THE PRIVATE CHAT

for the day.

“If you go for a walk around the neighborhood and a neighbor strikes up a conversation, just say you’re my nieces,” the writer instructed them, washing his cup in the sink. “Make up any simple story about your parents in Spain so you don’t have to give long explanations. Keep it simple.”

Leonor and Sofía left the house dressed in ordinary clothes and headed towards the soccer field in Desamparados de Alajuela. The day was cool, and the activity around the school was typical of any school morning. Leaning comfortably against the metal railing of the field, they watched the students parade by. Everyone was dressed identically: white shirts, navy blue pants or skirts, and backpacks. For the two sisters, accustomed to the atmosphere of prestigious private schools in Europe, seeing the uniformity of Costa Rican public education was a direct reflection of everyday life in the country.

—Hello, girls! Good morning.

Sawukir ’s neighbor . She was walking calmly with her two daughters: Luciana, twelve, and Adriana, ten.

—Hello, good morning —Sofia replied naturally.

Lucía greeted them with a friendly smile, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

—I saw that they’re staying at the neighbor’s. He told us that some relatives were coming to study at the UCR, but he didn’t give us any details. It’s great that they’re here now. I’m Lucía, and these are my daughters.

“Nice to meet you,” Leonor said, adjusting her tone. “Yes, we’re his nieces. We came to start classes at the University of Costa Rica.”

Adriana, the youngest at ten years old, looked at them with childlike curiosity upon noticing their height and the way they spoke.

“You all talk like the people on TV,” the little girl commented innocently. “What do your parents do for a living back in Spain?”

Sawukir ’s instruction and responded immediately, without hesitation.

“Our parents work in the agricultural trade in a small town,” Sofia explained, making up the alibi on the spot. “They spend their days in warehouses organizing boxes of vegetables, checking inventories, and dealing with delivery trucks. It’s hard work, in the early morning hours, which is why we came here to study and get a degree.”

Lucía nodded with a gesture of sincere empathy.

“Oh, farm work is really hard everywhere, girls, " the neighbor commented in a warm, straightforward tone. “My dad grew coffee, and I know what it’s like to break your back early to make ends meet. But anyway, you’re lucky to be here studying. If you need anything with bus stops or anything else, just let me know; we live next door.”

—Thank you so much, really —Leonor said gratefully, appreciating the woman’s simple kindness.

“Well, we’ll leave you now because we’re running late for school,” Lucía said, walking with the two girls toward the school gate. “Have a great day!”

The two sisters stood alone by the square, watching the schoolchildren enter their classrooms. To that mother and her daughters, they were nothing more than the neighbor’s nieces trying to make their way into university. The true anonymity of this laboratory of mundane life worked perfectly without the need for mysteries or disguises.

A week-long time jump swept away the remaining rigidity of daily life. Leonor and Sofía’s laboratory of worldly existence underwent a complete transformation when their maturation ceased to be measured on bus platforms and began to be measured barefoot, on the clay courts and grass of the community.

One cool afternoon in late August, Luciana and Adriana called out from the sidewalk in front of the property. They were carrying a thick jump rope and their pockets were full of colored chalk. They invited ” Sawukir ’s nieces ” to walk a few blocks past the corner house, straight to the second residential playground.

It was there that the dynastic titles and the forced adulthood of the young women completely crumbled. Under the poró trees , barefoot and wearing faded cotton t-shirts, Leonor and Sofía became children again, suddenly recovering a childhood that the strict protocols of the Zarzuela Palace had stolen from them since the day they were born.

Hopscotch : The game began on the cracked cement surrounding the old swings in the park. With white chalk, Adriana drew a numbered geometric pattern from one to ten on the ground.

“You have to throw the pebble without it touching the lines!” Luciana explained, nimbly hopping on one foot over the first boxes.

Leonor, whose analytical mind usually processed military counterintelligence tactics, crouched down with childlike seriousness, weighing a broken tile in her hand. She threw the stone with pinpoint accuracy toward box number four. With a clean take-off, the future Queen of Spain began hopping on one foot, swinging her arms awkwardly in the air to maintain her balance. Upon reaching the double boxes, she landed with both feet in a noisy leap, letting out a clear, uninhibited laugh that would never have escaped the palace walls.

