You asked me, dear teacher, if I’m never sad, or at least not when I sit down to write. You think I’m always enthusiastic and perhaps I am, even if I don’t even realize it. But I do have my moments. Last Saturday, walking home after a premier, I remembered our small hotel on Fortuny Street. I mean, I remembered our Residencia de Estudiantes with longing. Maybe it was something in the Parisian façades that brought it back. You would say this is normal, because I return soon to Madrid. Imagine my excitement, and the anticipation of working with the Junta de Ampliación de Estudios as soon as I’m back in the city. I so wish to put this new pedagogy into practice. Each session in the Ecole de Rythmique J-D makes me more conscious of the educational needs in our country. If children must go to museums and read the Quixote, so too should they learn about the important musical figures of our past.
I could never have found better teachers than these in Europe. And I say Europe, madam, because I frequently think back to Portugal and professor Motta, who taught me so much. How far Lisbon and Paris feel from my little Vigo, that Spanish town where I was born. Life there is so poor, so small, that one barely cares to live, or fight, or desire anything. What for? Luckily, the idea of following in our European neighbors’ footsteps, and the hope of bringing all of this back to Spain, keeps such melancholy thoughts at bay.