El desertor
Pompero
- Desde
- 26 Ago 2022
- Mensajes
- 18
- Reputación
- 8
In reality, the whole region of Sagra.
It impacts the number of blacks there, they have the town square taken. There’s one who has his hand on his ear and pretends to have a mobile and talk to someone.
Once I was at City Hall, a black asked for an audience with the mayor at the counter. Why do you want him? They told him, and the black who was very important, that he had to talk to the mayor, and come and get him. The mayor comes out and sees the racket and tells the black what the fuck he wants. And the black man, all solemn, tells him that he is in charge of informing him that a minister of his country is going to visit the town. All God was there, and the black man was serious, that a minister of his country would go to the people to visit his compatriots and that he should be received with honor. And the mayor trying to get the black off his back, come on, then send me a letter and we’ll see if we don’t have to call a minister of ours too, come on, do me a favor. Then it turned out he was a son of a tribal chief.
Not to mention the two huge urbanizations that are on either side of town with houses half built many of them and many illegal light hooks and tutiplén shit in the "gardens"? And all that in the midst of those infamous drylands, is a place only fit to masturbate or commit suicide.
I’m tired of saying that the northern area of Toledo and Parla and its surroundings are a strange area. It’s a rare place that transmits strange sensations. Villages full of urbanizations in the middle of nowhere, half empty, pavements without trees, abandoned chalet or with doors and windows upholstered along with others well maintained.
Strange people, blacks wandering without trade or benefit, countrymen with their Ebros without hood and the vat of sulfatar the vines, whores of balance that are no longer competitive in Madrid, moors, Moors to tutiplén with blackberries covered from head to toe. Infinite wastelands, immense skies that crush you and remind you that you are only a mere mortal. There is something in that land that disturbs the soul, we who have been there know it, even if we do not know what it is.
Soul and body, there is a huge amount of cancer and schizophrenia, more than anywhere else in Spain.
The environment disturbs the soul and the earth feeds on their bodies. It is cursed.
For a whole day of autumn, sad, dark, silent, when the clouds hovered low and heavy in the sky, I crossed alone, on horseback, a singularly gloomy region of the country; and, at last, as the shadows of the night approached, I found myself at the sight of the melancholic Sagra. I don’t know how it was, but at the first look I gave, a feeling of unbearable sadness invaded my spirit. I say unbearable because it did not temper any of those semi-pleasant feelings to be poetic, with which the spirit receives even the most austere natural images of the desolate or the terrible. I looked at the stage in front of me-the house and the simple landscape of the domain, the bare walls, the windows like empty eyes, the sparse and sinister reeds, and the few trunks of withered trees-with a strong depression of mind only comparable, as an earthly sensation, upon the awakening of the opium smoker, the bitter fall into daily existence, the horrible untwist. It was a coldness, a despondency, a discomfort of the heart, an irremediable mental sadness that no incentive of the imagination could deflect to any form of the sublime. What was it-I stopped to think-what was it that discouraged me in contemplation of La Sagra? An insoluble mystery; and I could not struggle with the dark thoughts that gathered around me as I reflected.
It is to look at the area on a map and already you climb all the evils, as black roots, damned cartography, as if of a shameless auscultation of howls of night greyhounds in his last penúria treated... the map beats debased.
José Antonio Primo de Rivera said that the Castilians conquered the world because they had no choice, whoever lived in Toledo North knows that this is a dogma of faith.
It’s a land of misery. Bad misery...
Whenever there’s a kidnapping in Madrid, I don’t know why, but if the thing goes wrong, the body is found half-buried in the Sagra, dug by hunting dogs or in some old brick factory in that damn area.
That area is cursed. The dogs flee in antiestéticar of the stench of death and yet the earth swallows up misery. It begs for misery.
Always greyhounds, because there are only greyhounds, and lots of abandoned.
Hung, hanged, eaten by fleas while the shit from their guts still flows through the trunk that serves as a scaffold. Evening falls; the sun goes down... The locals, reeking of sweat, set aside their implements and head to the tavern to spend their wages on red wine.
