Summer in Spain always comes with a soundtrack: a song playing in beach bars, in cars on the way to the coast, on improvised terraces at sunset. That melody we dance to barefoot on the sand, with salty skin and full hearts. And even if we don’t remember the full lyrics, the feeling stays with us—that sense of freedom, of days that feel endless.

During the late summer days, that energy becomes more intense, yet more serene. These are days of contrast: tan lines telling stories of hours in the sun, sunset toasts that stretch into sunrise, comings and goings between beaches and cities, spontaneous getaways and returns filled with promises to come back.

The sea becomes a refuge. Sailing under the golden sky of the golden hour, letting the wind tangle our hair, the sea foam washing away every worry. Life feels simple, as if the sound of water and the warmth of the sun were enough to make us feel whole.

But summer is also highs and lows, a rollercoaster of emotions: the euphoria of endless nights and the peace of a nap under a beach umbrella. Laughter shared with friends and the quiet contemplation of staring at the sea. And it’s there—in that imperfect, real blend—that summer’s magic lies.

Carpe diem never echoes louder than in these final summer days. Seize the moment, don’t postpone it. Say yes to a spontaneous swim, to a moonlit walk, to a toast repeated again and again because no one wants the night to end. Summer teaches us that time isn’t measured in hours, but in memories.

When September comes and routine starts to knock on the door, we carry all of it with us: the golden light on our skin, the summer song still echoing in our minds, the impromptu road trips, the endless conversations. And even as the calendar moves forward, summer never truly fades. It lingers in the salt still glistening on our skin, in the sun marks that remind us of the intensity of those days, and in the certainty that the best part was having lived it fully.

Because in the end, late summer days are just that: a reminder that life is made of fleeting moments. And just like summer, even if brief, they leave marks that stay with us forever.

Six years ago, I came back from Nantes with an elephant tattooed on my skin.

It wasn’t a spontaneous act — it was a deliberate decision, an intimate gesture filled with symbolism. Back then, the elephant represented a city that left a mark on me, a chapter that transformed me, that made me grow, and the people who made time stand still, turning that experience into something eternal.

The ink on my skin was — and still is — a symbol of loyalty, memory, and commitment. A silent tribute to those who were, are, and will be, regardless of distance or place.

But this May, six years after that experience, fate gave me an unexpected trip where being close to elephants showed me why, for many, they are sacred animals.

In Thailand, for the first time, I was near one (near them): I fed them, touched them, sat beside them... I watched them breathe. I stayed silent, trying to understand something that can only be described with goosebumps and tingling skin: a connection that is ancient, deep — almost sacred.

A slow gaze, an immense and peaceful gentleness. That way of approaching without fear, that ability to listen with the whole body, and that gaze — as if it understood what remains unsaid, what one keeps quiet.

Because elephants don’t just walk — they tread the earth as if they remember it. They carry the memory of the world, but also of gestures, of silences, of goodbyes and reunions.

Because this animal was already a symbol etched inside me — a lesson and a memory I never wanted to let go of — but now that ink holds a new life, another experience (along with that chapter in Nantes) that won’t just remain an echo.

Because the elephant is not just part of my skin — it’s part of my story, of everything I’ve lived, of the values I’ve always stood for, of all the people I love and have loved — and, undeniably, of all those moments that have shaped me.

But there are marks that never fade, footsteps that leave a lasting print, and moments that need no description. A before and after. An unknown future yet to be written. Words that drift... And an elephant on my skin.

It’s curious how summer always brings with it a mix of happiness and nostalgia. The excitement for what’s to come, and the melancholy of those sweet memories from the past that now rest like an old postcard.

In the same way, there are trips that hold unexpected moments—like a scene you didn’t know you needed. Like cycling through ancient ruins in Thailand, the sun on your face, Buddhas guarding time, and columns that seem to touch the sky.

A sweet sense of freedom that takes us back to those endless childhood afternoons, when we pedaled without stopping—above all, without knowing how far we could go.

Perhaps that’s why Verano Azul comes to mind, the TV show that marked a generation with its blend of innocence and discovery. You don’t have to be born in the ’80s to feel that spirit. I didn’t even get to watch it, but its essence remains intact in every bike that crosses dusty paths, in every conversation shared beneath the shade of a fig tree.

