If you were a man, would you not be a misogynist, too?

It was the last part that caught my eye beyond the happiness and wicked enthusiasm: “men should hold other men accountable” or “the boys watching today will be the men of tomorrow”. So basically let’s differentiate again: educate boys because they are boys, raise awareness among boys, and make men take action against their more aggressive counterparts, see to the best men can be. Oh, the irony.

This was the question I was asked by a loved one when I was telling him my recent trials and tribulations at work. The boss was a man, and he was probably a misogynist in the original sense of the word: he abhorred he had to deal with women, treat them with at least a feigned form of respect due to social norms, and thus show such consideration by implementing said social norms through deigning women with the occasional hello, good-bye, and thank you. Of course, all that turned up once you had the ill luck of getting to know him.

He was young, smart, and successful. He had travelled the world, he liked books and movies, and he was interested in the trendy-fashionable left wing politics, dressed highly casually, and was not least of all what would generally be considered a socially charming person: he was perfectly able to have a witty conversation, show interest in his employees’ personal lives, offer advice and even help to some extent. He did voluntary work, had his eco-friendly collective farmers’ group and was genuinely interested in all things hip and not mainstream. The glass house was a perfect mirage.

He could have easily fitted into a pro choice or women’s rights demonstration. Only he didn’t. You spend enough time with someone, the honeymoon is soon over and the haunting truth starts to leak out of the fairy tale and dawn on you with its ugly dark face. It took me longer to realize it all, and I like to believe it was because I had never come up against anything not even remotely like it.

My fall was steep. But my friend’s question – if you were a man wouldn’t you be a misogynist, too? – made me wonder.

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The Longest September

Sunny days follow this longest September. And with it, the joy of new beginnings – boy, was I in dire need of one. I can see ahead again. And I see a mirror that I chose to put in front of me so I can tell myself to take a long, deep look into it, to see who I am, what I truly want and above all: what crap I will not take anymore.

As the month draws to an end, I can´t stop myself from thinking that for the longest of times, I could not, for the life of me, remember what I did in any given September. Worse yet: looking back, I couldn´t even tell how the month had passed.

It had always been the month to come back to work after long and nice holidays; the month of plans and projects; the month of creativity and thoughts on new and exciting things to do; the time for looking ahead and foreseeing a good, ripe next couple of months.

Except for this year. I can´t remember sadder or voider holidays and I can´t remember that many days in a row thinking – and not the usual, dreamy thoughts. No, I mean scrambled thoughts, the painful type, the type that makes you constantly ask yourself: how did I get here? Could I have stopped to just back off, at some – at any point? Would it have changed anything at all?

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A Tearful Footballer and People Dressed in Flags

It goes without saying that being for or against Catalonia’s hypothetical independence does not help Spaniards pay their mortgages or find decent jobs, make their small businesses take off or stagnate, feed their children or offer them better opportunities in life. Walking on the streets of beautiful Madrid wrapped up in a Spanish flag does not keep anyone from having to go back to work on Monday or taking their kids to school nor does it help them make ends meet.

It was only after I came back from an amazing trip to Vietnam this summer and I was telling a friend how much I had enjoyed it and how I had just fallen in love with the country’s exquisite blend of modernity and authenticity, its mix of cosmopolitan touch and specific traditional nuances and colors that I realized I should come back down from my cloud-eleven holiday. Vietnam is beautiful, but I live in one of the best countries in the world.

And Spain being one of the best countries in the world makes this madness of showing off flags and giving out dramatically dense and yet sadly locked-in, narrow-minded, and immovable political speeches all the more absurd and aberrant. The mere fact that the drama-queen tears of a Catalan footballer made it to the headlines of news bulletins around Europe is ridiculous. That footballer maybe leaving Spain’s football team because of what he said on national TV – along with the utter nonsense of professionals actually showing interest in what he had to say on the topic as to allow him precious on-air time – is just bad journalism and definitely not news.

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This Obsession of Labeling

People keep trying to put names on stuff and label experiences and thus necessarily corset any human possibility within the confined space of limits. I hate that word and everything it implies. Put a limit to thinking, put a label on what people are or are not and you´ve got a pretty full stop for just about anything.

