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. โItโs a deep cultural experience,โ they said. โYouโll 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.
Fastโforward some years, and life takes me to the Canary Islands, the land of eternal spring, great potatoes and tropical fruit, andโฆ 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 donโt understand the rules.
But at least in lucha canaria, the fighters start by holding each other gently, like two people about to slowโdance before one suddenly decides to flip the other into the sand. Honestly, itโs kind of poetic.
So here I am: lived and living in two places famous for wrestling traditionsโฆ and who still canโt explain a single rule of either sport. But Iโve accepted my fate. Some people are born to understand wrestling. I am born to live near it.