Not out of nostalgia, but because of the way everything fits together: the open air, the bicycles, that feeling of being exactly where you’re meant to be—not rushing to get anywhere, just pedaling, looking around, and breathing.

Because every summer becomes a kind of ritual, and if we ever doubt where we’re headed, it will be enough to look back and remember how that melody sounded, the one we heard so many times: “Del barco de Chanquete no nos moverán.” Because deep down, we all carry a bit of Bea, Desi, Pancho, Piraña, and the rest inside us. We all have (and deserve) a blue summer that lasts forever, with a thousand stories to tell.

Summer arrives, the calendar says school is over, and I get goosebumps. Even if I’m still miles away, with no idea when or for how long I’ll be able to return, the scent of the sea salt wraps around me, and my hair seems to tangle on its own as I count down the days until I can go back once more. Because there are places that, no matter how far they are, were, are, and always will be irreplaceable corners of the heart — unforgettable moments in time.

The good weather is here. All I crave now is sand and waves, the freedom to drift… And even if I no longer hold the key that lets me cross that threshold again, that house is still the purest definition of home.

Summers are different now. They’ll never be the same without you. But returning to those cobbled streets, I can still see you crossing the estuary with a loaf of bread under your arm. Even if there aren’t as many summer days as before, I still remember the way to the beach — even with my eyes closed.

And so the days go by, one after another, crossed off the calendar until, finally, I get in the car and we head north — to the cold waters that still feel like home.

No one can imagine just how much I miss those moments of slow tans, of the sun turning orange at dusk, of losing track of how many days are left before returning again. An endless summer, just like the morriña that now lives tattooed on my skin.

There are trips you plan, and others that simply find you (almost by surprise). Thailand was a bit of both: a destination that had been on our minds for a while and a moment that arrived almost unannounced. We traveled as a family—my brother, my parents, and I—and perhaps that’s why every scene, every place, every dish, and every local smile took on an even more special meaning.

We landed in Bangkok, a city that vibrates even from the air, where chaos has its own rhythm and ancient temples still stand tall among modern skyscrapers. The capital and its contrasting streets, the nighttime river cruises (not exactly recommended, but definitely memorable), the neon lights and street food of its famous Chinatown, and the calm from above at Tichuca rooftop, where the sunset is sipped in a tall glass and the view feels like a movie still.

The itinerary was set, and just a few hours after exploring the capital, we headed inland. Little by little, the noise faded into rice fields, into lotus leaves floating along canals that only locals have reached, and into Buddhist temples bursting with flowers and celebration. Ayutthaya, Sukhothai, Lopburi… names that once seemed (almost) impossible to pronounce now sound beautiful, like places worthy of remembering.

But if I had to choose a single moment, a single place, it would be the elephant sanctuary near Chiang Mai. There, we learned that these animals are not only gentle giants, but also intelligent, affectionate, and almost human. They gave us hugs, "kisses," and (not-so-gentle) pats… They played in the water, delighted in bananas, and from that day on, I had yet another lovely reason to wear this beautiful creature tattooed on my skin.

Chiang Rai dazzled with its white and blue temples, stunning architectural works carved with patience, passion, and faith. And if there’s one thing this country can boast about, it’s its people, who make Thailand shine with its own light. This nation, also known as “the Land of Smiles,” owes its nickname to every one of its inhabitants, who with expert hands weave stories, offer reverence, and create beauty with a delicacy that has almost vanished elsewhere.

If you’ve been to Thailand and still don’t know what I mean, maybe you haven’t yet heard a group of young Thai musicians trying their best to sing in Spanish. “Despacito” had never sounded so sweet or so off-key—and never made us laugh so much. (My favorite, without a doubt, was the drummer, with his goofy smile and boundless enthusiasm).

Thailand isn’t just a place you visit: it’s something you live, breathe, and taste… And during this exotic getaway, we were left wishing we’d taken a ride in one of their famous tuk-tuks—those rockets on wheels that promise both adventure and the occasional scare. But that can only mean one thing: we’ll just have to pack our bags again.

The Seville Fair — the Feria de Abril — doesn’t follow the calendar. It has its own rhythm, sets its own pace, and speaks its own language. It might be held in April (as the name suggests) or in May, but when it arrives… time and dates stop mattering.

Another year, and I find myself sharing the words I wrote on January 6th, Three Kings' Day:

Dear readers, Happy New Year!

