Feria

"I will have to take you to the Cerro de la Virgen and I will have to tell you that this is La Mancha and that it is from that orange land where we come from, that that blanket of esparto that never ends is what you are. I will have to explain to you what a People and you will know that ours is traversed by three realities: the total absence of relief, Don Quixote and the wind. I will have to remind you that you are the grandson of a postal family, great-grandson of peasants and fairgrounds, great-great-grandson of exiled policeman and hardware store, and that feel then that you are heir to a mythical race. " Ana Iris grew up listening to her grandparents the story of two worlds that vanish. Some, fairies, complaining that each time they had more traps and fewer bitches, because as life became a fair -that of vanities- the real fair ceased to make sense. Her other grandparents, peasants, transmitted to her the magical roots of the land. And it was that grandfather who took her one day to an almond tree and told her that he had planted it, so for her it was her shadow. Feria is a wild ode to a Spain that no longer exists, that no longer is. The one that fit in the photo that her grandfather carried in her purse with a gypsy on one side and a Civil Guard on the other. A foul and direct account of a time not so distant in which it was more important that children enjoy throwing firecrackers than the fright that the dogs were carried away. It is also a warning that rural childhood, in addition to breathing fresh air, is knowing the location of the brothel and laughing with the village idiot. A review of the cracks of modernity and an invitation to look again at the sacredness of the world: tradition, ancestry, speech, territory. And not to forget that the only thing that sustains us is, finally, memory.