are also them. And they would say some stupid minister. Those who were not looking for new battlefields for their companies. The poor and infantry battered but not faithful to itself, and that only she can. The mercenaries in search of a master to give them to eat, whoever, whatever secure two thousand euros per month and a future in the short to medium term. Those who do not go with heroic gestures but the small door, quietly, leaving behind parents and boyfriends that they miss. For a long time away from loved ones, which, very occasionally, visiting increasingly holidays short, knowing they can not be with them when they go to the hospital or die, and that if someone gives early warnings, there might not accompany his funeral. But it can also happen that there luck, and parents, or the dog that accompanied his life for ten or twelve years, expect to die when they are home on vacation.
called Mary, Naomi, Hector, Manolo. have about forty years old, left Spain for three or four, not out in Sunday's newspapers, on those pathetic stories devoted to convince us that we should feel proud that the world is dotted with English youth is looking for life outside. At his age are not so photogenic. They do not look posing with a lab coat in Oslo, chef's hat in Berlin, basketball jersey in New York. Not even apply for EPS photo XLSemanal or handsome waiter who washes dishes in his twenties, only time, in a trendy London or New York, among other things because neither are twentysomethings and handsome, and when wash dishes or waiting tables at his age, it can be for life. Are people up without a second chance, who knows what will remain, without remission. No other desire not get worse. Do not go lower.
walk out there, thousands. His generation did not even is the airports, the laptop and cheap hotel on the lookout for even modest market. His is the single ticket from unaffordable mortgages. The generation deceived by the mirage and the irresponsibility of those who could make a cultured country, hardworking, decent, and they did. Of those, backed at the polls by hopes and dreams for the future, were required to harness this and did not know or give a shit, and now are still there, unmoved, claiming the salary of the game, lashing the favors done to compadres. Without anyone to tell them was your fault, you bastard. Without anyone to cross it when leaving the fancy restaurant or giving conferences, with that face of pigs that have put the years, the pasta, the status and the car driver who never lost them over the face.
Their victims are gone, that's all. Quietly, as I say. were forty in school class and two hundred in the hall of the faculty, and everything to get a university degree that nobody cares a damn. Nobody told them not to take out. They were sentenced to the dole queue and asked a thousand times, when they were women, were pregnant or had children, grotesque mock job interviews. For their age they would have received head down, accept a thousand euros a month, closing the mouth, put your ass-or-hell and bleed with the mortgage on the flat and the letters of the car, as all Christ. Swallowing and survive eleven months dreaming of the twelfth of cheap holidays to Cancun. It was that or have the courage, despair, to organize with peers to burn this fucking Spain. To achieve at least the guilty should pay to be afraid or expensive. But that is easier to write than do, so I opted for the reasoning: get out of here. Away, shaking dust from the shoes of this place ungrateful, jealous and miserable, historically ill. In this vile stepmother and his shady, shameless thugs unpunished. Therefore they are out, and if they can not return avoided. Made it more difficult, it was jumping into the void, throw the knapsack on his shoulder, deep into hostile territory, unknown. We searched for life as best they could, and they survive, they eat hot as they can remake their shattered lives. Do not even pretend to reconcile with this sad and Spain that began to kick. If you are going to die away, as alone as they live, they can spoil this bad bitch.
Arturo Perez-Reverte
Photo: Jaume Timoner
Dreams Designed by Dealer 
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