Every December, as cities light up with twinkling lights and the sound of carols fills the air, something stirs within us. It’s a familiar tingling, a spark that brings us back to the essence of the child we once were—and the child we’ll always carry within. This is the magic of Christmas, a time that invites us to dream and, above all, to return home. Because there’s nothing like coming home for Christmas.

Volunteers line up at the City of Arts and Sciences in Valencia - Manuel Bruque 03.11.24

Last week, Valencia's skies turned gray, and the roar of water swept through its streets, overflowing into rivers of solidarity. That’s why, this week, we don’t come to talk about fashion but instead to pause in silence and respect for the help, beauty, and courage of this land, its people, and the thousands of volunteers who rise from the waters with strength and hope.

That empathy that surfaces when we recognize pain. The admiration for all those people and their efforts: for each person who reaches out, for each neighbor who helps clear the mud, or simply offers a hug. Because in every gesture of support, we find something truly worth highlighting; because beauty endures beyond the storm, and soon enough, smiles among the orange trees will blossom once more.

   Porque este año empezó tal y como lo había deseado: con doce uvas, muchos besos y un “sed de todo menos buenos” mientras brindaba por todo lo alto con esas personas que desde los 3 años llevo a mi lado.

Que deje las drogas sin saber que mi mayor estimulante se llama ilusión, como las lágrimas y la alegría de despegar hacia Copenhagen Fashion Week, donde la nieve y un desfile entre atracciones serían el reflejo de trabajo y esfuerzo. El avión de vuelta fue con tristeza, otra despedida más de esas que sabes que llegarán pero que te niegas a aceptar, otro hueco en la mesa que no se volverá a llenar.

El billete a Londres no tardaría en llegar, otra Fashion Week internacional, un maestro diseñador, su agradecimiento tímido y una mirada repleta de respeto y admiración que pones en el trabajo que deja de ser trabajo al convertirse en pasión.

Tardes tontas de museos que terminan con vinos de más, una fiesta a 29 pisos de altura, donde el cielo de Madrid con vistas a Plaza España, casi, se puede tocar. Llegó el momento de la Fashion Week en la capital, como invitada, redactora, prensa y protagonista… finalizar la jornada sin mantenerme en pie, pero sabiendo que este es mi sitio y que solo quiero seguir haciendo aquello que me hace tan feliz. Conocer a personas completamente iguales, completamente diferentes, pero, sobre todo, completamente felices, ilusionados y apasionados por este trabajo.

Y así, una noche tonta de marzo, comenzó un juego de esos con los que te acabas quemando. Noches en moto recorriendo Madrid, destino o casualidad, errores y aciertos, puede que la realidad nunca la sabremos, conversaciones y kilómetros de más, he perdido la cuenta de cuantos días van ya.

Un viaje más a esas tierras gallegas que siempre serán hogar con el mejor motivo por el que regresar y abrir la veda de conciertos con Taburete y la curiosidad por saber a qué huele la luna.

Entre libros y lluvia se presentó abril para dar la bienvenida a los 25 agradecida y bien rodeada en un auténtico cumpleaños gitano, pronto vendría el primer concierto de Marlon.

Milán, el avión despega ya, moda, risas y ramos de rosas, al regresar nos espera el mundo laboral: Telva, artículos, entrevistas, eventos y una oportunidad. Una lluvia de pétalos que dio la bienvenida al verano, Zaragoza, Fuengirola, Galicia, Calafell… Barcos, caballos, festivales, motos de agua… Porque esto está siendo una locura, una completa aventura, pero vivir va de eso, de disfrutar sin frenos mientras por la radio suena Despechá y Quevedo.

El verano llega a su fin, comienza otra Fashion Week en Madrid, en un septiembre irónico, de tristes despedidas en el mes de los comienzos y reencuentros, pero continúan los conciertos con una noche loca de superstar entre camerinos y guitarras con Marlon y su banda.

Una semana cargada de trajes regionales. Vuelta a Fuengirola, vestirme por primera vez de gitana y bailar sevillanas. Subir al norte, para vestirme de baturra, salir en la ofrenda y disfrutar de la Pilarica.

Mamma Mia el musical y una larga sesión de sofá y manta, porque, sin lugar a duda este ha sido un año de película de acción, de amor y aventuras.

