Waiting for Godot at Martinez Valero

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There are summers that smell like freshly cut grass. Others smell like new paint, freshly presented T-shirts, an illusion wrapped in pictures of footballers holding a shield that they still don’t know how to pronounce. And then there’s the summer of Elche. That one has a different smell. It smells like a half-down blind, an office with the air conditioning too loud, a phone that doesn’t end up ringing and that old custom of looking at the calend…