“Azahar” es una palabra que me suena la España musulmana, a reyes y sultanes. Aunque esa asociación es culpa de Ruben Darío y de mi mamá. De el por escribir, y de ella por enseñarme, siendo muy niño, ese poema, inculcando de paso mi amor por las letras.

“Margarita, está linda la mar, /y el viento,/ lleva esencia sutil de azahar“. Un cuento para niños que es una canción de despedida y que trae en sus primeros versos la palabra mas bonita del idioma español.

Las pelirrojas me recuerdan inmediatamente a Jean-Baptiste Grenouille (el perfume), y su descripción del olor perfecto de una mujer. Porque el olor perfecto venía de una pelirroja, y eso lo deja claro. Se forma entonces en mi cabeza una asociación: ese olor, el aroma perfecto que me gustaría que perfumara mi cama cada noche, es el olor del rojo.

Un día cualquiera tomo el bus de regreso a casa y al sentarme descubro que la pelirroja está ahí, a mi lado. Duerme, porque en el primer mundo la gente también duerme en el bus, y en ese momento descubro que no huele a rojo porque el rojo no tiene ningún olor.

Durante mucho tiempo las cartas fueron consideradas una forma de literatura. Caían dentro del género epistolar tanto las historias escritas en forma de cartas (Frankenstein, por ejemplo) como la correspondencia de escritores famosos (las cartas a Milena de Kafka). Se ponía todo el esmero en escribir una carta, porque tal vez en el futuro alguien las leería y era bueno que contuvieran cosas interesantes de leer.

Hoy en día la epístola parece destinada a desaparecer. Ha muerto como consecuencia de las nuevas tecnologías: correo electrónico, mensajero instantáneo y SMS han convertido la comunicación escrita en algo trivial y banal. Escribimos esperando que nuestras palabras desaparezcan tan pronto como son leídas. Usamos la palabra escrita en la misma forma que usamos la palabra hablada y la tratamos de la misma forma, olvidando que aunque las palabras se las lleva el viento, los e-mails se quedan en la red, los SMS se quedan en el teléfono del receptor y los mensajes instantáneos… bueno, sabrá dios donde quedan.

Quiero escribir una carta para revelarme darle un poco de trascendencia a lo que escribo, y para tener alguna certeza sobre su destino. Aunque tal vez debería decir escribirle una carta. Porque la carta que quiero escribir tiene destinatario, que aunque no sé si leerá este blog, sé que leería cuidadosamente y guardaría la dichosa carta,  aunque no sabría decir por cuanto tiempo haría lo segundo.

De momento me conformaré con imaginarme que esto mismo lo escribo en papel, lo adorno con detalles de la vida diaria y lo envío a su puerta metido en un sobre, donde ella lo recibe y lo guarda junto con todas las otras cartas que no envío.

Comenzamos a contar historias, a inventarnos personajes, a tratar de idear un mundo diferente donde nos volvemos dioses. Pero claro, las “tantas” cosas que teníamos por contar resultan no ser tantas. Los mundos imaginados son mas pequeños que el asteroide B612, pero a diferencia del principito no hay aves migratorias que nos lleven a otros mundos.

Podríamos imaginar que ni no he escrito nada nuevo en meses es porque no hay nada nuevo en mi cabeza. Si embargo no es así. Hay cosas nuevas todos los días, pequeños y grandes estímulos a mis sentidos que activan cosas nuevas dentro de mi.

¿Por qué no escribo entonces sobre el blanco que cubre hoy la ciudad? A fin de cuentas eso es un fenómeno muy especial en esta ciudad donde la nieve no dura un día completo sin derretirse. Aún así esta frase será todo lo que escriba sobre el invierno en Göteborg.

Ocurre que nunca he escrito dos líneas por mi mismo, ocurre que siempre dependí de una voz, mi musa, que me dictaba lo que escribir. Pero esa voz se fue durante mis primeros meses en Suecia, y ahora me deja solo con mis ideas, sin un camino para hacer nada útil con ellas.

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Is not that Jane was not used to James strange behavior, but that kind of confession was totally incomprehensible. So she said the only thing she could say: “what are you talking about?”.

James and Jane met in a concert. James was the leading voice of a not-so-famous rock band. He was happy with that, he earned enough money, and was well known, but not enough to be the target of paparazzi or hearth magazines. Also the concerts were much more enjoyable, as he could interact closer to the public without being at physical risk.

- I had a previous life before this one, said James. – I was a not so good musician, and we were not together there. We met at college, and the love for music bound us together. Not a very strong bound, otherwise we wouldn’t lose track for such a long time. It was partially my fault, I had a crush for you, but never felt secure about hitting on you. Finally, the graduation day, just before it was time to get into the auditorium I told you something stupid: “I wouldn’t mind being more that your friend.” I said it with a big smile, half kidding. But you knew me well and your eyes told me you knew I was serious. You didn’t say a word that day, neither did for the next 10 years.