Conversaciones a ritmo de techno que salvan relaciones. Unos últimos meses caóticos con ambulancias y demasiados médicos. Personas de ultima hora, que aparecen de repente con largas conversaciones, risas y un te atreves o no te atreves.

Barcelona, última escapada del año, paseos, desconexión y un último concierto, porque tras Omar Montes, y la Oreja de Van Gogh no hay nada mejor que terminar el año de la mano, gritando a todo pulmón que ya veré si vuelvo a verte o no, pero mientras tanto que se mueran de envidia.

Porque este año ha sido una autentica montaña rusa con subidas y bajadas, sin ningún sentido, que te hacen sentir vivo; o más bien lo podría comparar con la marea del mar, porque, ya sabéis, yo siempre he sido más de seguir, dejarme llevar y que pase lo que tenga que pasar. Pero hoy, querido 2022, miro hacia atrás y me siento una persona con suerte que sonríe al recordar.

   Este 2022 he vuelto a vivir entre aviones, trenes y coches, he vuelto a sentir el cansancio y la felicidad que suponen. El primer viaje del año llegó mucho antes de lo esperado, con una invitación a través del email, lloros de ilusión y un billete de avión cuyo destino era Copenhagen: la nieve dejando una imagen de postal me dio la bienvenida a mi primera Fashion week en el extranjero. La primera, pero no única, porque Londres me acogió en pleno temporal con el desfile más emocionante en el que he estado, con un pequeño baile improvisado y descubriendo la magia de viajar sola. El próximo destino fue Galicia donde sigo sin saber si cada vez que vuelvo es con el corazón roto o cada vez más lleno, pero esta vez no podía tener un mejor motivo por el que volver. Una pequeña parada en Portugal, una celebración exprés en Murcia y despegamos hacia Milán. Otro viaje cargado de moda, ramos de rosas así porque sí, la gran idea de colarme en un barco y helados como solución a esas noches largas y mañanas de resaca. Tarragona y su playa fueron casi más fugaz que el Ferrari que nos llevó hasta allí, al finde siguiente me esperaba Fuengirola, ese paraíso terrenal y su gente de los que tanto había oído hablar sin cesar. Volver a Galicia reconociendo que nunca diré adiós del todo y embarcar en Calafell con ese grupo de locos que me han visto crecer. Un barco, un donut y Despechá resumirían esos días en un estado puro de felicidad. Volví a perderme en el sur, entre la arena, el mar, Fuengirola y el ritmo de un festival. Ya les avisé que me iban a tener que adoptar porque fue llegar la feria y volver a bajar y reconozco (un poco a mi pesar…) que una parte de mi se quedó allí, entre volantes, farolillos, flores y alguna que otra copa de más. Barcelona se lleva el broche final, donde corrimos bajo la lluvia para gritar que se mueran de envidia, porque es hora de empezar de cero, de que todo vuelva a girar…

   This 2022 I've returned to live among planes, trains and cars, I've returned to feel the fatigue and happiness that they entail. The first trip of the year came much earlier than expected, with an invitation via email, tears of illusion and a plane ticket whose destination was Copenhagen: the snow leaving a postcard image welcomed me to my first Fashion Week abroad. The first, but not the only one, because London welcomed me in the middle of a storm with the most exciting fashion show I've ever been to, with a little improvised dance and discovering the magic of traveling alone. The next destination was Galicia where I still don't know if every time I come back is with a broken heart or more and more full, but this time I couldn't have a better reason to come back. A short stop in Portugal, an express celebration in Murcia and we took off to Milan. Another trip full of fashion, roses' bouquets just because, the great idea of sneaking on a boat and ice-cream as a solution to those long nights and hangover mornings. Tarragona and its beach were almost more fleeting than the Ferrari that took us there, the following weekend I was waiting for Fuengirola, that earthly paradise and its people that I had heard so much about. Back to Galicia recognizing that I'll never say goodbye completely and embark in Calafell with that group of crazy people who have seen me grow up. A boat, a donut and Despechá would sum up those days in a pure state of happiness. I got lost again in the south, between the sand, the sea, Fuengirola and the rhythm of a festival. I already warned them that they were going to have to adopt me because it was the arrival of the fair and I admit (a little to my regret ...) that a part of me stayed there, between ruffles, lanterns, flowers and a drink or two too many. Barcelona takes the final brooch, where we ran in the rain to shout to die of envy, because it's time to start from scratch, that everything turns again...

