It’s that time of the year again. And, at the same time, it’s not. I’m not a young fella anymore and for the last 40 years I’ve been spending my Christmas at my hometown, visiting my friends and family.
But, … not this time.
As it should be painfully obvious by now, I’m Spanish. Old country. Long traditions. A land that predates the Roman empire (in a very literal sense, as discussed in this blog) I’ve spent the last months in Poland, arguably the heart of Europe. A land in the border between the West and the East.
But, yesterday something espectacular happened. I received a message. A simple note from the front desk. I had a package. A single innocuous figure: 11. That was the code.
A simple package from Correos the Spanish postal service. And their main product: the green package; that ironically it’s not green and it’s usually a pretty smacked package, that has lost it’s parallelepiped condition. And, on it … it was the name and caligraphy of my parents.
And, in such boxy ruin, I found “jamón serrano”, smoked cheese, mussels … and, a-la Faulkner, I’m back there. Stranded. Lost. Marooned.
– Take care dudes and dudettes, try to have a nice time, you won’t have another.