There was a Castle. It was made out of stone and mud, with high ceilings, small doors, and windows with thick glass. It was the guardian of the Aura river and even though Kings and Queens spent nights and months between its cozy walls, none of them was called the king of the land. It was rebuild after bombings and fires, witnessed good times, times of fear, times of hope….
This Castle was not the fairytale type. no princesses were kept against her will, no dragons exhale fire and flames, no knights in shining armors pursuing an ever lasting love. There was a girl though, brown wavy hair, brown wandering eyes, who travelled overseas, looking for something she didn’t know she had lost along the way, and found herself standing on the courtyard, feet on the snow, more than seven centuries after the first stone was put in what once was an island.
How and why, the rhythm of the steps of a hot blooded Mexican, disrupted the silence of a medieval Castle during the nordic winter, it’s something I often wonder. What I know now, is that bedtime stories are wrong and princesses are not locked in a castle just like that, instead, they have to be brave, conquer their fears, cross the ocean and make friends with the dragon, in order to put their feet on a different kingdom, and exactly like that, it’s how history is made.