   Questo 2022 sono tornata a vivere tra aerei, treni e automobili, sono tornata a sentire la stanchezza e la felicità che comportano. Il primo viaggio dell'anno è arrivato molto prima del previsto, con un invito via e-mail, lacrime di eccitazione e un biglietto aereo per Copenaghen: la neve, lasciando un'immagine da cartolina, mi ha dato il benvenuto alla mia prima Fashion Week all'estero. La prima, ma non l'unica, perché Londra mi ha accolto nel bel mezzo di una tempesta con la sfilata di moda più emozionante a cui abbia mai assistito, con un po' di danza improvvisata e scoprendo la magia di viaggiare da soli. La destinazione successiva è stata la Galizia, dove ancora non so se ogni volta che torno è con il cuore spezzato o più pieno, ma questa volta non potevo avere motivo migliore per tornare. Una breve sosta in Portogallo, una celebrazione espressa a Murcia e siamo partiti per Milano. Un altro viaggio pieno di moda, mazzi di rose solo perché, la grande idea di intrufolarsi in barca e il gelato come soluzione alle lunghe notti e alle mattine di sbornia. Tarragona e la sua spiaggia furono quasi più fugaci della Ferrari che ci portò lì, il fine settimana successivo mi aspettava Fuengirola, quel paradiso terrestre e la sua gente di cui avevo tanto sentito parlare. Torno in Galizia, riconoscendo che non potrò mai dire addio del tutto e mi imbarco a Calafell con quel gruppo di pazzi che mi ha visto crescere. Una barca, una ciambella e Despechá riassumerebbero quei giorni in un puro stato di felicità. Mi sono persa di nuovo nel sud, tra la sabbia, il mare, Fuengirola e il ritmo di un festival. Li ho avvertiti che avrebbero dovuto adottarmi perché quando è arrivata la fiera sono tornata e ammetto (un po' con rammarico...) che una parte di me è rimasta lì, tra fronzoli, lanterne, fiori e qualche bicchiere di troppo. Barcellona prende la spilla finale, dove abbiamo corso sotto la pioggia per gridare che stanno morendo d'invidia, perché è ora di ricominciare da zero, che tutto gira di nuovo...

   Cette année 2022, je suis revenue vivre parmi les avions, les trains et les voitures, je suis revenue ressentir la fatigue et le bonheur qu'ils entraînent. Le premier voyage de l'année est arrivé bien plus tôt que prévu, avec une invitation par courriel, des larmes d'excitation et un billet d'avion pour Copenhague: la neige, laissant une image de carte postale, m'a accueillie à ma première Fashion Week à l'étranger. Le premier, mais pas le seul, car Londres m'a accueilli en pleine tempête avec le défilé de mode le plus excitant auquel j'aie jamais assisté, avec un peu de danse improvisée et en découvrant la magie de voyager seule. La destination suivante était la Galice, où je ne sais toujours pas si chaque fois que je reviens, c'est avec un cœur brisé ou plus plein, mais cette fois-ci, je ne pouvais pas avoir de meilleure raison de revenir. Un court arrêt au Portugal, une célébration express à Murcia et nous avons décollé pour Milan. Un autre voyage plein de mode, de bouquets de roses juste parce que, la bonne idée de se faufiler sur un bateau et de glace comme solution à ces longues nuits et matins de gueule de bois. Tarragone et sa plage étaient presque plus éphémères que la Ferrari qui nous y conduisait. Le week-end suivant, Fuengirola m'attendait, ce paradis terrestre et ses habitants dont j'avais tant entendu parler. Retour en Galice, en reconnaissant que je ne dirai jamais complètement au revoir et en m'embarquant à Calafell avec ce groupe de fous qui m'ont vu grandir. Un bateau, un beignet et Despechá résumeraient ces journées dans un pur état de bonheur. Je me suis à nouveau perdue dans le sud, entre le sable, la mer, Fuengirola et le rythme d'un festival. Je les ai prévenus qu'ils allaient devoir m'adopter car ce n'est qu'à l'arrivée de la foire que je suis redescendue et j'avoue (un peu à mon grand regret...) qu'une partie de moi est restée là, parmi les fioritures, les lanternes, les fleurs et quelques verres de trop. Barcelone prend la broche finale, où nous avons couru sous la pluie pour crier qu'ils meurent d'envie, parce qu'il est temps de recommencer à zéro, que tout tourne à nouveau...

