Bunuel_Luis_My_Last_Breath

Remembrances from theMiddle AgesIWAS thirteen or fourteen years old when I left the region ofAragon for the first time to visit some friends of the familywho were spending the summer in Vega de Pas near Santander,in northern Spain. The Basque country was astonishing, a newlandscape completely the opposite of my own. There were clouds,rain, forests dripping with fog, damp moss, stones; from thenon, I adored the north-the cold, the snow, the great rushingmountain rivers. In southern Aragon, the earth is fertile, butdry and dusty. A year can go by, even two, without so much asa single cloud in the impassive sky. Whenever an adventuresomecumulus wandered into view just above the mountain peaks, allthe clerks in the grocery next door would rush to our house andclamber up onto the roof. There, from the vantage point of asmall gable, they'd spend hours watching the creeping cloud,shaking their heads and murmuring sadly:"Wind's from the south. It'll never get here."And they were always right.