Here I am in Cádiz, aged 63, finally having made the break from Blighty to live at the southernmost tip of Europe – almost. Tarifa, to the east, is closer to Africa. But Columbus sailed from Sanlúcar de Barrameda, nearby, and Hercules founded the city, more than 5,000 years ago. It’s a city with quite a history.
I was introduced to Guardian Weekly by a friend with expat experience, and so eager was he for me to join the elite band of overseas subscribers he paid my first subscription. A closer relationship with both giver and gift ensued: the giver no longer features, but I seize eagerly upon the gift.
In Madrid, during the first dizzying days of my new life, my Spanish flatmate would brandish it triumphantly when I came home after work. Now I can read more in Spanish, but GW remains my faithful companion. I pass it to students and use it in classes, but I never let it go without completing the Quick Crossword and having a go at Wordplay. I share Pedanticus’s frustration and fury with smug pleasure. I read the back page first, whoever the writer. Then Oliver Burkeman – and it’s a sad day when he’s missing. And I immerse myself in the Long Read, trying to expand my range of interest into science and technology.
GW is a bond between expats and also with those gaditanos – Cádiz-born Spanish – who know the Guardian.
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