A garden can help us stay well. Like nothing happens. But outside the walls around us, there's a hell.

Over 20 years ago, I read a column by Antonio Gala: Mental garden. As you can see, I have not forgotten it. We all have a garden, he said. Thanks to him, I had my first garden: in the head. I represented a wilderness garden, report, wet, with spruce herbs, lemons, sun flowers and black cherries stuffed with kisses hanging from the branches. A living and fantastic garden. I thought such gardens were necessary inside my head. The outside world cannot be persecuted when it is suffocating to protect itself.

But the mental gardens of Gala were opposite: the reality, the wild, placed it outside and inside the garden walls, the unnatural, the domesticated artificiality.

I wanted a place of escapism. A fiction in the head. But escapism makes more sense. Trump does it in a madman: surrounded by walls, and leaving out both migrants and climate changes. Trump wants to fortify himself outside the world. In an original Eden.

I'm at the table of those who are sitting between the tomatoes. The cactus in sight. In a garden that's not mine, but I envy. And migration has, of course, entered the conversation. Get into conversations. We have tried to return the Abstumpfung:L’hébet has come out. The Basque country is quite good, it shows the process: creation. Today we have all heard that migration is related to climate change. That there are fewer and fewer habitable plots. But we think we can hold a couple more degrees, because no one knows what to do when the intellectuals are gone. And about one of the men who are sitting at the table, his wife said over and over again, Joch, he was an academic ... Before I went home, I finally asked, in what area is it academic. It says it comes from sociology, but it moves away from it. That now earns money with something specific: In IT with information technologies. Sociology is nothing. The population has the opportunity to be trained in highly specialized techniques or to learn professions that will soon be replaced by robots.

When I think that gardens are also going to grow according to the algorithms, I've had a red poppy that emerged a month ago from a hole between the cobblestones. I was amazed. Where had I come from?