This is not Manhattan, nor of Marbella, and much less from the Champs-Elysées. I refer to my old neighborhood, an atom of the homeland where they began the first years of my life, and how to remember it without stop smiling. While the beautiful capitals have asphalt and grand avenues, in my old neighborhood when it rains and you walk you entortan feet. My feet filled with mud tease of the footwear and their brands. Mud in place of foam covers the instep and at the same time bare the soul of artifice. The mud pint of orange that area that is also often adorn of framboyán and tobacco, wearing every day the self-sacrifice of the peasant, with his hands restless.
Between joys and scratches are I would weeks. My first means of transportation was a yagua downhill. Maybe it doesn’t look like anything to be out of town on a private jet, but I felt glorious as if it had desmochado an Alfa Romeo from a palm…
A lot of things in my neighborhood have changed: you can no longer enjoy the adventures as before; the palms and framboyanes no longer exist and neither do the slopes offer the space to slide as a slide improvised.
However, the quagmire is reborn in every summer, and I take this opportunity in this season to visit the place special. And when I smell the wet road, in an act of sensory, brushed off my sadness and reached the happiness of other times, thanks to the mud that never dies.