Nostalgia for empty Spain



All the politicians of the world are in Castilla y León and we can no longer deal with the stress. We are not accustomed. Before, you used to go out for a coffee and at most you ran into a couple of students who were coming back from a party, your neighbor taking her dog down and one of those early-rising gentlemen buying bread, with the moral superiority that a loaf under his arm confers on the third Age. Now you go out for a coffee and, on the way, you get rid of a couple of cameras, three canutazos and a rally at the Chinese door. And when you get to the kiosk you find García Egea chatting with someone from when he did his military service in Murcia.

Many dressed as hunters, as if they were going to a hunt. That the truth, here we have not seen anyone like that since ‘Downton Abbey’. If Delibes raised his head, he would lock himself in Sedano again, but fixed. You find them in the most unexpected places, so much so that I live in fear of opening the elevator door and finding Pilar Rahola curled up there. They are being hard days. One flees Valladolid to get rid of them and goes to a remote town in León, but it doesn’t matter, you turn a street and you find Casado there hugging a goat. And with a face of being delighted, hey. I fled terrified in the other direction, stepped on the accelerator like in a Coen movie and arrived at the border between Soria and Zaragoza looking for some peace. But it is useless, there is Abascal in a gas station looking at the Moncayo mountain range, alone, with a lost look, thinking about his Abascal things. I don’t know where we’re going to stop. The other day I ran into Arrimadas and Villacís, I guess they would come from airing half of torreznos and some claret. At the greengrocer, they told me that they had seen Lastra buying some water pears. And in the hairdresser downstairs they are trying to get Cuca Gamarra’s phone number to suggest a bob cut. The expectation has gotten out of hand.

They have a busted stomach, yes. One told me that he had a quarter of suckling lamb, half a suckling pig, a black pudding from Burgos, a botillo from Bierzo, a steak from Ávila and three chorizos from Cantimpalos. And in a basket some shortbread from Astorga, which a lady had insisted on, in case she was hungry. Another had pressed down a cooked maragato, a hornazo from Salamanca, half a ham from Guijuelo, a Zamora-style rice and a bottle of Ribera. So they are widening, they all have a rosy color that is nice to see. They are going to end the campaign with five extra kilos, colder than a Saint Bernard and the twins like Roberto Carlos. And it is that, as this lasts a little longer, the empty Spain will stop making sense. The only thing empty in Spain today is the Congress of Deputies because they are all in my neighborhood. So, to disconnect, I will emigrate to a quieter place, without politicians or spotlights. I think that the safest place today is Madrid. Maybe I’ll go there to relax, there are much fewer people. Because of course, here there is no room for a soul.

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