Ayer viajé hasta Cheyenne para obtener mi Social Security Number y legalizar de una vez mi situación en este país (soy oficialmente un alien allowed to work).
La carretera que hay que tomar para “bajar” a Cheyenne tiene un tramo en pendiente donde los árboles prácticamente rodean y aprisionan la carretera. Era hora punta y había muchísimos camiones subiendo a Laramie. Por un momento pensé que estaba bajando desde Granada hasta Málaga por las Pedrizas. Y me pregunté en qué parte exacta de España pensó Hemingway cuando escribió:
We were through the town and out on the smooth road beyond, with the stubble of grain fields on each side and the mountains off to the right. It looked like Spain, but it was Wyoming.
The cement road stopped. The road was gravelled now and we left the plain and started up between two foot-hills; the road in a curve and commencing to climb. The soil of the hills was red, the sage grew in grey clumps, and as the road rose we could see across the hills and away across the plain of the valley to the mountains. They were farther away now and they looked more like Spain than ever. The road curved and climbed again, and ahead there were grouse dusting in the road. They flew as we came toward them, their wings beating fast, then sailing in long slants, and lit on the hill-side below.
“Wine of Wyoming”, Ernest Hemingway.