Sofia followed behind, childishly complaining because Leonor’s stone had touched the chalk. They argued with flailing arms and laughter, just like children do on any sidewalk in the neighborhood, completely oblivious to the outside world.

Jump rope: As the afternoon sun began to set, Lucia’s daughters stretched out the thick fiber rope. Luciana took one end and Sofia the other, beginning to beat the rope with a steady rhythm against the ground.

Adriana came skipping in while singing a traditional Costa Rican rhyme that the sisters tried to memorize on the fly: “Rice pudding, I want to get married, with a young lady from the capital…!”

The pace quickened with the cry of “Spicy, spicy chili!” Leonor jumped into the relay, coordinating her movements with the rope that grazed her bare ankles. Her low braids came undone, sweat trickled down her cheeks, and the rigidity of her usual posture dissolved into a swaying of clumsy hops and stifled laughter. When the rope finally caught between her legs, Leonor collapsed backward onto the damp grass, laughing uproariously alongside Adriana, covering her face with her dirt-covered hands.

The Pursued (Remained): To close the afternoon before the neighborhood downpour made its appearance, Luciana touched Sofia’s shoulder with a dry tap.

“It’s done!” shouted the twelve-year-old girl, taking off running at full speed across the entire width of the adjacent soccer field.

Sofia didn’t think twice. Acting purely impulsively and rebelliously, she ran after her, kicking up clouds of dust with her dirty feet. The Infanta of Spain dodged tree trunks and jumped over cracked pipes with the ease of someone who knows she is completely free for the first time in her life. She chased Adriana to the base of the metal handrail, shouting and waving her arms, completely immersed in the adrenaline of the children’s game.

When Sawukir peeked over the edge of the park to call them back, she was met with an unforgettable sight: Leonor and Sofía were sitting on the ground, their legs covered in tender grass and their hands covered in chalk, sharing tangerine segments with the neighbor’s daughters. Their faces displayed a spectacular and genuine smile that the European press would never manage to capture. In that plaza in Desamparados de Alajuela, playing hopscotch and tag, the heiresses had learned the most valuable lesson of their experiment: that, to learn to be the absolute masters of their own lives, they first had to allow themselves the freedom to be children again.

The peace of that weekend faded, and the academic routine finally settled in. The silence in the dining room was broken the following Monday when Leonor threw her graph paper notebook onto the wooden table. Her pale eyes held a cold, analytical, and contained anger. Beside her, Sofía crossed her arms, huffing with pure frustration as she stared at her mobile phone screen, where the new Google Maps image Sawukir had just opened revealed the truth about local transportation.

“Are you telling us that all the ordeal of last week was for nothing?” Sofia demanded, pointing at the blue line on the screen, recalling the odyssey of the introductory course. “Four hours of travel, transfers in downtown San Jose, being stepped on, and standing in lines in the pouring rain?”

“That’s exactly what the map says, Sofi ,” Leonor replied through gritted teeth. “There’s a direct interprovincial bus that goes from Alajuela to the University of Costa Rica. And according to the satellite tracking, it passes right by the main road, right in front of the security gate of our gated community, every morning and every afternoon. We only had to walk two hundred meters and raise our hands.”

Sawukir continued washing his coffee cup in the sink, unfazed by the dynastic anger.

“No one told you that everyday life was efficient, nieces,” the writer replied tersely, turning away. “Your assignment last week was to learn how to map urban gridlock and resolve the contingency on your own. If I had given you the direct route from the start, you would have remained stuck in your comfort zone. Now you know how to navigate the worst-case scenario. Pack your backpacks; the direct bus to the University of Costa Rica leaves at 6:30. Get moving.”

The initial approach to the unit was peaceful, but the real culture shock awaited them upon crossing the gates of the Rodrigo Facio University City. Anonymity on campus was absolute, but the internal dynamics forced them to restructure their notions about higher education.

Due to the rigorous three-year military service Leonor had completed in Spain, the timeline of her studies had taken a turn: despite being the eldest sister and heir to the throne, Leonor entered as a first-year student, sharing the classrooms of General Studies. Sofía, on the other hand, was already in her second year of university, accustomed to the faculty corridors.

