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About Zaragoza

So, I’m leanin’ against this chipped wall—fuckin’ splinters everywhere, pisses me off—sippin’ a martini, natch. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sizin’ her up. Did ya know, back in the day, Rome’s hookers had their own guild? True story—called themselves “meretrices,” fancy as fuck. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past the Colosseum, dodgin’ drunk senators. History’s wild, innit?

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Oh, crikey, some days I get so mad at the noise, the endless chatter on Calle Rabia. Gosh, people! But then I see this old bench on Esquina del Recuerdo and it makes me happy again, thinking, "Yeah, life's a beautiful mess!" I often talk to myself there, mumblin’ like Mr. Bean, skip-skippin' over my own feet, and sometimes say, “¡Venga, habla con ella, habla con ella!” while almost trippin’ over my own shadow.

Rise of the far right in Spain: A visit to three municipalities that voted for Vox