And when the air blows, the solano, which is the only air that runs through the plains and also dries their clothes, when it runs you can hear the cries of the souls of the natives who quietly agonize and impregnate the environment with pain and fatigue. In summer the heat will burn you like hell, and in winter the teeth chatter and the distemper falls from the nose. There are no beautiful women, only old and foreign. There are no birds singing, there are no shadows of trees because there are no trees, no birds to possess. Everything is restlessness and a strange feeling of anguish.
At night in summer it does not cool jamaś and you hear the cicadas singing with their monotonous singing until you go crazy. And there are songs of birds, but only of partridges, since there are no other birds, partridges, and many rabbits. Countless run-over rabbits are seen in the gutters.
And the containers of the Maersk recycled for housing with a huge tub of cement next to have water are a classic.
I always believed that I was one, indivisible. But the Sagra unfolded, it was there that I could see that it was not one, but two. A body and a soul that formed a whole. I remember how when I stepped on that damn land wanted to take away my soul. And I swear to God, I noticed her sneaking out of my body and being gobbled up in that place. But I caught her and I was able to keep her attached to my body, no wonder the locals have all lost their minds. That earth empties you, that steals the spiritual being and maintains the organic body, that wander through the urbanizations without brightness in the looks.
You raise your head, put the hoe aside and breathe and the air burns your guts out of misery and the stench is deeper than the nausea itself.
Rabbits with myxomatosis, farmed partridges that release to escape and in their flight die. Hungry greyhounds, tingly, dead of cold or antiestéticar that do not stop trembling. These are the three animals that inhabit that land, a dry land that denies water. Dante’s anteroom to hell.
That is why his wine is so strong, because it is made with the suffering of those who work the earth. A wine with a taste of powder, bitter, rough on the palate, which gets drunk and makes bad wine in those who drink it. Taking out the worst of each. It’s the cursed blood of the place, drinking that brew is like tasting a vampire’s blood.
Designation of origin Méntrida. If you see it out there, don’t try it, well, do what you want, but know that it’s the tears of those people who live trapped in a parallel universe.
A barren, barren land that howls in pain, blood spilling in the stallion. It won’t rain for months. It gets dark and the countryman walks among the cypresses... Will there be any bread crumbs left yesterday? The scorching night, the return hurts.
And the olive trees? Always sick, always affected. I used to ask the locals how the harvest was going. And always, always, something happened to the olive tree. When they are not filled with parasitic insects, it does not rain; when it rains, fungi enter them; or frost throws the fruit or drought does not yield oil. They’re always sick or affected, they’re like a reflection of their owners. When there’s a lot of production, the price goes down. If they give nothing, the price of oil rises. When it is not hail, it is the tuberculosis of the olive tree.
If they get paid the subsidy one year soon, that year the Romanians and gypsies raze the olive groves. There’s always something wrong. I have seen no tree more suffering than the olive trees of that area. And with what pride the farmers tell you of their diseases, it seems they are wanting you to ask them to start complaining bitterly about their existence.
The natives of La Sagra will never tell you what they think. For them to say what they think is the greatest sin that exists. Greater than incest or murder. If you grab a sagreño, tie him to an armchair, pull out a tooth with rusty pliers to the living and ask him if it hurts... then he’ll say no.
The sagreño is jealous of his thoughts. However, if you see two sagreños randomly gathering on the street, it is easy to guess what they say to each other: They lie.
Because lying is their local sport. They only manipulate others by lying to them to get them out. "Draw lie for truth" as they say. They think they’re so sneaky with the outsider and they don’t realize they’re actually such jerks.
Their human relations are unnatural, artificial, strange. They don’t know what spontaneity, sincerity, open, close, warm and frank treatment is. And they don’t even want to know.
The houses of the many Moors you see there are not very flattering either. You see a small three-story block on three floors and you see that there are three satellite dishes and the entrance lock has been broken for years and nobody fixes it. The letterboxes of the Moors have a name stamped with marker and nothing else. It’s devastating.
People who rush the wines in the afternoons before going to the strip club of Valmojado or the Lucio in Maqueda.
