I barely remember a few fragments of those freezing winter days, with the snow that we only see today.
It was my first school holiday, in the village of my childhood, at my grandparents' house. I was just a child who was starting his life with timid steps, without knowing that soon the great storm of change would hit the whole country.
An old radio on one of the walls of our old room, where we sat by the stove, informed us of the street fights that were taking place all over the country. All I remember is a big snowman I had made in the yard with charcoal eyes, a morocov nose and the old village store of the cooperative.
An old house with a high ground floor and old wooden counters tarnished by time and dust, which seemed to me to be a paradise from another world. It was the first year I saw and ate oranges and chocolate, which I kept on our old dresser, and to me they were worth their weight in gold. These smells remained etched in my memory and are now transposed into an olfactory journey like no other.