That morning, while looking for the teaching materials for the week’s courses, they went into the faculty’s copy center. Leonor swiped her local debit card, expecting to receive the printed manuals and bound books that corresponded to the official bibliography.

The person in charge of the counter, a young man wearing an assistant’s coat, let out a light laugh.

“Original books? No, girl, nobody here buys textbooks from publishers. Everyone studies with these stapled photocopies or with the PDFs they upload to the online platform. It costs ten colones a page. Here.”

Leonor held the stack of loose sheets, held together by a black plastic clip. The paper was cheap, recycled, and had slightly blurred edges. For two young women accustomed to royal libraries and deluxe editions, seeing science and literature democratized through neighborhood photocopies was a slap of academic reality.

As the hours passed, the two sisters began chatting with their classmates on the benches by the parapets. It was there that they discovered the true burden of Costa Rican students. There were no chauffeurs waiting for them outside, nor inherited debts.

“I rush out of here at two to get to my afternoon shift at the call center,” a fellow geography student told them, devouring a cold sandwich. “That’s how I pay for my bus fare and help my mom with the bills at home.”

“And the others?” Sofia asked, astonished.

—Almost all of us who come from rural areas depend on full scholarships from the Office of Scholarships and Socioeconomic Support. If we don’t maintain an average above 9, we lose our tuition waiver and the subsidy for community housing. Here, you have to earn every penny and every grade, risking hours of sleep.

At midday, hunger led them and their classmates to the noisy structure of the university’s subsidized cafeteria . The space was packed with students from all disciplines, queuing in an orderly fashion with their plastic trays in hand.

The cost of lunch was heavily protected by the institution’s budget. Upon arriving at the register, Leonor paid a negligible sum of colones for a plate overflowing with home-style food: white rice, black beans, shredded beef, ripe plantain, and a glass of fruit juice.

Seated at communal wooden tables, surrounded by the bustle of political discussions, the laughter of university students, and the clinking of metal cutlery, the heiresses sampled the food. The taste was simple, honest, and down-to-earth. There were no dishes with coats of arms or waiters in white gloves. Everyone in that place, from the son of a farmer from the Los Santos region to the two Spanish princesses in disguise, shared the same table, the same institutional price, and the same plastic tray.

Leonor looked Sofía in the eyes over their plate of food. The morning’s anger over missing the bus had completely dissolved, replaced by a deep and mature understanding. Her aristocratic deconstruction no longer depended on Sawukir ’s forced lessons ; it was happening right there, sharing blurry photocopies and subsidized lunch in the heart of Costa Rica’s public education system.

For the girls, raised under the strict, solemn rehearsals of the Zarzuela Royal Palace, September in Costa Rica proved to be an incomprehensible phenomenon. From the first day of the month, the residential environment of Desamparados was completely transformed: tricolor flags appeared hanging from neighbors’ windows, the employees of the El Futuro mini-market served customers wearing traditional headscarves, and at night, the distant echo of children practicing drums on the sidewalks broke the neighborhood’s calm.

“All this to commemorate the signing of the Declaration of Independence in 1821,” Leonor remarked on the afternoon of September 14, noting the dates in her notebook. “What’s truly peculiar is that they celebrate their emancipation from our own country, from the Spanish Crown, and they do so with a massive street party.”

As evening fell, around 5:30, Lucía called out from the gate, inviting them to join her on their way to the local school. The neighbor’s daughters, Luciana and Adriana, came skipping along the sidewalk, proudly carrying lanterns they had made themselves from recycled plastic bottles, colored cardboard, and rubber bands: traditional Costa Rican lanterns .

When the clock struck six, the entire group was gathered in the central courtyard of the Desamparados school. Night fell suddenly over Alajuela, turning the sky black, but the school grounds were immediately illuminated by the flickering light of hundreds of candles and LED lights inside small, handcrafted structures.

Suddenly, a respectful silence filled the air. The notes of the Costa Rican National Anthem began to play over the school’s worn loudspeakers. Leonor and Sofía watched attentively as the students, teachers, and parents from the neighborhood—working-class people who struggled daily with transportation schedules—stood up voluntarily, standing at attention and singing the lyrics with genuine fervor, without the need for soldiers or military deployments guarding the perimeter.

