We were in the Plaza de Olavide and the morning was pleasant.
The elections passed.
Around the table, on the terrace, friends remembered the collective hysteria of a few weeks that are just that: a few weeks listening to noise, sometimes collaborating with it, disbelieving in everything.
Someone asked for beers and we toasted because to be sure that neither Spain is Berlin in 1932 nor will it one day be Russia in '45. We counted lies, cheap tricks, stupid things in some of the matches against us.
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