- You know? – he continues – I was going to ask you if you remembered the day we met again, sometimes I can’t help asking about stuff you won’t remember.  We met again in a seminar so boring that  I fell sleep. Being awake by you was a mix of surprise and embarrassment.  Surprise because I didn’t expect to see you again, and embarrassment because of your shameless laugh at me. A short update on our lives told me that you had just dumped the poor John. 14 years together and you suddenly realized it was a waste of time.  It looked like you were doing quite well, if you were in pain you didn’t show it.

“We leaved the place together and went for a coffee, then a beer, and then my place. It was a perfect night and seemed like a good chance to start again. You opened your hearth and told me how the poor John was not so poor, how he broke your hearth. May be it was not the end I expected for the night, but at least you were by my side when the sun rose again in the morning.

“It looked like a good new beginning. I didn’t have a crush anymore, I was in love and put my whole life in it, but you didn’t choose me. You picked somebody else. You didn’t love him, but you picked him anyway. I was a coward, and felt unable to go ahead just by myself. So I took a gun, and shoot myself. Then I woke up, as a kid, in my first day of school again. It was hard to manage because I was confused, the world seemed exactly as I remembered, and I wasn’t even sure about the reality of it. I was struggling to make sense of what I was living, but failing totally. After some time I realized  I couldn’t fly, neither teleport myself or do any typical dreaming thing.

So I gave up, I assumed it was real and started cheating. I could do the test much faster than my mates, so I did. I started earlier with the singing lessons and I became a surprise to my teachers (”oh, he learns so fast!”). I created the band, and made myself popular, and used my new situation to date the girls I liked in school but always rejected me. But even if my life looked like perfect, I always thought about you.  I missed you all the time.

When I was invited to the concert we met, I was so happy. I knew I was going to met you that day. I knew you were going to win the tickets in the local radio. And I was going to…”

- Did you really know? – Asked Jane interrupting the long monologue.

- Of course I did. I know a lot of stuff you haven’t tell me. I know the cracking wood sounds in your old house made you nervous. I know you cheated on the radio contest to win the tickets, but you are too ashamed to tell me. I know you had an abortion when you were 14.

- Who told you!?

- You did, in another life. I thought I was having a wonderful second chance. But this morning I realized it was just a dream, that the shot may be just killed me and I’m living a strange after life, or I’m in a coma and all of this is just in my head, or I lost connection with reality and everything I have told you is just nonsense I tell to the real people. Anyway is not real…

- How can you be so sure? How do you know the ‘other life’ was real?

- Because of two things. First one is that we are together, something that wouldn’t ever happen in the real life. The second one is that dreams have some feature. Real life is full of boredom, but in dreams there is something happening all the time, may be nothing amazing, but something anyway. I’m having a great time. I have had a great time from the day I woke up as a kid again and don’t remember a single episode of boredom since. That’s why I’m sure.

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“Once in a while we,or  may be just I, have the feeling that our life
would be much more better if we had a second chance, in we where able to
‘cheat’ in some way. To live our lives again knowing the stuff we know
today. Well, my darling, I must confess I cheated.”

Is not that Jane was not used to James strange behavior, but that kind
of confession was totally incomprehensible. So she said the only thing
she could say: “what are you talking about?”.

James and Jane met in a concert. James was the leading voice of a
not-so-famous rock band. He was happy with that, he earned enough money,
and was well known, but not enough to be the target of paparazzi or
hearth magazines. Also the concerts were much more enjoyable, as he
could interact closer to the public without being at physical risk.

Acá va como se conocieron y terminaron enamorados....

- I had a previous life before this one, said James. - I was a not so
good musician, and we were not together there.

"We met at college, and the love for music bound us together. Not a very
strong bound, because it broke when we began our professional lives.

Acá va como terminaron enredados, toda la NO historia de amor de la
"otra" vida

You never chose me. You picked somebody else. You didn’t love him, but
picked him anyway. I was a coward, and felt unable to go ahead without
you. So I took a gun, and shoot myself. Then I woke up, as a kid, in my
first day of school again. It was hard to manage because I was confused,
the world seemed exactly as I remembered, and I wasn’t even sure about
the reality of it. I was struggling to make sense of what I was living,
but failing totally. After some time I realized  I couldn’t fly, neither
teleport myself or do any typical dreaming thing.

So I gave up, I assumed it was real and started cheating. I could do the
test much faster than my mates, so I did. I started earlier with the
singing lessons and I became a surprise to my teachers (”oh, he learns
so fast!”). I created the band, and made myself popular, and used my new
situation to date the girls I liked in school but always rejected me.
But even if my life looked like perfect, I always thought about you.  I
missed you all the time.

