Marat
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marat1.bsky.social
Marat
@marat1.bsky.social
130 followers 34 following 1.1K posts
I travel places. I eat things. I meet people. And I write about it. #Storyteller #Writer Substack: https://travelogues.substack.com/
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We always talk about “farm to table,” but in Spain, it’s more like “forest to faith.”  

Every bite of jamón ibérico carries the soul of oak trees, sunlit hours, and the elegant ibérico pigs that are raised on the land.

If you think food is just fuel, you’ve never taken a bite of devotion.
#Writer
The pigs at Ibéricos Torreón had better diets than most Michelin Star diners.

Acorns. Air. Freedom. Their only job was to live well enough to taste sublime later. Maybe happiness isn’t about doing more.

Maybe it’s about being marbled with good choices.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain #Jamon
Cortadores de jamón sliced meat so thin it questioned the laws of physics.

Each translucent slice shimmer like stained glass. Mastery doesn’t shout. Instead, it whispers with a sharp knife. It’s gentle and stunning, and it tastes, utterly sublime.

In a way, complete silence is mastery.
#Writer
At Ibericos Torreón, jamón isn’t just food.

It’s religion. It’s slow poetry in fat and salt. Every slice tells a story of patience — one to four years of waiting just to taste grace.

In a world of instant gratification, quick results and fast-food, jamón is defiance on a plate.
#Writer #Travel
Salamanca teaches you that silence has texture and flavor.  

Shoes click against stone. Sunlight crawls across plazas. You can almost feel the city stretch awake. And when it does, it doesn’t roar — it purrs quietly.

Quiet doesn’t mean empty, sometimes it means full.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller
In Spain, Eduardo was on “Eduardo Time”

In Salamanca, lateness isn’t a flaw — it’s a rhythm. He wasn’t delayed. He was marinating.  Embrace the wait, you’ll always taste the magic.  

When in Spain, create your own “Eduardo time”
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain #LifeInParts
Spain.

Here, time bends for schedules. Shops open when they feel ready. Friends show up for tapas and wine when the mood strikes. And somehow, it all works out beautifully.

It’s a bit of a mystery, but it always creates an evening of shared stories and laughter.
#Writer #Storyteller #Travel
In Spain coffee isn’t a beverage. It’s a philosophy.  

Espresso pulled so perfectly it borders on flirtation.  The first sip will punch you politely. The second, will seduce you shamelessly.  

If you ever forget life’s purpose before noon, start with a good cappuccino.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller
Mornings in Salamanca feel like a stroll 

Not caffeine panic or fried dough fumes — but patience mixed with stone and early morning shadows. It’s the kind of morning that reminds you that not every day has to start with a sprint.

It’s the practice of doing something slowly, just for the joy of it
The Gran Hotel Don Gregorio. Salamanca

It was luxurious. Quiet, old-world confidence. No influencer-friendly neon signs or InstaReel selfies here. Just the kind of elegance that can’t be staged. Sometimes understatement screams louder than excess.

Maybe subtlety is the new rebellion.
#Writer
Salamanca, Spain.

A city that wakes like a cat stretching in the sun. No alarms. No rush. No guilt for moving at the speed of comfort. Here, the streets teach you that nothing good happens fast — not jamón, not love, not life.

Maybe that’s their actual secret
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain
Comet Lemmon, Cannon Beach, Oregon.

It might be a dirty snowball, but its an interstellar visitor just minding its own business at its zooms by us with mild curiosity.

The universe is incredible.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Comet #CometLemmon #interstellartravel #interstellarspaceobject
Sicily. Wine country.

Between the rolling hills and the Mediterranean breezes, there’s a flavor of the land that is grown by Arianna Occhipinti. Locked in a bottle, is a sublime SP68.

Pop the cork, pour a glass, crack a smile.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #lifeinparts #wine #ariannaocchipinti
Ever held a piece of history in your palm?  

The Hamilton 4992B Navigator’s Watch wasn’t just a tool—it was the heartbeat of B-17 missions over Europe. Each tick wasn’t counting time; it was measuring survival.  

This tiny collection of gears was the navigator’s lifeline.
#Writer #Travel
Spain owns every bite, every pig, every bull, every grape.

It’s stunning because it’s fearless. So go—hungry, broke, curious, reckless. Eat like you mean it. Sleep when you’re dead. Moderation is a lie. Excess is the truth.

Exploration is the real adventure. Always remember to live.
#Writer #Spain
In Spain, every regret is proof you tried something new.

Too much wine, too much jamón, too little sleep—it all adds up to the best kind of hangover. Never regret the excess, the adventure, the discovery.

Create a story and don’t forget to live.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain #LifeInParts
Spain laughs at moderation.  
Splash the olive oil. Bring another tapa. Pour another glass. Calorie-counting here is not allowed. Here, joy lives in the excess—the loud laugh, the extra bite, the second bottle, the conversations that never end.  
Never apologize for the Spanish indulgence. #writer
A Spanish dinner never truly “ends”

Conversations stretch past midnight. Wine pours until footsteps wobble. The night isn’t about the food or the alcohol, although that is sublime.

It’s about not wanting the evening the end.
#Writer #Storyteller #Travel #LifeInParts #Spain
A Spanish siesta is the ultimate protest.

Against productivity. Against deadlines. Against the cult of “efficiency.” It’s saying “NO” to rushing—and “YES” to living.  

Honor “the hustle”… Then honor “The Break”
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain #LIfeInParts
Salamanca, Spain.

Patrons drink like philosophers. Every sip of wine fuels another midnight argument about love, politics, or fútbol. The line between wisdom and nonsense is a single empty glass.

It’s a drunken revelation, worth remembering.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain #LifeInParts
Order food in Salamanca, Spain, and you’ll swear you can feel your cardiologist screaming from across the ocean.

A blood sausage or two. A slice or two or three of jamón iberico. Another sip of Tempranillo. Spain never holds back on favor or calories.

But who’s counting?
#Writer #Travel #Spain
Cocido.

Pig tails stewed in chorizo sauce with chickpeas. It’s a dish that sounds brutal, yet arrives at your table like velvet. Spain wastes nothing. Because here, even the tail tells a story.

Chefs here achieve perfection and never throw anything away. #Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain #Foodie
Tapas and Pinchos.

It’s not about hunger. It’s about belonging—to a table, to a conversation, to a story in progress. In Spain, food is the glue that keeps strangers from staying strangers.

Any evening, strangers become acquaintances, who then become friends.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain
Pinea. Ribera del Duero.

Tempranillo at lunch. Tempranillo at siesta. Tempranillo at midnight. Spain doesn’t drink wine like a treat. It drinks it like oxygen.

Here, wine isn’t a beverage. It’s a tradition.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain #Wine #RiberaDelDuero #Pinea
My friend Eduardo was never on time—until he was.

Punctuality in Spain isn’t about the clock. It’s about the moment. When you stop measuring time by ticks and tocks, it begins to surprise you.

Follow your rhythm—or someone else’s.
#Writer #Travel #Storyteller #Spain #LifeInParts