Sinister-looking elders who go to Mass every Sunday. Dressed in black and full of bitterness, pride and despair. They grasp the rosaries tightly in their shaky fingers.
An added tip I give you, so that you saw that I am a good person and that I appreciate you. Never go to La Sagra, and if you go do not stop, and if you have to stop for necessity or emergency, try to be as little as possible and avoid touching anything or relating to anyone, do not try to understand the idiosyncrasy of people and the motives or reasons that may exist there.
Móstoles, Alcorcón, Leganés, Getafe, Parla; they are cancer. There is a belt in the north of Toledo that goes from Valmojado to Ocaña, and it will probably go further north, but I no longer control that area. I’m talking about Illecas, Yeles, Seseña and the whole La Sagra area in general. What you could say is metastasis. An inhospitable wasteland, all full of terraced house with uncut hedges, renault 19 scrapped at the door, every three houses there is one half finished and another where there is a caravan or a maritime container that serves as housing.
On the sidewalks there are no trees, the streets are of detached cement and no one is seen on the street. One puts green mesh of the AKI and the other some advertising tarps so that it is not seen that it has the whole yard full of weed and shit. In the middle of the desert there are streets where people are supposed to live. But what kind of person would go to live in the middle of a pasture with a gypsy and a Romanian neighbor?
It’s a strange, rare area, it’s a scary place, a place full of spirits, souls in distress, people hiding from something. I’ve seen ugly areas in my life, but that region has always seemed to me the most disturbing place I’ve ever been.
La Sagra is a cursed region. It must be a crossing of tectonic layers or harbor one of the gates of hell, but it is a place that gives restlessness.
Those of us who are rainfed when we see the sea for the first time experience a sense of insignificance by the grandiosity and the force that transmits that enormous mass of water, the smell of freedom, the bright light that is reflected in the water like a mirror, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing with the coast. One feels comforted and at peace with the universe. In the region of La Sagra when visiting for the first time you feel a feeling of emptiness and loneliness. Disquiet and anguish at being surrounded by barren drylands dotted by inhospitable urbanizations. A suffocating heat that makes the sheep thistle sprout everywhere and a cold black, in winter, that fills your ears with chilblains. And one wonders, what kind of people decide to live in this cursed land?
One thing is certain, the region of La Sagra is the equivalent of London 300 years ago. In a geographical area of such ugliness that it produces antiestéticar and compassion. It is like the storage room of a house, a dirty place, full of useless junk, all messy and kept hidden from visitors by shame.
Another cursed area is the area of Otero/El Casar de Escalona and all the Mexican-infected housing estates along the Alberche. Can someone explain to me what’s interesting about living in a shitty urbanization with Mexicans as neighbors? These outlandish beings depreciate the beauty of any place you see them in the streets.
The desert, damn it, the Arabian desert, is visually more attractive than La Sagra. David Lean arrives in the desert and starts shooting Lawrence of Arabia and is able to make it a majestic place; La Sagra arrives David Lean to shoot something and sticks a shot in the palate of pure misery that invades him.
Not to mention Fuensalida: One of those places where you miss having a DeLorean and warn yourself 3 minutes before making the decision to go, great place.
Fuensalida: Lots of lots and houses in ruins in the village. Insane urban layout without defined center. Houses that were built quickly and to which the drains were placed in the first place in which they thought. You walk through its streets in summer and the stenches coming out of the rainwater sinks are awful.
jovenlandeses and a lot of strange people. In the last census there were just over 1,000 jovenlandésccans and Algerians, of whom only six worked. Their women however work more. On one occasion I distributed advertising in Fuensalida and learned to recognize the mailboxes of the Moors at a great distance. If you saw that the name was painted directly on the metal in the letterbox with a marker, it was a Moor. It didn’t fail. That race is careless, and you can see that in details as idiotic as this.
There are also a lot of halfway houses that stayed that way when the housing bubble burst. And others ended where no one has ever lived or squatters. Many rare people from the suburbs of Madrid, people who live on government aid, drug traffickers (drug consumption in that town is insane).
