This is the house where I was born. My mother gave birth before the doctor could reach it. Maybe because it used to be on the edge of the city. Behind the house lived some gipsies (one of them became quite famous rebel against Franco’s regime) and the fields started. We weren’t allowed to play there. I would sit down at that doorstep and eat “ice creams” with my brother. They were just frozen Fanta ice cubes with a tootpick stuck in them, the old lady with dirty nails sold them for 1 peseta each and whenever we bought one it felt like my birthday. Her shop was her living room, and it was always dark and cold in there. It smelled like candy and soup, mixed in a magical way.

My grandfather built this house with his own hands, and some of his 6 children lived there with their families before finding their own place. So did we. My mum being the youngest, we were the last ones there. I remember cold mornings, old light switches I loved to turn on, getting water from the patio tap to wash ourselves inside (ther was no running water in the bathroom) and grinding coffee in the mornings for my father.

We had little but I remember it being the best time of my life. Our granny was cranky though very caring and she pushed us out our confort zones, what resulted in six year old me breaking my left arm when driving a tricycle and in many discussions between her and my father.

Feeling nostalgic today. Thanks abuelos for the good times.