Eso No Estaba En Mi Libro de Historia de Las Cruzadas

The woman who kissed Virgil and other literary journeys invites us to get to know the Palermo of The Leopard from the library of Tomasi di Lampedusa, to walk through Chiado following the nomadic itinerary of Pessoa and to regain strength sitting next to him in one of his cafés before planning a visit to Hemingway's Paris, decide whether we want to get to know the monumental Rome of Goethe, Stendhal and Keats or immerse ourselves in the loves that, piled one on top of the other, like the floors in the skyscrapers of that literary, cinematographic, tiny and at the same time incomprehensible Manhattan, overflow the limits of the small Via Margutta Something of each trip permeates in us: the smell in the old bookstores of Buenos Aires, the echo of a Stradivarius on Baker Street, the ever-blue of Nice, Cannes, Antibes and Monte Carlo against the red of the convertible speeding through Miami with Ian Fleming at the wheel. The salt of the Dead Sea on our skin, the desert dust in our eyes, the Mediterranean bathing our feet as if we were heroes or gods. And the kiss, always grateful but also complicit, to the marble bust of our guide. With an extremely beautiful and evocative prose, full of classical and modern references, María José Solano reveals through her eyes that literature and history are part of the luggage, but they are also the best of destinations.