Between the sea and the mountains, as Boti would say, the city lives in its people. Transubstantiated, they contemplate. On the bench, behind wooden or metal bars, swinging in an armchair towards the patio or the street, the gaze embraces the distance, descends from the sidewalk to the pebbles with this sensation of urban roads, hillocks of neighborhoods in wiggly visuals, breath of mountains and waves, El Táyaba murmurs with the Caballero and in Guaurabo they reach the mouth where Cortés anchored, also Velázquez on his return from Arimao, the coast of Humboldt, Mialhe, Laplante, the Ancón peninsula in its Casildeño water mirror, rock-sand-mangrove to the lions in the Calzada de Concha, fan threaded with the polished stones of rivers flowing in these streams between houses when it rains and the water descends at the agile pace of those who jump and continue under the few balconies of this ancient city , pilgrim of herself, Lady of Time, smelling of sardinel, tejaroces, strut, raffles and brick, red caress of the valley on these walls that watch us, like that vendor of hams resting on Breme slabs while children Children play ball in the Segarte square where tonight the tourists who may have bought a haba will dance with salsa and salsa, themselves photographed by this Cuban who has traveled the Island-Archipelago and portrays, beyond the visible, the sound of horses and voices, helmets and flywheels, the locomotive plows in Manaca-Iznaga, the Valley of the Ingenios from oculi and ascending intercolumniations in the tower modeled with molasses and whip, drum and violin, invisible slave sweat behind the glory of styles and surnames, bars that They will see iron replace wood when the houses turn towards the Plaza Mayor and the Parish see children running after a ball, the staircase of the son and the Wi-Fi, the oasis of Café Don Pepe in front of the Franciscan tower, so close to the mass foundational, the first town hall, mural painting and tiles, paired braces, quadroons and ogee, Stations of the Cross, Protomodern and Rationalism blink in the distance in Topes de Collantes, bordering the path Yes, birds while here I hear again the cao montero, the rabiche, the shadows jump from one facade to another and the city wakes up, doors open, knocker and keyhole throb, the neighborhood murmurs in voices of these photos of Chip Cooper and Julio Larramendi, an old woman caresses her rosary beads on the kneeler of her window, weaving the city for herself between its rivers and the sea.
José Antonio Martínez Coronel
May 4, 2021