There is a neighborhood in that town that is graciously called "The Bron" for the amount of riffraff there (referring to the Bronx, but they say "elbron" because they do not know how to pronounce). There are the "Pelones" who cry for money always at the end of Mass.
The natives are distrustful people who will always look at you sideways, who will never tell you what they think but who will always try to pull you out. From the year 34 to the last municipal elections the right-wing always won. And now there is a socialist mayor but thanks to the support of center-right. It is unlikely that there will be another one of the pure left, if the Socialist Party really can be called left, of course.
A lot of people with a lot of money and no education, no culture, no manners of any kind, which is a dreadful combination. Huge incredible houses among ruins and houses of bad living. Whole streets of houses in which no one has ever lived. Sometimes it seems the movie "I’m A Legend".
Absolute ugliness. The environment is bleak. Barren vineyards and olive groves in the middle of a plain that never ends, all dry, nothing pleasant to look at. Bad landscape and worse landscape.
Illegal landfills, smell of burning, tire cemeteries and odors of sewage plants.
Factories where you work more hours than you should without charging extra and without quoting and where managers are able to throw objects to those who consider that they do not ***ow the rhythm. In times there were countless clandestine shoe shops, I think there is still one. Nauseating stenches at night from the illegal burning of shoe making waste.
In summer it never cools down, even at seven in the morning. In winter the cold is wet and falls like a slab on bodies and souls. And when the hunting season ends with greyhounds, you see starving greyhounds abandoned by the streets. Lots.
Don’t go to La Sagra or anywhere in North Toledo. Don’t go.
The highway that goes from Toledo to Tomelloso is a ghost road. 130 km where you have to go fighting against sleep. Throughout the journey you can find 20 vehicles in total, both in your direction and the opposite. The first time I took it, I thought I’d snuck in and that road wasn’t open to the public yet.
Both Cervantes' parents and his wife came from that area. I didn’t understand Don Quixote until I went to live in Toledo Norte. Don Quixote and Sancho are not archetypes of anything but the argument to ridicule the guys they were meeting. Human types that Cervantes knew very well. It has been 4 centuries and they remain the same, they have not changed anything.
Do not go to the Sagra my children.
So close to Madrid, so far from God.
It impacts the number of blacks there, they have the town square taken. There’s one who has his hand on his ear and pretends to have a mobile and talk to someone.
Once I was at City Hall, a black asked for an audience with the mayor at the counter. Why do you want him? They told him, and the black who was very important, that he had to talk to the mayor, and come and get him. The mayor comes out and sees the racket and tells the black what the fuck he wants. And the black man, all solemn, tells him that he is in charge of informing him that a minister of his country is going to visit the town. All God was there, and the black man was serious, that a minister of his country would go to the people to visit his compatriots and that he should be received with honor. And the mayor trying to get the black off his back, come on, then send me a letter and we’ll see if we don’t have to call a minister of ours too, come on, do me a favor. Then it turned out he was a son of a tribal chief.
Not to mention the two huge urbanizations that are on either side of town with houses half built many of them and many illegal light hooks and tutiplén shit in the "gardens"? And all that in the midst of those infamous drylands, is a place only fit to masturbate or commit suicide.
I’m tired of saying that the northern area of Toledo and Parla and its surroundings are a strange area. It’s a rare place that transmits strange sensations. Villages full of urbanizations in the middle of nowhere, half empty, pavements without trees, abandoned chalet or with doors and windows upholstered along with others well maintained.
Strange people, blacks wandering without trade or benefit, countrymen with their Ebros without hood and the vat of sulfatar the vines, whores of balance that are no longer competitive in Madrid, moors, Moors to tutiplén with blackberries covered from head to toe. Infinite wastelands, immense skies that crush you and remind you that you are only a mere mortal. There is something in that land that disturbs the soul, we who have been there know it, even if we do not know what it is.
Soul and body, there is a huge amount of cancer and schizophrenia, more than anywhere else in Spain.
The environment disturbs the soul and the earth feeds on their bodies. It is cursed.
