Most of the year we lived in Washington, DC, but every summer we’d travel to Spain. From the moment we disembarked in Seville, my father’s demeanor would change. He’d look purposeful. “The finca will be yours one day,” he’d always say.
Finca. The word raises your lip and wrinkles your nose, exposing your teeth in a snarl on the last syllable. It also encapsulates the pride that was so central to my father’s identity. Ranch, the English translation, doesn’t quite capture it. Finca has classist and colonial undertones, carrying with it the echo of a flamenco guitar.
From the front porch of the house, which we called the chalet, red and gold soil sloped through oak trees.
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