There was this Woody Allen movie I once saw – Vicky Cristina Barcelona – where at some point, Scarlett Johansson’s character gets The Question popped after she confesses to her friend that she´s living with her lover and his girlfriend and she´s pretty okay with it. So the friend asks her something like “so what, you´re lesbian now? Or bisexual?”. And the answer is memorable – and not just because I remember it now for the sake of my latest blog entry – : “you know what? Why should I have to put a label on it? I don´t know what I am. And I don´t really care for naming it. I just know I´m happy and for now it just works out for me just like that” or something along these lines.

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The cities within the city

Of course I got lost inside Alhambra. I felt overwhelmed from the very beginning, when it took me so long to get there by bus from the center of Granada, and then walk up to what I thought was the top, the palace, only to discover it was only the meeting point for thousands and thousands of tourists who had got up early in the morning to be sure they had a ticket. I got my ticket and braced myself for a big day.

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Roughly a Year Ago

Memories are what we are: our lives, our moments, our truths, our beloved ones, our friends and our times; the air we breathe, the mountain tops we see, the books we read, the people we meet. I never thought I wanted to forget anything or anybody, be they as bad as they could get, because one way or another, it is all part of my life.

Roughly a year ago, I was happy because in little more than three days, I got to visit three different regions and I climbed up to a castle, I knew the sole inhabitant of a town that still remembers the tragedy of the civil war and I got the chance to go hiking and discover a beautiful landscape, apparently not yet touched by industry. 

I also had the voluptuous feeling of wondering what it would be like to live in a centennial village where everybody knows you or inside the walls of a castle. I tasted wine, ham, and olive oil and I can personally testify that a certain region in Spain does exist. So this is what I saw and this is what I remember. This is what I enjoyed so much roughly a year ago and this is what I miss. This is what I´ll always enjoy.

The Small Box of Everything

There is always one little box in my house (there was one in all the houses I have lived) that I never get to unpack and it just remains stranded in a corner or a cabinet, but always easy to be found and forever open. I had filled a whole box with all the tickets, invitations, train or plane fares, brochures and whatnot when I first came back home from Germany and I am currently filling one up with everything I want to remember from Spain.

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I’ve Had Almond Flowers

Yes, I’ve had them for years.  Yes, I knew it all along and yes, I enjoyed them as I should have, just as every year they bloomed in the only almond tree there was on my street. Only I ever stopped and think about it now, because I miss them.

For the last six years, I’ve been living in beautifully sunny Madrid and I feel I am luckier and happier every single day. I still live here, but I can definitely say a whole era has come to its end, and I won’t be having almond flowers in my life anymore. I’ll be having peace and quiet, I’ll be having the sun beating on my shoulder on a beautiful spring afternoon, drowning the screen of my computer in light as I write, and I’d hopefully be having strength and inspiration to remember and put down every single fact I’ve come to know about Madrid. It will always be the place where I literally landed on the almond’s street, where a sole almond tree blooms every year, spreading its branches over and old abandoned garden that mysteriously gathers up groups of tourists on any sunny day.

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Browsing Through Precious Memories: Almuñécar

It was in Almuñécar, over in sunny and warm Andalucía, that some early spring days a couple of years back, I discovered how people in this remote town literally sit on thousands of years of history worth of tradition, captivating stories and rich food. They have actually preserved the remains of a Phoenician dried fish factory, a Roman aqueduct and the statue of the first Moor to ever have set foot on Iberian soil, founding refuge after escaping from the rival clan who had decimated his family in Damascus.

It is this very beach that over centuries, three of the voyager peoples in the world history – Phoenicians, Romans and Moors – considered worthy of their settlement

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Have a Cup of Coffee at Café Iruña

Once upon a sunny day in September a long time ago, in a beautiful German town, and just before I got ready to make my way towards a new beginning, a very dear person from what is now my past told me if I ever got to go to Pamplona, I should drink a cup of coffee at Café Iruña, possibly at the same table Hemingway used to sit. “Imagine you’re drinking it with me”, he said with that certainty of absolute knowledge of the thing that would happen eventually, even though I for one was sure I would never get there. And yet, a couple of years later, way into that new beginning of mine, there I was. 

The opportunity showed itself and I simply grasped it. I took a round trip by train thinking I could spend a whole day in Pamplona and then get back to Madrid. I used to love travelling alone, because I didn’t have to depend on anyone or even talk to anyone, if I didn’t feel like it. I got there in the morning, and I took a cab down town. It didn’t take me long to find Café Iruña, but before that, I had some fun and I learned something as well. I couldn’t remember the exact name, so I started asking people who seemed to be locals and a couple of policemen where Hemingway’s cafe was.

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