When I was invited to the concert we met, I was so happy. I knew I was
going to met you that day. I knew you were going to win the tickets in
the local radio. And I was going to…”

- Did you really know? – Asked Jane interrupting the long monologue.

- Of course I did. I know a lot of stuff you haven’t tell me. I know the
cracking wood sounds in your old house made you nervous. I know you
cheated on the radio contest to win the tickets, but you are too ashamed
to tell me. I know you had an abortion when you were 14.

- Who told you!?

- You did, in another life. I thought I was having a wonderful second
chance. But today I realized it was just a dream, that the shot may be
just killed me and I’m living a strange after life, or I’m in a coma and
all of this is just in my head, or I lost connection with reality and
everything I have told you is just nonsense I tell to the real people.
Anyway is not real…

- How can you be so sure? How do you know the ‘other life’ was real?

- Because of two things. First one is that we are together, something
that wouldn’t ever happen in the real life. The second one is that
dreams have some feature. Real life is full of boredom, but in dreams
there is something happening all the time, may be nothing amazing, but
something anyway. I’m having a great time. I have had a great time from
the day I woke up as a kid again and don’t remember a single episode of
boredom since. That’s why I’m sure.

The thrill of the story goes around the stress before each try, and the mental game the owner of the car plays with the gambler, to convince him he should play.

When it is time for the 8th try the lighter fails, but the gambler doesn’t lose his finger because a woman appears claiming she is the real owner of the convertible, as she won it gambling. A woman without three fingers.

The story made a big impression on me when I was a child, even if I saw a Colombian re-make instead of the original one, but anyway.

There is a movie, four rooms, what makes fun of the Hitchcock story. In the last room (the penthouse) the main character (a bellhop), finds himself with a group of Hollywood artist that want to recreate the scene, and convince the bellhop to be the one who chops the finger if the gambler loses.

And the gambler loses, in the first try. Without hesitation the bellhop cuts the finger and leaves the room.

In the last few months I have been trying to make a bet on myself, failing without even beginning each time. But because I can’t tell anybody what the bet is, nobody is cutting my fingers, and I wonder if I’d do better with the ax ready to cut me.

Link to the original post here.

Esta historia empieza en una época en que la tierra estaba llena de magia. No vemos mucha magia en estos días, pero en esa época magia era todo lo que había. Había magia para lo bueno y para lo malo, magia para enfermar y para sanar, magia para crecer y magia para hacerse pequeño.

¿No me crees? Si no hubiera magia nuestro héroe, a quien el tiempo le ha quitado el nombre, no habría podido vivir lo que vivió; porque todo empieza con la búsqueda de una fruta mágica, que le dará todo lo que se merece a aquel que la come. Se necesita ser muy valiente, o muy estúpido para comerla. Nadie sabe lo que se merece, y muchos se merecen tan poco. Pues bueno, nuestro héroe era joven y arrogante, y estaba convencido de que la fruta le daría todo el poder del mundo.

El árbol donde crecía la fruta mágica estaba en un rincón muy apartado del reino, así se preparó para el viaje, se aprovisionó de comida, bebida, mapas, dinero y un buen caballo. Era un camino difícil, ya en el primer pueblo se encontró con problemas… ¿Estás impaciente? Sí, puedo hacer la historia corta, los detalles solo adornan, pero ¿no es mas bonito oír la historia adornada? Está bien, voy a saltar los detalles y te voy a contar la parte importante.

Después de muchas jornadas nuestro héroe llegó junto al árbol mágico. Como el hotel del Hilbert con sus infinitos cuartos, nuestro árbol tenía infinitas ramas que llegaban hasta el infinito ¿Has notado que lo mas cercano que tenemos a la magia hoy en día son las matemáticas? Los matemáticos son como magos que hacen conjuros en papel, y con cada respuesta crean mil nuevas preguntas.

En fin, nuestro héroe llegó junto al árbol mientras era perseguido por bestias diabólicas. Allí paró y las enfrentó (no, no te voy a contar por qué lo perseguían, ¿no me dijiste que tenías afán?). La verdad es que las bestias diabólicas son miedosas, y nuestro héroe era valiente, así que después de algunos minutos de lucha renunciaron a su presa y regresaron a casa. Nuestro héroe había vencido a sus enemigos y así pudo comenzar a trepar.

Preguntarás como se trepa a un árbol infinito. Pues una rama a la vez, como se hace con los árboles normales. Solo que hay que hacerlo en tiempos infinitamente pequeños, tan cortos que no hay tiempo para fijarse en donde se ponen los pies. Por eso pasó lo inevitable. Un pie que pierde el apoyo, justo cuando el cuerpo entero recarga su peso en el. Una caída desde gran altura, a velocidades increíbles. Un golpe que no dolió, pero hirió profundamente a nuestro héroe.

