There are occasions when it seems that Lanzarote should not appear on any map. As if its existence depended on who observes it. On who considers it. On who exposes themselves.
In Lanzarote there is nowhere to hide one's gaze. The land, full of scars, is more silent than talkative, and the sky, sometimes wrinkled, sometimes immense, seems painted by Belgian surrealists.
And then there is the wind, which neither cools nor bothers: it educates. It teaches to lower your voice, to walk straight, not to argue. It intrudes into courtyards, into lungs, and into conversations. It messes up the landscape, which remains the same. And the hairstyles, which not so much anymore.
The light also has its own. It marks the profiles with a square and a protractor and turns noon into a form of inclement weather. At night, the silence replaces it. But the wind remains.
In Lanzarote, houses do not elbow each other, distances are from another era, vines grow like unconfessable secrets, and roads seem designed not to attract attention. The foreigner who lands looking for colors, saltpeter, and piña coladas ends up understanding that on the island, what is important is the way things do not change. That is why those who stay do not do so because they find anything, but because they stop looking for it.
Instead, the locals learn from childhood to seek shade with cunning and water with respect. They also make noise, but it doesn't last long. The wind carries it away. And sometimes, even them.
Because if each day resembles the previous one, it is not due to monotony but to coherence.
Because the landscape in Lanzarote never stops seeming real. It is an island made of well-managed renunciations. As if someone had removed too many things and, even so, you didn't miss anything.
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