“There are no weapons, Sofi ,” Leonor whispered in her ear, moved by the scene. “It’s pure civic duty.”

When the ceremony ended, the children lined up for the street, beginning the Lantern Parade. The two sisters walked alongside Lucía, making sure that little Adriana’s lantern candle didn’t go out in the night breeze. Watching the procession of homemade lights moving single file along the cracked sidewalks of the neighborhood, commemorating the historic night when Dolores Bedoya ran through Guatemala announcing the freedom of Central America, taught them a lesson that no Zarzuela protocol manual could have taught them: that the sovereignty of a people is not safeguarded in stone bunkers, but in the collective memory of their childhood.

The next morning was September 15th, and following the direct advice Sawukir had given them at the kitchen table, the girls boarded the direct bus to the capital early, ready to immerse themselves in the epicenter of the national party: San José Centro .

As they got off near Central Park, the visual shock disarmed them. The city center of San José, usually choked with the gray smoke of diesel and the stress of pedestrians, had transformed into a human tide dressed in red, white, and blue. The vehicle restriction was not in effect, and the main streets were completely closed, filled with citizens crowding the sidewalks.

Walking in their flip-flops and old clothes through the crowd, Leonor and Sofia made their way along 2nd Avenue. Sofia expected to encounter something similar to the official parades in Madrid: large army regiments marching in unison, armored war tanks marking time on the pavement, and fighter jets breaking the sound barrier in the sky.

Instead, the student parade that kicked off at eight in the morning from Central Park was a chaotic explosion of folk music, lyres, and drums. Bands from public schools marched forward performing rhythmic choreographies, followed by students wearing flowing traditional dresses identical to the ones they themselves had received from Sawukir at the Central Market. The deafening sound of snare drums and güiros vibrated directly in the chests of the young women.

—Look over there, Leo—said Sofia, pointing towards the National Park, where government authorities and the diplomatic corps were carrying out the official civic ceremony without any aristocratic ostentation.

After ten in the morning, they ventured into the Costa Rican Fair set up on the boulevard of Central Avenue. The smell of grilled meat over open fires, pork rinds, tamales, and yucca with chimichurri filled the humid air of the capital. Using their meager savings from Sawukir ’s limited budget , they bought a couple of empanadas de soga from a street vendor, eating them standing in the middle of the pedestrian street, completely camouflaged among the locals.

Suddenly, the music stopped for a moment, giving way to the Cimarronas and the Masquerades . Enormous figures of giants made of cardboard and glue, representing colonial figures and characters, began to dance awkwardly on the asphalt, playfully chasing the children who ran screaming with excitement or fear. Sofia burst into laughter when she saw a giant figure dancing in front of Leonor, forcing the future and imposing Queen of Spain to take a step back, smiling naturally.

As evening fell, exhausted and with their feet aching from the civic march, they boarded the bus back to Alajuela. Sitting by the windows, watching the national flags waving from every post along the road, the two sisters grasped the true meaning of dispossession: they had celebrated the loss of their own Crown’s control over that land, and they had done so feeling freer, more human, and more alive than ever before.

A further leap in time took them to the eve of October 12th. On the official calendar of the Royal Household in Madrid, this was the most sacred date of the year: Spain’s National Day . Royal protocol unwaveringly demanded the presence of Princess Leonor and Infanta Sofía in the royal box in Plaza de Lima, flanking their parents during the majestic Armed Forces parade, under the watchful eyes of the entire European press.

Sawukir ’s computer switched on in the studio for an encrypted video transmission. On the other side of the screen, in the private offices of Zarzuela Palace, appeared King Felipe VI and Queen Letizia. Their faces showed a mixture of institutional weariness and deep parental concern.

Leonor and Sofía, wearing simple t-shirts and worn jeans, settled in front of the webcam. There were no bows or formal titles of “Your Majesty”; the distance and the laboratory of everyday life had stripped the conversation down to its most human state.

“Mom, Dad, we have to offer a formal apology,” Leonor began, maintaining a firm but serene posture. “We won’t be taking the flight back to Madrid. We won’t be in the royal box on the 12th.”