Pero no fue su fin. La reina cuidó de el hasta que sus heridas sanaron. ¿Quieres saber si consiguió algún día la fruta mágica? Claro, nuestro héroe insistió e insistió hasta llegar a la rama mas alta. ¿Sabes lo que recibió de la fruta mágica? El sabor mas dulce. Por esa fruta luchó, y esa fruta era lo que se merecía.

¿No me crees que haya pasado? Tal vez no fue tal cual como te lo conté, pero ese árbol de guayaba que que ves ahí llegaba hasta el cielo cuando yo era niño. Y muchas veces mi mamá tuvo que curarme las heridas que me hice al caer de el, mientras luchaba batallas contra seres mágicos, porque en esa época magia era todo lo que había en el mundo.

Holiday is over, and following my own custom here you have a chronicle about my misadventures.

The south of Spain said hello with a lot of sun, but not as hot as I was afraid. One can tell one is in Spain when the ground change it’s color. Everything is dry yellow almost without green. There are some green in the extensive orange fields. The lack of green is a shock at the beginning, specially after Swedish summer, where green is all around.

Spanish architecture is hard to describe. You can see beautiful buildings in the mountains close to the sea, but surrounded by dry land anyway. It should be very hard to keep gardens in such a dry land, and even if there is a small one it always looks fake, as if it was planted in sand.

What is to be done in Valencia? Valencia is a nice city, with an old downtown which is gorgeous and good to walk. It is possible to go and go around without walking the same street twice, finding new, amazing places around each corner.

There is also a long park where there used to be a river, that was redirected after a flooding in the 50′s. The old bed of the river is full of almost-green areas, bicycle and jogging paths and (of course) people willing to have a walk. As a funny detail we can see that the new bed is greener than the old one because it there is not actual river in there most of the year.

A mandatory visit is the “Science and Arts City”, specially the Oceanographic park. The citadel was designed by Santiago Calatrava, a famous Spanish architect (just google him). The Oceanographic has several aquariums with species from all over the world. The entrance fare is 25 € that are really well spent.

Last, but not least, we have the Spanish food. Valencia is well known because of the paella, and it’s impossible to go there and not having one. There is also mandatory to go for “tapas” and enjoy the sea food. There is no doubt Spaniards have a really good time with food.

I know it is a very short post, but as the title says, is just a brief.

Se acabaron las vacaciones, o casi, y siguiendo mi costumbre acá va una crónica sobre mis desventuras aventuras.

El sur de España me recibió con sol aunque no tanto calor como me temía. Uno sabe que llegó a España cuando el suelo cambia de color. El suelo es amarillo y el verde no se ve. Aunque sí hay algo de verde en los extensos cultivos de naranja. De entrada ese color es un choque, especialmente después de haber visto el verano sueco, donde todo alrededor es verde.

Describir la arquitectura española es difícil. Las montañas cerca al mar están llenas de construcciones de lujo, pero rodeadas de terrenos polvorientos. Muy difícil resulta mantener jardines en una tierra tan seca, aún si hay un pequeño jardín, el suelo del que se tienen las plantas es siempre seco y amarillo.

¿Qué hay para ver en Valencia? Valencia es una ciudad bonita, con una parte antigua preciosa y muy agradable de caminar. Se pueden dar vueltas y vueltas por el centro sin necesidad de repetir calle. En cada calle hay algún edificio bonito y algo sorprendente para ver.

También hay un parque en donde antes había un río que fue reencauzado después de una inundación en los años 50. El antiguo cauce del río está cubierto por muchas zonas casi verdes, ciclo-rutas y está siempre lleno de gente que sale a pasear. Como dato curioso podemos ver que por el nuevo cauce del río se ven aún mas zonas verdes, pero ningún río ya que este permanece seco la mayor parte del año.

Un sitio de visita obligada es la ciudad de las ciencias y las artes, especialmente el Oceanográfico. En el se encuentran acuarios mostrando peces de todo el mundo. El pase cuesta 25 € y los vale. Tanto el Oceanográfico como toda la ciudadela han sido diseñadas por Santiago Calatrava, que tiene un gran amor por las superficies curvas y los colores claros.

Por último no hay que olvidar la comida española. Valencia es famosa por su paella y es impensable estar en la ciudad y no comerla. También hay que ir de tapas a algún sitio, para llegar a la conclusión inevitable: los españoles se la pasan “de puta madre” con la comida.

Sí, es un post un poco corto, pero como dice el título es una versión condensada.