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the foreign daughter
my purse and found my train
ticket. Then drama in the
middle of the street, a fainting
fit, demanding explanations,
begging me not to leave.
However, none of any of that
happened.
I went on as far as the Plaça
Major and crossed over to
Verdaguer. I gave the sand-
free esplanade a cursory
glance and briefly recalled how
I used to wander between the
market stalls every Saturday
there was. Every Saturday in
term-time, every Tuesday and
Saturday if it was the holidays.
The strident cries of the stall-
holders, the changing colours
of the garments they sell, the
general chaos. That was why
I was so intent on carving
an orderly path through the
market, zig-zagging down the
alleyways, so keen not to miss
a thing. But now I’m past Jacint
Verdaguer and can’t avoid
feeling the resentment of the
poor as I walk by the houses
of the rich, or the people who
seem to be so when compared
to our limited economic
means. Resentment and
fascination for the different
lives of my secondary school
companions, the ones who
wear designer jeans and sport
hairstyles that keep pace
with fashion, who go skiing in
winter, have foreign holidays
in summer, whose parents pay
for their weekend outings,
driving licences and who only
have to do one thing: study.
Why are you so surprised?
That’s normal life, yours is the
one which doesn’t fit, you are
the intruder. You are the one
whose mother cleans their
houses, and is lucky to do
that, because someone allows
her into her house with that
parting in the middle of her