King Felipe VI sighed, rubbing his forehead as he watched his daughters through the monitor.

—Leonor, the State protocol and the governing board are putting pressure on her—the monarch explained in a measured tone. The absence of the heir to the throne at the National Day celebrations creates institutional gaps that are difficult to justify to the press.

“We understand, but going back now,” Sofia interjected spontaneously and directly. “We have exams and projects assigned all week at the University of Costa Rica. If we prioritize the European protocol over our actual academic responsibilities here, we’d be admitting that this lab is just a holiday game. We have to stay!”

Queen Letizia watched her daughters’ faces intently on the screen. She noticed the subtle tan lines on their cheeks, their hair styled without the help of stylists, and the absolute confidence with which they stood their ground. There was no trace of the docile palace girls; they were two young women taking ownership of their own individual decisions.

“Very well,” the Queen conceded with a slight, proud smile. “We will make the appropriate official statement to the council. Stay in Alajuela. Carry out your duties.”

After ending the call and erasing all traces of secure browsing, the two sisters breathed a sigh of relief. They had stood up to the dynastic weight of the Crown, winning their first major battle for personal autonomy.

The next morning, the girls didn’t encounter military marches, armored tanks, or fighter jets soaring overhead during Costa Rica’s October 12th celebrations. Following Lucía’s invitation, they accompanied her daughters, Adriana and Luciana, to the concrete bleachers of the neighborhood public school to witness the official civic ceremony.

It was there that the cultural and historical clash became definitive. While Madrid celebrated Hispanic Day, glorifying the beginning of the transatlantic empire, in Costa Rica, national legislation in force since the enactment of Law No. 7426 of 1994 had completely erased the old colonial concept of “Columbus Day.” The commemoration was officially called the Day of the Encounter of Cultures .

The school assembly was a true reflection of that civic transformation. In the school’s cinderblock gymnasium, there were no speeches of conquest or flags of domination. The purpose of the activity, as indicated by the cardboard posters affixed by the teachers to the walls, was to celebrate the multicultural and multiethnic character of Costa Rican identity.

Leonor and Sofía, seated among the ordinary residents of Desamparados, observed the program unfold:

1.Representing the roots: First-grade students took to the stage wearing handmade costumes that equally honored the contributions of the indigenous, African, European, and Asian cultures that shaped the country.

2.The historical questioning: Two fifth-grade students read a reflective poem about Christopher Columbus’s arrival on Quiribrí Island (present-day Uvita Island in Limón) during his fourth voyage in 1502. The school text did not portray the event as an idyllic heroic feat, but as a complex and painful process of syncretism, mixture, and historical tolerance.

3.Community gastronomy: At the close of the event, the cooks from the school cafeteria distributed portions of pan de bono, coconut cajetas and syrup refreshment among the attendees, celebrating the culinary diversity that Caribbean and Central American migration had added to the Costa Rican table.

Leonor gazed at her worn jeans, listening to the unassuming applause of the parents celebrating their children’s folk dances. The conceptual difference left her speechless: in her homeland, October 12th represented the centralization of state power and the pride of a single flag; in this small school in Alajuela, the date was used as a pedagogical tool to promote respect for the rights of indigenous peoples and the richness of human diversity.

Sofia gently touched her shoulder, pulling her out of her analytical thoughts.

“We did well to stay, Leo,” the Infanta whispered, chewing a piece of traditional cajeta. “This is a thousand times more real than the box in Madrid.”

Leonor nodded with a clear smile, noting in her notebook that the true greatness of nations is not measured by the rigidity of their past empires, but by the ability of their people to live together in tolerance on the same land.

October 31st began with a very intimate, festive atmosphere inside the house. As soon as Leonor entered the kitchen, rubbing her eyes from the fatigue of classes, Sofía surprised her from behind and gave her a huge, tight hug.

“Happy twenty-first birthday, Leo!” she whispered in his ear, letting go with a huge smile.

At the wooden table, Sofía and Sawukir had prepared a special breakfast for her: a plate overflowing with gallo pinto with a fried egg, custard, and a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Shortly afterward, Leonor received congratulatory video calls from her parents in Madrid via her phone. Far from the official galas, televised speeches, and formal banquets dictated by the strict protocol of the Zarzuela Palace for an heir to the throne, celebrating her twenty-first birthday wearing worn jeans, having breakfast at a regular table in Alajuela, and with a royal embrace from her sister felt like the most liberating gift of her life.

