February 1, 1892
My Dearest Eleanor,
As I repose beneath the azure skies of Spain, my pen finds its way to paper after a silence that has stretched too long. My heart swells with the hope that this letter finds you in good health and high spirits back in our cherished Cambridge. Your image, like a steadfast beacon, guides my spirit through the thrills and trials of these foreign lands.
Today, I chanced upon a most peculiar and enthralling local ceremony, which the natives referred to as "Macarena". I feel compelled to document this extraordinary spectacle, for it was unlike anything I've ever witnessed in my extensive explorations.
As the music commenced, a melody both foreign and intriguing to my English sensibilities, the participants began their ritual in unison. First, they extended their arms forward, one after the other, in a manner reminiscent of a soldier presenting arms. It was a deliberate and measured action, executed with a precision that spoke of practiced discipline.
Subsequently, they turned their palms skyward, each in sequence, as if beseeching the heavens for favor or perhaps in silent homage to the sun that beats relentlessly upon this passionate land. This gesture was imbued with a certain reverence, a silent prayer encapsulated in a simple turn of the wrist.
Each participant then placed their right hand upon their left shoulder and vice versa, in an astonishing manner evocative of a self-embrace.
Following this, they placed their hands upon the very backs of their heads, one at a time. It was a gesture that, to my mind, suggested a casual nonchalance, a momentary abdication of the day's toils.
This was followed by an even more shocking switch of hands to the other hip, performed with the same light-hearted finesse, each movement a brushstroke in this living canvas of cultural expression.
Then came a rather delightful, albeit completely unforeseen sequence in which they shook their hips. It was a vibrant circular motion, reminiscent of leaves swirling seductively in the Andalusian breeze.
My dearest, at this point I was convinced that this extraordinary dance had no surprises left for me, but I was swiftly proven wrong, as the Spaniards in unison leapt and turned their bodies a quarter turn to the left! It was as if each participant was a compass needle, momentarily pausing before orienting themselves towards Jerusalem or simply a new adventure.
This Macarena seems to encapsulate the very essence of the Spanish spirit. But Eleanor, amidst the laughter and the vivacious sway of strangers, I found myself adrift in a sea of memories, each one a cherished moment shared with you.
I was reminded of your last missive, in which you shared how your days and evenings in Bath, Somerset have been filled with lively company and spirited friends. How often you mentioned the charm and wit of our mutual acquaintances, Rupert and Alistair, whose fine characters and companionship you've always appreciated in my absence.
Reading back the words that I have just written, I fear that I have been made the cuckold. But what were you supposed to do? I have been out of town and my two friends are so fine.
With warmest affection and a heart that beats only for you,
Archibald
P.S. The Hard Taco song for February is called "Solid Maybe."
