Okay, I'm listening. You're so sold on this history-flavored conjecture of yours, aren't you? Yes, of course, as you say, the fiery trains brought the crusades back to Spain. Naturally, I read between your fine, kitten-haired lines the fixation with the problem of the 'Moors'.
I tell you, there are other theories. Cable-remote control away, google-click away, newspaper leaf away. The hot-blooded Basque hypothesis for one, have you heard of that? You smile, and I read between your blank stare and pursed, maroon lips that you weren't listening.
I wonder if you'll hear my own, my pet theory. Staring blankly at the whitewashed wall behind you, I wonder further if you will follow my labyrinthine thread, the one cleverly dubbed 'the French connection'. One always goes to Spain through France! Our thread will lead us back to Pearl Harbor, Cuba, a certain Chinese plane crash, among other temporal gardens. Then forward, with analytical daggers in hand, we would go to Afghanistan and the twin Gulf wars. The thread will lead us to the terror, beyond the one called 'Minotaur'. Behold, dearie, the one I name 'Minos Rex'! All paths lead to him, you see.
Except our path, now, when I decide not to even begin, to drop thread and dagger while Ariadne still throbs, unabandoned in the island of the future; my tragic black sail, still off the mast; and the child of the architect, still unadorned with the fatal wings.
I drop it, and two seas, Icarian and Aegean, remain unnamed.
I hope you forget the Moors sometime soon. I hope you leave Spain to Spain. We'll go for lunch when you do. Whadyasay we eat some Japanese?