Let me tell you a story about sumo. When I was living in Japan, through some circumstances that I couldn´t control, I had to attend sumo tournaments. “It’s a deep cultural experience,” they said. “You’ll love it,” 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. Fast‑forward some years, and life takes me to the Canary Islands, the land of eternal spring, great potatoes and tropical fruit, and… lucha canaria, a sort of sumo basically. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that not only it´s 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 don’t understand the rules. But at least in lucha canaria, the fighters start by holding each other gently, like two people about to slow‑dance before one suddenly decides to flip the other into the sand. Honestly, it’s kind of poetic. So here I am: lived and living in two places famous for wrestling traditions… and who still can’t explain a single rule of either sport. But I’ve accepted my fate. Some people are born to understand wrestling. I am born to live near it.

In a world stacked with levels no one asked for, the underdogs rise anyway. They push, they dodge and they face the mighty eggplant‑level obstacles, yet they climb. They squeeze through grape‑cluster chaos, slipping, sliding, but refusing to quit. And somehow, through all the fruity madness, they keep going. Because at the very top, past every odd shape and unexpected hurdle, waits the rainbow : the final badge of glory for anyone bold enough to ascend. So, let´s blitz, people!