You never say goodbye in the sun here. The sky, a gray wool blanket, presses down on the Ría de Vigo until the horizon blurs into the water. It is a city of granite and glass, of sudden downpours and ships leaving for places you cannot pronounce.
You stand alone at the Calle del Príncipe , the neon signs of the Zona Franca reflecting in puddles. A group of drunk sailors laughs outside a tasca . Somewhere, someone is playing AC/DC from an open window. This is not a sad city. It is simply a real one. despedidas en vigo
In Vigo, goodbyes are not dramatic. There is no running after trains. Instead, you watch the Cíes Islands turn to shadows through the mist. A horn sounds—deep, animal—from a freighter leaving the port. The sound travels through your ribs. You never say goodbye in the sun here