 
Copenhagen                                               Pontevedra 

 

Milán                                               Lago di Como

  

Milán                                                   Fuengirola

Tarragona

 

A Coruña                                              Cabo Home

Calafell

 

Fuengirola

 

Feria de Fuengirola

 

  Barcelona

   Dicen que noviembre es siempre triste y tu viniste proponiendo guerra… pero bien sabemos, a estas alturas del juego, que de poco vale mentir y es mejor reconocer que yo sigo buscando batalla mientras tú hondeas bandera blanca. Nunca se me dio demasiado bien firmar tratados de paz, prefiero atar cabos pendientes, o más bien desatar y soltar, pero no sin antes guardar un nuevo as bajo la manga por si acaso decido, hago, deshago y me atrevo a atacar una vez más. Dicen que noviembre es siempre triste, pero yo vengo proponiendo guerra o, más bien, mucha fiesta. Por eso alzo la copa y brindo alto y fuerte. Es la hora de celebrar las despedidas, de dar un nuevo paso que nos acerque a ese nuevo final, un nuevo año que se acerca y nos promete y augura novedades donde habrá muchas nuevas historias que contar. Llegó el momento de desempolvar la pajarita, los trajes de gala, las lentejuelas y descorchar el champange.

   They say that November is always sad and you came proposing war... but we know, at this stage of the game, that there is little point in lying and it's better to recognize that I'm still looking for battle while you're waving the white flag. I was never very good at signing peace treaties, I prefer to tie up unfinished ends, or rather untie and release, but not before keeping a new ace up my sleeve in case I decide, do, undo and dare to attack once again. They say that November is always sad, but I come proposing war, or rather, a lot of partying. That's why I raise my glass and toast loud and strong. It's time to celebrate the farewells, to take a new step that brings us closer to that new end, a new year that is approaching and promises and portends news where there will be many new stories to tell. It's time to dust off the bow tie, the gala suits, the sequins and uncork the champagne.

   Si dice che novembre sia sempre triste e che tu sia venuto a proporre la guerra... ma sappiamo tutti, a questo punto del gioco, che non ha molto senso mentire ed è meglio riconoscere che io sono ancora in cerca di battaglia mentre tu sventoli bandiera bianca. Non sono mai stata brava a firmare trattati di pace, preferisco chiudere le questioni in sospeso, o meglio sciogliere e rilasciare, ma non prima di aver tenuto un nuovo asso nella manica nel caso in cui decida, faccia, disfi e osi attaccare ancora una volta. Si dice che novembre sia sempre triste, ma io vengo a proporre la guerra, o meglio, molte feste. Ecco perché alzo il bicchiere e brindo forte e deciso. È tempo di celebrare gli addii, di fare un nuovo passo che ci avvicini a quella nuova fine, un nuovo anno che si avvicina e che promette e fa presagire novità in cui ci saranno tante nuove storie da raccontare. È tempo di rispolverare il papillon, gli abiti di gala, i lustrini e di stappare lo champagne.

   On dit que novembre est toujours triste et que tu es venu proposer la guerre... mais nous savons tous, à ce stade du jeu, qu'il ne sert pas à grand-chose de mentir et qu'il vaut mieux reconnaître que je cherche encore la bataille alors que tu agites le drapeau blanc. Je n'ai jamais été très doué pour signer des traités de paix, je préfère régler les détails, ou plutôt les délier et les libérer, mais pas avant d'avoir gardé un nouvel atout dans ma manche au cas où je déciderais, faire, défaire et oserais attaquer à nouveau. On dit que novembre est toujours triste, mais je viens proposer la guerre, ou plutôt, beaucoup de fêtes. C'est pourquoi je lève mon verre et je porte un toast fort et puissant. Il est temps de célébrer les adieux, de faire un nouveau pas qui nous rapproche de cette nouvelle fin, une nouvelle année qui approche et qui promet et augure des nouveautés où il y aura beaucoup de nouvelles histoires à raconter. Il est temps de dépoussiérer le nœud papillon, les costumes de gala, les paillettes et de déboucher le champagne.