“We are not the best in the world,” a green-eyed woman told me at the last minute, as I signed her book. It’s my first Sant Jordi and tiredness is already falling over me, languidly, like rain, the weight of the dragon crushing my shoulders and eyes.
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I looked up from the paper, savoring it. And the floods of people kept pouring into the street, everywhere, just like from the very beginning. And I saw a people loving their stories as much as those who tell them, and a people caring for the language that many believed to be dying. I saw a stubborn, irreducible, and loving people.
Sant Jordi is a very much alive giant, a roller coaster, nerves on edge
Then I finished the signing, returned the book to her, and thought that the dragon was pressing me harder than ever because I had barely slept the night before. My nerves had been relentless.
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“We are not the best in the world.” And I saw myself on the other side, just last year, I saw myself handing in the novel’s manuscript and later celebrating the publisher’s ‘yes’. I thought about those at home and what we would say when I see them again. I thought about my parents watching the news and about the little mountain and the wind over the rapeseed that surrounds it everywhere at this time of year. And, feeling at home, I returned the signed book to her.
“It doesn’t happen anywhere else. Nowhere else on the planet do they do something like this for their books,” the green-eyed woman continued afterwards. “Surely we are not the best in the world; but we must be very close.”
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