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Gypsy Cante

Nestled in her silk scarves, my mother always kept a bar of Myrurgia’s Maja soap, wrapped in the dis­tinc­tive red-and-black paper with a fla­menco dancer on the label. Because my father—an American my mother met in med­ical school—had been sta­tioned at the Rota naval base, near Cadiz and the Strait of Gibraltar, I was born in Spain and we stayed there for two years. I remem­bered noth­ing of those days but I’d heard sto­ries: My par­ents drank fino sherry in bars and ate tapas made from tiny spar­rows and wild boar...