Dear Wigleaf,

You're not allowed to be sad in Plaza Larga, Granada.

The second you leave the house you get a kiss on each cheek. Whether it's from a stranger or a neighbor, it doesn't matter—kissing is mandatory. Friendly conversations are mandatory. No one can feel your fear of dying alone, because there is no one alone in Plaza Larga.

You go to the greengrocer, the fishmonger and the butcher—don't worry, they can't see your sadness. They see vegetables and fish and meat. Their customers shout out ten different ways to make your dish.

You cross the plaza. A flamenco busker plays something cheerful and all the tourists clap offbeat. They look at you, at your groceries. Your house slippers. They think you're so lucky to be living there. They can't imagine anyone sad in this place.

You stop at the corner to say hola to the drunken plaza people. They offer you a sip of their beer at 11 am. They pet your dog and say she's almost as beautiful as you. They can feel and see your sadness. When you ask them how they are, they say: ¡Aquí estamos! (At least) we are here.

You are mostly sad because you're not allowed to be.

Saludos,

Noa




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