Miama South Beach Topless Underage

Patriotism.

I do not know anything about the country.

But on a thing called home. The home is so relative. Is my home, my city, my Galicia, is my country?

When I lived outside the region, but within the peninsula, I was away from home. Far from it. And as the plane or train pierced its edge, I felt happy. In my home, back, finally. And that site is the site that could not fail to miss.

His color (its green, its gray, its immense blue), the air (the particular way in which the moisture out of your mouth when cold), smell (the smell of a bonfire filled with chestnuts, smell a fireplace), people (hot, upcoming). And all the banalities, its prices, its bars, its cuisine.

but I told her I should have said. Because I feel so My everything, and feel (a complicated word) pride. Pride of having been born there, that all that belongs to me, myself and all other Galician.
Pride is something that always seemed very, very stupid, especially when it's so random: it could have been born elsewhere and I guess I have to say would have loved equally to that other place. But deep down (and not tell anyone) I think Galicia is special. That is not insignificant as our my favorite word: homesick. sadness or melancholy, especially the nostalgia of the homeland. However

. Now I am in France and have been here 3 months, without stepping on the word that took 5 paragraphs to avoid, Spain. Hate
Spain. I mean, I hate her name (Spain, so violent that ñ), hate their flag (these colors, I do so much damage to the eyes), all it represents, its image (exterior and interior). In general, as a country, Spain seems pathetic, ridiculous. Not every autonomous community with its quirks and charms, but El Pais. However

. For a small moment, Dec. 15, when you hit that country have always felt so foreign to me and I spent two days in Barcelona waiting for the plane to Galicia, I know that in some remote way, I feel at home . Safe. A salvo of another language, other people, other violence, another way of seeing and understanding things. Safe from the fear that so many times I have felt here, others see me different, a stranger. Distant.

The other day I discussed a lot with Joy about whether he had ideas on feelings. I do not know if there are any ideas on these thoughts scattered and chaotic, and probably (I always reread forbid) contradictory. I know there are feelings because that is today the only language I speak (not French, not the Galician).

But no. My house is small. My home is a mise en abîme . A house, in another house within a house. My house is in the air, suspended. But is concentrated at a point in space, on a street, behind a door. That's you'll want to escape and return, and escape, and again, again and again throughout my life.
My house I built myself.