Ramón always wondered how was to living in California in the seventies, when he was growing up in Sevilla, with nothing to do. He always had the sensation of a sunny day inside a comfortable and Spartan house, playing in a warm green bedroom and listing to Beggar’s Banquet and White Pillow. Sometimes he watches Hanna Barbera cartoons. Then, during the night, he goes skating with his parents and friends in the sidewalk by the beach. It is a weird feeling that he experienced as real, like the memory of a dead fella was absorbed in a kind of possession.
She knows: Ramón made a bad choice based only in a vague dream. Anyway, pigheaded as he always were, he packed up his most beloved things and moved to Los Angeles, promising to everyone, himself included, to come back in a year or in a year and a half, maybe.
The heat hit him like a hell’s flame in the “taller” of the old Mexican across the avenue where he’s living with other two Spaniards. Everything resumes to work and to go home. Even living just two blocks away from the job, Ramón is not having any fun at all: cinemas, theaters and indie rock concerts were far away from the hell-hole where he’s living. None of his fellow countrymen likes any of these gringos’ stuff. Always tired, watching TV, his only solace is to buy comics and read a lot of them during the night till the day he fall in with Tom Araya on the street. Ramón tried to talk with him just to see he slams the door of a building in his face. Luckily, she called to Ramón that day. California in the nineties sucked enough to him. One week later and he were promenading in Madrid with her.
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