However, the laboratory of mundane life offered no respite. At noon, Sawukir placed his cup in the sink and looked at them with a mysterious smile.

“Today the whole country celebrates something very special,” the writer told them. “In many parts of the world, people are thinking about imported Halloween costumes, but here the real celebration is homegrown. Get your flip-flops and old clothes ready. You’re going to downtown Alajuela and then to the mall to experience tonight’s festivities. Observe, walk around, and mingle with the crowd.”

As they stepped off the intercity bus near Juan Santamaría Park around five in the afternoon, the two sisters were met with an explosion of street culture that left them speechless. While for the rest of the world the date evoked witches and plastic pumpkins, in Costa Rica it was officially commemorating National Traditional Costa Rican Masquerade Day , a national symbol decreed to safeguard the country’s mestizo roots against foreign festivities.

Suddenly, the deafening, joyful blast of a cimarrona —a band of local musicians with trumpets, trombones, and snare drums playing in a raucous, improvised style—broke through the afternoon air. Following the musical notes, a line of gigantic figures made of resin, clay, and papier-mâché burst onto the main street, marching toward Central Park .

Leonor and Sofía walked alongside the throngs of Alajuelans that crowded the public sidewalks. They observed with analytical fascination the ” mantudos” : ordinary people from the neighborhood squeezed into gigantic costumes of colorful fabrics that twirled and danced to the rhythm of popular music. The iconic figures of Costa Rican folklore paraded before their eyes, demystifying any European rigidity.

1.The Giantess and the Governor: Enormous structures that represented a satirical and picturesque mockery of the old colonial authority figures and wealthy women of the Spanish high society. Watching the crowd laugh and dance around a caricature of their own dynastic ancestors brought a pure smile to Leonor’s face and a profound sense of civic wonder.

2.The Specters of Legends: The Cadejo with its burning eyes, the Segua , the Llorona, the Tulevieja and the imposing Headless Father.

3.The Devil and Death: Figures that ran humorously among the people, giving light blows with dried bull bladders or shrieks to the children who dared to challenge them on the road.

Sofia burst into laughter as the Devil character turned in front of them, forcing Leonor to take a step back as the cimarrona music picked up the pace. To the ninety-nine percent of the attendees munching on candied peanuts and cotton candy on the sidewalk, they were nothing more than two unusually tall foreign girls enjoying Costa Rican culture.

As night fell, the girls followed the path of the human tide toward the large commercial structure of City Mall Alajuela . If in the open park the festivities felt historic and communal, upon entering the wide corridors of the mall, the tradition demonstrated its astonishing capacity for urban adaptation.

The atmosphere inside the venue was electric. Shops of international brands shared the space with hundreds of families who had gathered to witness the grand finale of the commemoration. Bands and mask-wearing groups—including the La Lajuela Folkloric Association and the San Rafael High School group—took their positions in the central aisles to begin a vibrant traditional music competition .

The metallic sound of wind instruments reverberated against the building’s glass roof. The revelers danced on the gleaming porcelain floors, weaving their way through the crowds of shoppers laden with bags. The contrast was stark: Costa Rica’s festive, satirical, and streetwise culture had taken over the temple of commercial modernity, demonstrating that the Costa Rican identity was not erased by global trends, but rather embraced them with joy and drums.

Leonor and Sofía leaned on the second-floor railing, gazing down at the sea of rich colors and the enormous dancing heads. Sofía gave her sister a gentle nudge with her shoulder, offering her a traditional treat.

“Happy birthday, Leo,” the Infanta whispered with a genuine smile. “I think this parade of the Giantess and the Devil is far superior to any gala dinner at the Palace.”

Leonor nodded, her eyes glowing, watching the children of the village run happily after the masked artisans. On her twenty-first birthday, surrounded by the din of the cimarrona band in a Costa Rican shopping mall, the heiress understood the true meaning of coming of age: that the respect of a people is not demanded from a stone throne, but shared by dancing with the common folk in the middle of the public street.

