love letter to Spain
How difficult not to get angry with you so many times Oh, and how easy to love you more than anyone. You are the home, the mother with whom you get angry without measuring the word and to whom you run to take refuge when it's a bad day. We brag about you out there, "like Spain nowhere", and how true, Federico already said it after kicking America , but we also put you to broth as soon as you turn the corner because let's see, the coven was our thing and what an invention.
In those we were and, suddenly, 2020 arrived . And boom, we suddenly learned to understand you without any corners, to get along, to live with you even knowing that we would continue arguing . But no grudges. Because Spain, you don't hurt us anymore.
from end to end, from Creus to Finisterre and from Trafalgar to the Nao . Jumping puddles to land in Formentor or in Barbaria, to go up Teide and down to Taburiente . We want to love you completely and this summer, damn summer that has no song, we have sworn to dance to you even if it's a chotis in the portal.
Creus
And not only. In Conde Nast Traveler we've been weeks tracing routes not to leave you . And we have insisted, you see what love does, to turn them all into paths as ugly as those that appear in the road, blanket and happy ending movies . Or also in cosmopistas such as Cortázar's, look how quixotic if he had chosen La Mancha instead of Provence. We need to believe in you, get lost in Matarraña without thinking about Tuscany, peel off the Extremaduran heat in posh pools, check that the Sierra del Segura It's a crazy orchard, navigating the Douro Azul and dedicating it not a waltz, but blow by blow, verse by verse.
We need Malibu to be renamed Launched Beach instead of saying so much California to cajole with your Galician beaches. We need to stop being surprised if Asturias comes out in the New York Times , because the strange thing is that it doesn't come out all the time. And tell the world about Cantabria: that walking the Sardinero should be an intangible heritage of Humanity, that there is no better vertigo than that of the hermitage , that eating sobaos for breakfast generates more endorphins than tea at five. We need to eat the whole of Euskadi and listen to songs from The Good Life on the way to Donosti , uncork The Rioja vine by vine, tell Pamplona that Hemingway fell in love, fill Aragón, which exists more than ever from north to south and nothing like overflowing it to solve that empty Spain thing.
The genius in Figueres
Need border the Mediterranean starting with Dalí , stopping at Sorolla , ending in picasso and counting in their palettes the thousands of blues, which in Begur are almost mauve, like Taylor's eyes, in Barcelona they color modernism, in Calpe they are as pop as Bofill's chewing gum, in Murcia and Almería they soak up film deserts and in Malaga they shine the espeto to reflect summer smiles, from Verano Azul.
We need to cross to Ceuta and Melilla, fill ourselves with art deco and return to Andalusia with a longing for Seville, Seville always, to be happy in Granada's Tristes, to see Córdoba dressed to the nines, to rub our eyes in Úbeda because it's so beautiful It is not normal, to reach Cádiz, Huelva, the Atlantic, and want to swim it all.
We need more trips to the Alcarria, more Toledo nights, more looking for frogs in Salamanca, more Zamorano and Palencia Romanesque, more blood sausage in Burgos and León waiting for you with his, each one more cathedral. More Valladolid, with its Herrerian interruptus but so many good lyrics, oh Delibes, ouch threshold . And more of the Segovian countryside, where Víctor Erice showed us that there are spirits everywhere and that imagination, without a doubt, is the best postcard.
we need madrid , the last of this trip but she is always cool the first, so Baden-Baden in August that this year we will miss her days of verbena and lemonade , the days of town enjaranado of her. Azorín, what you said.
We need your siestas and your gaupasas, your sobrasada and your gazpacho, your marmitako and your mojo picón. Your joy and your bad milk, your sarcasm and your kindness. You come back tomorrow, you to see if we meet, you the penultimate and that's it. your mess
And, above all, we need to tell you more: how difficult to talk to you, Spain, and how easy to love you.
Free, like Ana