I fingered the soft underbelly of temptation, prodding recent scars, their badly managed story yet to properly heal, stitches wafting in the anti meridian breeze….as the scene unfolded.
Life around the chapel square, or if you will, Plaza de la Iglesia, was a curious parody. A Venezuelan friend once remarked it was the only chapel he knew with a bar in its grounds..thus sharing the same space there were quinto drinkers and Christian thinkers…
The Christians were out numbered, and like the amphitheatre of old, they had no chance.
The square filled as the allotted hour came…and went; clearly we were on Fuerteventura time. An Ayuntamiento man distributed straw hats; the mayor appeared grinning almost as much as his consort, flash guns capturing a brillo smile, or was that manufactured sincerity?
to be continued...
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