Oh, to be in Spain now that gravity has rediscovered its appetite for commuters. One might call it a trend, though 'trend' implies a certain chic intentionality that the Spanish rail system, Rodalies, clearly lacks. To have one train derail is a misfortune; to have two in the space of forty-eight hours suggests a choreography of incompetence so profound that even the most avant-garde theater directors in Madrid would find it excessive. It is a masterclass in literal deconstruction, where the 'modern' European state meets the messy reality of a hillside that simply refused to stay put.

The scene near Barcelona—specifically Vacarisses—was a grim tableau of what happens when high-speed aspirations collide with low-budget maintenance. A landslide, we are told, was the culprit. Nature, that inconveniently ancient force, decided that the tracks were merely suggestions rather than commands. The result? A driver deceased, thirty-seven souls shaken, and a buffet of twisted metal that serves as a surgical metaphor for the Iberian Peninsula’s current trajectory. It is the sort of event that causes government ministers to adjust their silk ties and offer 'profound condolences' while secretly checking if the insurance covers acts of God or merely the systemic neglect of their own ministries. One driver dead, dozens injured—a statistical blip in the grand ledger of bureaucratic indifference, but a catastrophic failure for those actually on board.

Let us not forget the previous day’s festivities. The synchronicity is almost poetic, if your idea of poetry involves the screeching of steel against stone. In the grand theater of European logistics, Spain is currently performing a tragicomedy where the punchline is always a kinetic impact. We treat these events as anomalies, yet they are the logical conclusion of a continent that prioritizes the aesthetics of progress over the boring, unglamorous task of ensuring the ground doesn't swallow its citizens. We spend billions on high-speed prestige projects while the regional lines, the ones that actually carry the workers to the offices they hate, are left to rot under the weight of history and heavy rain.

The bureaucratic machinery is already whirring with the practiced efficiency of a meat grinder. There will be committees. There will be 'comprehensive reviews.' There will be a flurry of press releases written in that uniquely flavorless prose that signifies a desperate attempt to say nothing while appearing remarkably busy. They will blame the rain. They will blame the terrain. They might even blame the ghosts of the Habsburgs if it means avoiding the admission that the infrastructure is a marvelous facade held together by spit, prayer, and the hope that the rains don't fall too hard on the wrong hillsides. It is the classic European shuffle: promise a futuristic utopia, deliver a nineteenth-century landslide.

One must admire the stoicism of the modern traveler. They board these aluminum tubes, clutching their smartphones and their illusions of safety, while hurtling through landscapes that are fundamentally hostile to the concept of the 9-to-5 grind. We have built a civilization on the assumption that a few bolts and a bit of gravel can tame the tectonic restlessness of the planet. When it fails, we act surprised. We find it 'unacceptable.' As if the Earth, in its cold and stony heart, cares one whit for our standards of acceptability or our transit schedules.

The driver, may they rest in a place where the signals always work and the mountains remain stationary, is the latest collateral in a war between human hubris and geological reality. Meanwhile, the thirty-seven injured will limp away, perhaps receiving a voucher for a future journey they will be too terrified to take. It is the European way: a shrug of the shoulders, a moment of silence in the parliament, and then back to the business of pretending that the next landslide isn't already picking its moment. We are all, quite literally, passengers on a train that has already derailed; some of us just haven't hit the mud yet. We stare out the windows at the blurred scenery, convinced we are moving forward, when in reality, we are just waiting for the earth to reclaim its right of way. In the end, Spain’s railway isn’t just a transport system; it’s a memento mori on wheels.