For a whole day of autumn, sad, dark, silent, when the clouds hovered low and heavy in the sky, I crossed alone, on horseback, a singularly gloomy region of the country; and, at last, as the shadows of the night approached, I found myself at the sight of the melancholic Sagra. I don’t know how it was, but at the first look I gave, a feeling of unbearable sadness invaded my spirit. I say unbearable because it did not temper any of those semi-pleasant feelings to be poetic, with which the spirit receives even the most austere natural images of the desolate or the terrible. I looked at the stage in front of me-the house and the simple landscape of the domain, the bare walls, the windows like empty eyes, the sparse and sinister reeds, and the few trunks of withered trees-with a strong depression of mind only comparable, as an earthly sensation, upon the awakening of the opium smoker, the bitter fall into daily existence, the horrible untwist. It was a coldness, a despondency, a discomfort of the heart, an irremediable mental sadness that no incentive of the imagination could deflect to any form of the sublime. What was it-I stopped to think-what was it that discouraged me in contemplation of La Sagra? An insoluble mystery; and I could not struggle with the dark thoughts that gathered around me as I reflected.
It is to look at the area on a map and already you climb all the evils, as black roots, damned cartography, as if of a shameless auscultation of howls of night greyhounds in his last penúria treated... the map beats debased.
José Antonio Primo de Rivera said that the Castilians conquered the world because they had no choice, whoever lived in Toledo North knows that this is a dogma of faith.
It’s a land of misery. Bad misery...
Whenever there’s a kidnapping in Madrid, I don’t know why, but if the thing goes wrong, the body is found half-buried in the Sagra, dug by hunting dogs or in some old brick factory in that damn area.
That area is cursed. The dogs flee in antiestéticar of the stench of death and yet the earth swallows up misery. It begs for misery.
Always greyhounds, because there are only greyhounds, and lots of abandoned.
Hung, hanged, eaten by fleas while the shit from their guts still flows through the trunk that serves as a scaffold. Evening falls; the sun goes down... The locals, reeking of sweat, set aside their implements and head to the tavern to spend their wages on red wine.
And when the air blows, the solano, which is the only air that runs through the plains and also dries their clothes, when it runs you can hear the cries of the souls of the natives who quietly agonize and impregnate the environment with pain and fatigue. In summer the heat will burn you like hell, and in winter the teeth chatter and the distemper falls from the nose. There are no beautiful women, only old and foreign. There are no birds singing, there are no shadows of trees because there are no trees, no birds to possess. Everything is restlessness and a strange feeling of anguish.
At night in summer it does not cool jamaś and you hear the cicadas singing with their monotonous singing until you go crazy. And there are songs of birds, but only of partridges, since there are no other birds, partridges, and many rabbits. Countless run-over rabbits are seen in the gutters.
And the containers of the Maersk recycled for housing with a huge tub of cement next to have water are a classic.
I always believed that I was one, indivisible. But the Sagra unfolded, it was there that I could see that it was not one, but two. A body and a soul that formed a whole. I remember how when I stepped on that damn land wanted to take away my soul. And I swear to God, I noticed her sneaking out of my body and being gobbled up in that place. But I caught her and I was able to keep her attached to my body, no wonder the locals have all lost their minds. That earth empties you, that steals the spiritual being and maintains the organic body, that wander through the urbanizations without brightness in the looks.
You raise your head, put the hoe aside and breathe and the air burns your guts out of misery and the stench is deeper than the nausea itself.
Rabbits with myxomatosis, farmed partridges that release to escape and in their flight die. Hungry greyhounds, tingly, dead of cold or antiestéticar that do not stop trembling. These are the three animals that inhabit that land, a dry land that denies water. Dante’s anteroom to hell.
That is why his wine is so strong, because it is made with the suffering of those who work the earth. A wine with a taste of powder, bitter, rough on the palate, which gets drunk and makes bad wine in those who drink it. Taking out the worst of each. It’s the cursed blood of the place, drinking that brew is like tasting a vampire’s blood.
Designation of origin Méntrida. If you see it out there, don’t try it, well, do what you want, but know that it’s the tears of those people who live trapped in a parallel universe.
