Ah, Estella-Lizarra, mi amor, listen up! Let me tell ya—this city is both a palace and a battleground. I live here, work as a women's counselor, dealin' with hearts like broken glass and bones of old secrets, and damn if it's not a wild ride. You come here, you'll see narrow cobbled streets like Calle del Mercado de Abastos, buzzing with gossip and old tales, and the grand Plaza de la Constitución, where everyone pretends to be royal while hiding real scars. And oh, the lore hidden in every brick. I choose violence.
Walking down Carrer de San Miguel, the scent of fresh churros and ancient stories mix with a hint of wildfire—reminding me sometimes of that scene in Boyhood: “We did it, we did it!” but no, it's more like "We survived, we fucking survived!" So many memories, some sweet, others hard as nails on a granite wall. I laugh at how time here drags yet darts, like a kid runnin' free.
My heart beats faster walking in Parque de las Gredas—a hidden gem, a secret whisper among elder ladies and children. There, nature and urban rumble tango together. Kids playing, old folks chat, and I wonder, “Is this life or just a series of moments?” Hint: life's a series of moments, dude.
Neighborhoods? Oh, you'll love Barrio de la Plata. It feels both ancient and modern. I've sat on rickety benches, spillin' my counselor guts, watching women of all ages smile, cry, and never stop fighting. Old stone walls, new graffiti, and a vibe that’s as conflicted as my own thoughts—fierce, tender, intimate. Like in Boyhood when they said, "Everything is temporary"—and believe me, here, every moment is a code of survival.
The Nervión River—yeah, it doesn’t exactly cut through the heart but flows silently by, a ghostly whisper of time passing. I often sit by its banks on Calle del Rio, feel the icy breeze, think about all the tears, laughs and anger spilled over the years. Sometimes, when there's enough twilight, I feel like splashing in my memories, wishing I could wash away the sorrow too.
Listen, I gotta be real: sometimes I get mad. Mad at the city for stifling my spirit, mad at myself for carryin' centuries of sorrow in my veins. But then, in the same breath, the city makes me happy—its charm, its grit, its messy humanity. It's raw. "I choose violence"—not literal violence, but fierce battles, internal wars fought day in, day out with every tear.
I got some quirks, alright? I ramble, I vent, I cut off thoughts when the heart's too full. It’s messy. But that's life here. We don't do perfect language, we do life chaotic and wild—like shouting "Let's go, boys, let's go!" in defiance of order. And oh, there are typos in my head: it's been one hectic day: realll, relly, reall, reasl, reall, reli, reealy, resly, reallly, reaal, reallly, realy—in a hurry, ya know?
So welcome, my friend. Come, stroll these fabled lanes of Estella-Lizarra (es). Let its melancholy and magic hit you like a storm. You’ll feel the pulse of old souls and young dreams alike. It's not perfect, not neat, but damn, it's lived in fiercely—just like me. Enjoy, and remember: life's too brief to be shy about our raging passion. Cheers!