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Sumo
Let me tell you a story about sumo. When I was living in Japan, through some circumstances that I couldnยดt control, I had to attend sumo tournaments. โ€œItโ€™s a deep cultural experience,โ€ they said. โ€œYouโ€™ll love it,โ€ they said. Meanwhile, I sat there trying to understand why two enormous men were slapping each other like someone had stolen their lunch money.
I tried. I really did. But the truth is the only thing I mastered was the art of clapping at the right time.
Fastโ€‘forward some years, and life takes me to the Canary Islands, the land of eternal spring, great potatoes and tropical fruit, andโ€ฆ lucha canaria, a sort of sumo basically.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that not only itยดs so similar to sumo, but I was living next to a Terrero de Lucha, basically a wrestling arena. Destiny, apparently, had decided that I was meant to be surrounded by men grappling in sand, no matter what country I lived in.
The best part? I still donโ€™t understand the rules.
But at least in lucha canaria, the fighters start by holding each other gently, like two people about to slowโ€‘dance before one suddenly decides to flip the other into the sand. Honestly, itโ€™s kind of poetic.
So here I am: lived and living in two places famous for wrestling traditionsโ€ฆ and who still canโ€™t explain a single rule of either sport. But Iโ€™ve accepted my fate. Some people are born to understand wrestling. I am born to live near it.
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Elena Maren
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Sumo