A barren, barren land that howls in pain, blood spilling in the stallion. It won’t rain for months. It gets dark and the countryman walks among the cypresses... Will there be any bread crumbs left yesterday? The scorching night, the return hurts.
And the olive trees? Always sick, always affected. I used to ask the locals how the harvest was going. And always, always, something happened to the olive tree. When they are not filled with parasitic insects, it does not rain; when it rains, fungi enter them; or frost throws the fruit or drought does not yield oil. They’re always sick or affected, they’re like a reflection of their owners. When there’s a lot of production, the price goes down. If they give nothing, the price of oil rises. When it is not hail, it is the tuberculosis of the olive tree.
If they get paid the subsidy one year soon, that year the Romanians and gypsies raze the olive groves. There’s always something wrong. I have seen no tree more suffering than the olive trees of that area. And with what pride the farmers tell you of their diseases, it seems they are wanting you to ask them to start complaining bitterly about their existence.
The natives of La Sagra will never tell you what they think. For them to say what they think is the greatest sin that exists. Greater than incest or murder. If you grab a sagreño, tie him to an armchair, pull out a tooth with rusty pliers to the living and ask him if it hurts... then he’ll say no.
The sagreño is jealous of his thoughts. However, if you see two sagreños randomly gathering on the street, it is easy to guess what they say to each other: They lie.
Because lying is their local sport. They only manipulate others by lying to them to get them out. "Draw lie for truth" as they say. They think they’re so sneaky with the outsider and they don’t realize they’re actually such jerks.
Their human relations are unnatural, artificial, strange. They don’t know what spontaneity, sincerity, open, close, warm and frank treatment is. And they don’t even want to know.
The houses of the many Moors you see there are not very flattering either. You see a small three-story block on three floors and you see that there are three satellite dishes and the entrance lock has been broken for years and nobody fixes it. The letterboxes of the Moors have a name stamped with marker and nothing else. It’s devastating.
People who rush the wines in the afternoons before going to the strip club of Valmojado or the Lucio in Maqueda.
Sinister-looking elders who go to Mass every Sunday. Dressed in black and full of bitterness, pride and despair. They grasp the rosaries tightly in their shaky fingers.
An added tip I give you, so that you saw that I am a good person and that I appreciate you. Never go to La Sagra, and if you go do not stop, and if you have to stop for necessity or emergency, try to be as little as possible and avoid touching anything or relating to anyone, do not try to understand the idiosyncrasy of people and the motives or reasons that may exist there.
Móstoles, Alcorcón, Leganés, Getafe, Parla; they are cancer. There is a belt in the north of Toledo that goes from Valmojado to Ocaña, and it will probably go further north, but I no longer control that area. I’m talking about Illecas, Yeles, Seseña and the whole La Sagra area in general. What you could say is metastasis. An inhospitable wasteland, all full of terraced house with uncut hedges, renault 19 scrapped at the door, every three houses there is one half finished and another where there is a caravan or a maritime container that serves as housing.
On the sidewalks there are no trees, the streets are of detached cement and no one is seen on the street. One puts green mesh of the AKI and the other some advertising tarps so that it is not seen that it has the whole yard full of weed and shit. In the middle of the desert there are streets where people are supposed to live. But what kind of person would go to live in the middle of a pasture with a gypsy and a Romanian neighbor?
It’s a strange, rare area, it’s a scary place, a place full of spirits, souls in distress, people hiding from something. I’ve seen ugly areas in my life, but that region has always seemed to me the most disturbing place I’ve ever been.
La Sagra is a cursed region. It must be a crossing of tectonic layers or harbor one of the gates of hell, but it is a place that gives restlessness.
Those of us who are rainfed when we see the sea for the first time experience a sense of insignificance by the grandiosity and the force that transmits that enormous mass of water, the smell of freedom, the bright light that is reflected in the water like a mirror, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing with the coast. One feels comforted and at peace with the universe. In the region of La Sagra when visiting for the first time you feel a feeling of emptiness and loneliness. Disquiet and anguish at being surrounded by barren drylands dotted by inhospitable urbanizations. A suffocating heat that makes the sheep thistle sprout everywhere and a cold black, in winter, that fills your ears with chilblains. And one wonders, what kind of people decide to live in this cursed land?