During the last week of November, Sawukir fully integrated them into the national fundraising campaign for Teletón Costa Rica . Wearing their light blue Girl Guides and Scouts t-shirts, lycra shorts, and flip-flops, the two sisters joined the Cub Scouts and young people from the community at traffic lights and street corners in downtown Alajuela.

Holding the official tin collection boxes, they spent hours under the bright November sun, soliciting donations from bus drivers, motorcyclists, and pedestrians with the Scout cry, “A coin for the children at the National Children’s Hospital!” At the end of the day, their T-shirts soaked with genuine sweat, the two sisters celebrated with the local Scout troop, having filled the boxes for the children’s cause.

In early December, the atmosphere in Desamparados de Alajuela changed completely. The constant drizzle gave way to strong Christmas winds that swept down from the mountains, clearing the sky with a brilliant blue. At the Zarzuela Palace, the machinery of royal protocol began to work, with urgent calls from press officers and secretaries of state. They demanded the immediate return of Leonor and Sofía for the traditional Christmas Eve greeting, the end-of-year diplomatic receptions, and their place in the royal box for the Three Kings’ Day parade. Reasons of state seemed an insurmountable obstacle in Madrid.

On the night of December 3rd, the two sisters stood at attention in front of the webcam in Sawukir ’s studio . On the other side of the screen, in Madrid, their parents listened with serious expressions.

“We’re not going back for the holidays,” Leonor declared calmly, disarming the secretaries listening from the back of the royal office. “If we return now to official transfers and formal attire, we’ll destroy the cooperation with the university students that we’ve built these past months. Here at the University of Costa Rica, grades close late, and we’ve committed to essential community work.”

Sofia intervened immediately, placing her hand on her sister’s shoulder.

“Besides, Mom and Dad... we signed a community social responsibility agreement for our social service. If we run away from the traffic jams and the realities of this month just because winter in Madrid is more beautiful, we’d be breaking our word. We want to spend the entire end of the year here, like any other university student in this country.”

Seeing the maturity and resolve in the two young women’s eyes, King Felipe VI silenced the protocol staff’s objections with a slight wave of his hand. The “Parent-to-Parent” agreement remained intact. Zarzuela Palace justified the absence by citing international academic commitments, and the heirs were granted their freedom to experience a purely Costa Rican December.

The girls’ Christmas baptism took place on the second Saturday of December in the capital. Along with Lucía and her daughters, Adriana and Luciana, they boarded the bus in Heredia early in the afternoon to secure a spot on the sidewalks of Paseo Colón or Avenida Segunda.

For Leonor and Sofía, accustomed to high-tech security fences and military perimeters that separated them from the public in Spain, sitting directly on the edge of the cement sidewalk, eating popcorn in plastic bags and sharing the space with thousands of families from San José, was an absolute culture shock.

As night fell, the Festival of Light erupted in the heart of San José. There were no solemn floats or ecclesiastical processions. Before their eyes unfolded a tide of light and indigenous sound:

1.The Illuminated Floats: Gigantic structures decorated with thousands of LED bulbs and motifs of local fauna, sponsored by public companies and municipalities, which advanced flashing choreographies of color.

2.Marching Bands: Youth groups from all over the country, including the Alajuela Municipal Band and the Zarcero Band, who performed Latin rhythms and Christmas carols with a power of winds and percussion that made the asphalt vibrate under the bare feet of the spectators.

Sofia clapped enthusiastically to the rhythm of the drums, while Leonor watched the local police move about peacefully among the crowd, without any need for aggressive tactical deployments. The festival was a massive celebration of joy, protected only by the peaceful coexistence of the citizens.

The climax of the aristocratic dispossession came in the last week of December. While in Madrid the thermometer read six degrees below zero and the royal family was preparing for gala dinners, Leonor , Sofía, and Sawukir boarded the interprovincial bus to the Pacific, bound for the Port of Puntarenas .

December 31st found them living a reality completely opposite to their dynastic past:

·Tropical New Year’s Eve: They were in swimsuits, barefoot on the dark, hot sand of the Tourist Promenade, experiencing a sweltering 36°C heat which they calmed by drinking a traditional Churchill (a local granita with shaved ice, syrup, condensed milk and powdered milk).

