Far from EGB and pesetas, I worked in a small fashion store on the street of pharmacies. He had a voluptuous female friend with him, and I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that. she was much more attractive than me and she was. And it’s more beautiful with similar but different things.
These were other times and neither Logse nor euro, but neither Amazon, AliExpress and the mother who gave birth to them were invented. Purchases were made in person or not at all. And from time to time, a man appears alone looking for a gift that will surprise a woman. Whether it was a decades-old spouse or a new girlfriend, it was always the same situation; When it came to the size of the dress and the price, the man shrugged his shoulders and replied, “the normal one.” Aha, but normal like 38, 40, 42…? And so, my partner or I would vaguely show him waist widths or blouse lengths, and the poor man, increasingly puzzled by the responsibility of the decision, would finally reply: “Normal, that’s normal”. This made us very happy, because what could be better than learning that we have chosen a “normal” partner in life – there are no weird, weird people – but trying to finalize the business has left us with no alternative but both. Employees standing very close to each other and asking him: “But it’s okay, are you pulling him or me?” And although I remind you that beautiful but beautiful is my partner—and she is—regardless of the subject’s age or relationship to the woman, I always replied: “No, no, like her, no! Ordinary like you.”
This incongruity, this triumph of the vulgar over the extraordinary, stunned me, until I surrendered to the fact that it would be the tenth proof of an ancient elegy by actress Margarita Carmen Cansino—better known as Rita Hayworth: “All the men I know sleep with Gilda and get up with me.”. Hayworth is a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and is remembered by Gilda, one of our most popular pinchos based on a street and twist in Castilleja de la Cuesta, Seville, where her father was born and lived before emigrating to New York. anchovies between pickles.
Actually, it would have been more accurate to call Gilda ‘Paris Syndrome’ rather than the city, but luckily, Hiroaki Ota, a Japanese psychiatrist working in France, observed some tourists, mostly citizens. A temporary psychological disturbance during their holidays in the French capital. The main symptom was severe disappointment when it was realized that the idealized image of Paris – and the French – did not correspond to reality. An average of 12 Japanese tourists a year suffer from it. Mostly romantic women in their thirties, to the point where the Japanese embassy has set up a 24-hour line to take care of its affected citizens. But sometimes the opposite happens, and beauty becomes overwhelming, exceeding our expectations. It was named Stendhal Syndrome by Florentine psychiatrist Graziella Magherini, author of the book ‘Stendhal Syndrome’ (1989), where she shared her experiences with patients at the Santa Maria Nuova Hospital, some foreign visitors. With his heartbeat racing, fainting and even hallucinations when faced with the beauty and art of Florence. The name chosen belonged to the French writer Henri-Marie Beyle, better known as Stendhal, who described the discovery of the city in his book ‘Rome, Naples and Florence’ (1817): the idea of being in Florence. As I was leaving Santa Croce, a violent pounding of my heart took hold of me.. The fountain of life dried up inside me, and I walked in constant fear of falling to the ground.
In addition to a syndrome—similar to the one in Paris not recognized as such in the American Psychiatric Association’s classification of diseases—Stendhal recalls a street in Florence and a night train route from Paris to Milan, Verona, and Venice: the Stendhal Express. Magherini continued to research The triumph of the extraordinary over the vulgar—or the sickness of good taste. with another book: ‘I fell in love with a statue’ (2007). Years ago, in 1988, Joaquín Sabina wrote a huge success: a statue of mutual love:
“He came to devour the city with his wooden sword and clown shoes. He bought luck at Doña Manolita, and while passing through Cibeles he asked her to waltz like two lovers and fall asleep curled up in the shadow of a lion. How are you? I’m alone and I don’t have a husband, thanks for coming to warm my heart.
He stole a ring from her, thank goodness, she could come to the shop and buy her a dress.