One thing is certain, the region of La Sagra is the equivalent of London 300 years ago. In a geographical area of such ugliness that it produces antiestéticar and compassion. It is like the storage room of a house, a dirty place, full of useless junk, all messy and kept hidden from visitors by shame.
Another cursed area is the area of Otero/El Casar de Escalona and all the Mexican-infected housing estates along the Alberche. Can someone explain to me what’s interesting about living in a shitty urbanization with Mexicans as neighbors? These outlandish beings depreciate the beauty of any place you see them in the streets.
The desert, damn it, the Arabian desert, is visually more attractive than La Sagra. David Lean arrives in the desert and starts shooting Lawrence of Arabia and is able to make it a majestic place; La Sagra arrives David Lean to shoot something and sticks a shot in the palate of pure misery that invades him.
Not to mention Fuensalida: One of those places where you miss having a DeLorean and warn yourself 3 minutes before making the decision to go, great place.
Fuensalida: Lots of lots and houses in ruins in the village. Insane urban layout without defined center. Houses that were built quickly and to which the drains were placed in the first place in which they thought. You walk through its streets in summer and the stenches coming out of the rainwater sinks are awful.
jovenlandeses and a lot of strange people. In the last census there were just over 1,000 jovenlandésccans and Algerians, of whom only six worked. Their women however work more. On one occasion I distributed advertising in Fuensalida and learned to recognize the mailboxes of the Moors at a great distance. If you saw that the name was painted directly on the metal in the letterbox with a marker, it was a Moor. It didn’t fail. That race is careless, and you can see that in details as idiotic as this.
There are also a lot of halfway houses that stayed that way when the housing bubble burst. And others ended where no one has ever lived or squatters. Many rare people from the suburbs of Madrid, people who live on government aid, drug traffickers (drug consumption in that town is insane).
There is a neighborhood in that town that is graciously called "The Bron" for the amount of riffraff there (referring to the Bronx, but they say "elbron" because they do not know how to pronounce). There are the "Pelones" who cry for money always at the end of Mass.
The natives are distrustful people who will always look at you sideways, who will never tell you what they think but who will always try to pull you out. From the year 34 to the last municipal elections the right-wing always won. And now there is a socialist mayor but thanks to the support of center-right. It is unlikely that there will be another one of the pure left, if the Socialist Party really can be called left, of course.
A lot of people with a lot of money and no education, no culture, no manners of any kind, which is a dreadful combination. Huge incredible houses among ruins and houses of bad living. Whole streets of houses in which no one has ever lived. Sometimes it seems the movie "I’m A Legend".
Absolute ugliness. The environment is bleak. Barren vineyards and olive groves in the middle of a plain that never ends, all dry, nothing pleasant to look at. Bad landscape and worse landscape.
Illegal landfills, smell of burning, tire cemeteries and odors of sewage plants.
Factories where you work more hours than you should without charging extra and without quoting and where managers are able to throw objects to those who consider that they do not ***ow the rhythm. In times there were countless clandestine shoe shops, I think there is still one. Nauseating stenches at night from the illegal burning of shoe making waste.
In summer it never cools down, even at seven in the morning. In winter the cold is wet and falls like a slab on bodies and souls. And when the hunting season ends with greyhounds, you see starving greyhounds abandoned by the streets. Lots.
Don’t go to La Sagra or anywhere in North Toledo. Don’t go.
The highway that goes from Toledo to Tomelloso is a ghost road. 130 km where you have to go fighting against sleep. Throughout the journey you can find 20 vehicles in total, both in your direction and the opposite. The first time I took it, I thought I’d snuck in and that road wasn’t open to the public yet.
Both Cervantes' parents and his wife came from that area. I didn’t understand Don Quixote until I went to live in Toledo Norte. Don Quixote and Sancho are not archetypes of anything but the argument to ridicule the guys they were meeting. Human types that Cervantes knew very well. It has been 4 centuries and they remain the same, they have not changed anything.
Do not go to the Sagra my children.
So close to Madrid, so far from God.
