An old woman approached my friends and me in la Plaza de la Virgen the other day. She asked if we were from Valencia. No, we aren’t. A thirty minute flood of love and pride poured out of her tiny wrinkled lips; she explained in great detail all the places we should go, cushioning her words with reverent sighs and disclaimers: although she adores her city, we might not, and to each their own. In the States, any discussion of life is incomplete without mentioning the struggle — “it’s real”. Be the most popular fourth grader; get straight As and never waste your time playing in the sun, it’s dangerous; don’t forget, youth is temporary and once you’ve lived long enough your life is not worth living. In Valencia, cheap wine is the same price as
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