"Watch out for the girl, she's a criss-cross."

crossing /ˈkrɒsɪŋ/n

1. the place where one thing crosses another
2. a place, often shown by markings, lights, or poles, where a street, railway, etc, may be crossed
3. the act or process of crossbreeding

Crossing into a new year, crossing borders, crossing from winter to spring in one day (thanks for the invention of the plane), crossing into a new life, from the heart of Europe to Iberia, and finally, crossing the bridge of Isabel II, from Sevilla to Triana.
I landed on time on the 31st, just on time to drop my luggage, run through deserted Sevillian streets, to hug my friends and stuff my mouth with the twelve grapes of luck as the clock struck midnight.
When I crossed the bridge to settle in Triana, it felt like coming home. It is good to come back, to repeat naturally some daily habits one used to cherish, find the same smiling faces, be received as a homie.
Triana the beautiful will never bore me.. as long as I keep on coming and going. I could cross its bridge forever just to enjoy the view, stop the time at Faro by listening to old tio Antonio who'd be talking about people eating cats after the civil war while taking out of a bag and showing the two quails he's about to cook at home. I could spend hours at the market doing my shopping, chitchatting at every stand while choosing my veggies, my fresh cheese and my olives.  I could spend all the time in the world with the "locos" de Triana to be found at the same corner on holidays with the most bizarre personalities, well in fact, yesterday I had the proof that Emilio el Moro, just as punk, is not dead.
The house where I live is a pure marvel of local architecture, and there's nothing like waking up in the morning, crossing the threshold to the outer home, the terrace, and having a coffee on the rooftop, hanging between the blue sky and a breathtaking view on the city.
I drank all the wonders of Sevilla la bella, all the warmth of some loving friends, all the craziness of the street life  as a start up present from the Reyes Magos for  new crossings, free flying, tight rope walking. Fly high, or not fly at all. 


"Ô les gens bien heureux
Tout à coup dans l'espace
Si haut qu'ils semblent aller
Lentement en grand vol

En forme de triangle
Arrivent planent, et passent
Où vont ils?... qui sont-ils?
Comme ils sont loins du sol

Regardez les passer, eux
Ce sont les sauvages
Ils vont où leur désir
Le veut par dessus monts

Et bois, et mers, et vents
Et loin des esclavages
L'air qu'ils boivent
Ferait éclater vos poumons"

Les oiseaux de passage - Brassens