Always. You could be in Andalucía in July, but you just can’t leave the house without having at least a cardigan with you in case it cools down. One day it will, and you’ll have the last laugh.
And by orchestras we mean the bands who play corny cover songs in your village’s local fiestas. That’s how you’re so eclectic now: You didn’t even blink when Raphael was announced to headline Sonorama music festival, and you get equally excited about Triángulo de Amor Bizarro gigs as you do about Panorama orchestra live. You’d love to see them play together, though you don’t really know who would support who.
You were an innocent child when you got there, a happy 8-year-old in a fun museum where you were allowed (even encouraged!) to touch things and make experiments. You found a closed booth where a video was being played. You went inside and…blood everywhere! Clearly the film is responsible for Galicia’s low birth rates.
It works like this: it rains, you complain. Non-stop, to infinity. But then it stops. The first rain-free week you are absolutely happy. The second week you notice your skin is getting dry. The third week you start fearing a drought. The fourth week you think global warming apocalypse is finally here, and Galicia will be a desert in three months. (All your worries disappear the moment it starts raining again, and you go back to hating the rain and longing for the sun.)
You spend the winter complaining about how cold it is, dreaming of warm weather, yearning for a time when you’ll be able to step outside in just a T-shirt and shorts…and then those two days a year in which temperatures rise above 35ºC (that is, they get to 36ºC), you can’t sleep and barely move. Unless you are from Ourense, of course. Then you’re used to it.
You learned this at school (from your classmates, not the teachers!): People from Vigo are Portuguese, those from Coruña are Turks. The first part is easy to understand. The second is a bit more cryptic. Turkish pirates, TourCoruña buses, Franco…there are thousands of theories and you’ve discussed all of them.
You wander hopelessly from Meteogalicia to Windguru (if you live on the coast), visit 4Gotas and even try TV’s La Primera, but you think Martiño is not the same since he got rid of his ponytail. You end up making your own forecast by looking at the sky. Sometimes you get it right.
Has your music career seen better days? Your coplas have stopped selling out in bull rings? Xosé Ramón Gayoso will welcome you and give you a second chance, helping you to reach the hearts of all Galician grannies. Being on the show may announce the death of your music career, but ironically, it’ll also help relaunch it. That’s the Luar guarantee: One performance on the show, and you’ll be requested to play in every village in Galicia during the summer!
Or the last empanada bite. Or the last croqueta. Galician shame is a big cliché, sure, but it’s also a truism. It’s not that we’ve been taught that being the one to finish the shared tapa is bad manners, it’s just that we’re simply unable to do it. If there’s someone who’s not from Galicia in the group, he will be forced to have that last olive. Even if he doesn’t like it.