·The Family Hack: At six in the evening Costa Rica time—midnight in Spain—the girls turned on their phone screens to see their parents via video call. They forced the monarchs to celebrate the twelve chimes of midnight in a strictly human way, watching them eat the traditional grapes in front of the webcam while the girls smiled at them from the Costa Rican beach, stripped of their crowns and titles. Felipe and Letizia were bundled up against the Madrid chill, while their daughters were almost naked amidst a sea of people on the beach of a port city next to the large pier where two cruise ships were disembarking tourists visiting the city.

On January 1st, she welcomed them back to the kitchen in Desamparados de Alajuela. Without royal chefs or servants, Leonor programmed the microwave to prepare the first breakfast of the year: a hearty gallo pinto with Lizano sauce, scrambled eggs, and ripe plantain, which she shared at the table with Sawukir and Sofía. They watched the Rose Parade from Pasadena, California.

By the beginning of January, the laboratory of worldly life had completed its most complex cycle. The heiresses had learned to break free from the constraints of European protocol through public sidewalks, scouting, interprovincial buses, and popular beaches, returning to the start of their university lessons as absolute masters of their own lives.

Friday, January 29th, began with an analog mission that Sawukir told them about in the kitchen. True to his methodical nature as a former Scout leader, the writer had everything under absolute control; the household finances ran with the precision of a well-organized camp. However, the opportunity to put the girls through a street training exercise on the busiest day of the month was a piece of training he wasn’t going to miss.

“Today you have an infantry exercise,” Sawukir told them, taking a sip of coffee. “The household utility bills are ready, but today, being the end of the month, you’re going to downtown Alajuela to make the payments. First, to the Alajuela Municipality to pay the property taxes and municipal services. And then, to the Mega Supermarket right across the street to pay the electricity, cable, and phone bills. Take my debit card, sort out the logistics of the lines, and bring me the receipts.”

Leonor took the paper, reviewing the data with her usual analytical rigor. The document contained three specific pieces of information written in the writer’s own hand: Sawukir ’s physical identification number , the ICE residential telephone number, and a nine-digit code labeled NISE (Electric Service Identification Number).

On the bus from Santa Barbara, on the way to the center, Leonor and Sofia put together their own strategy based on their prejudices about how a Central American neighborhood works.

“Leo, we’re talking about municipal offices and a neighborhood supermarket in Alajuela,” Sofía said quietly, adjusting her backpack. “They won’t accept credit or debit cards for government transactions, just like at copy shops and on buses. In these countries, everything has to be done with cash. You have to find a bank first to withdraw the money.”

“You’re right,” Leonor agreed, with absolute seriousness. “It would be a tactical error to get to the teller window and have our debit card rejected. Let’s go to the bank branch downtown.”

Their first stop wasn’t the town hall, but a busy bank branch in downtown Alajuela. It was Friday the 29th, payday for the working class, and the bank was teeming with people. The line for the ATMs stretched twice around the corner, under a sweltering sun that made the girls’ shirts sweat.

They waited in line for almost twenty-five minutes, dragging their flip-flops along the sidewalk, dodging street vendors, and enduring the urban heat. When it was finally their turn at the machine, Leonor inserted her debit card and withdrew six ten-thousand-colón bills.

“Okay,” Leonor said, putting the banknote in her jeans pocket with complete distrust. “We have the cash now. Now we can go to City Hall safely.”

They walked a couple of blocks to the City Hall building, heading towards the cashier area. The place was packed with taxpayers taking advantage of their lunch break. Leonor took out her ticket and, after another long forty-minute wait, a disembodied voice announced her turn at window number three.

Sawukir ’s ID number . The cashier typed in the property details, and the screen displayed the account statement.

“That’s exactly twenty-two thousand colones, young lady,” the official stated.

Leonor, with a smug smile for having anticipated the situation, reached into her pocket and pulled out three ten-thousand-colón bills. The cashier watched her with a raised eyebrow, halting the movement of her hands.

“Are you going to pay with cash?” the clerk asked casually, pointing to a small black device next to the window. “Wouldn’t you prefer to use a card? We accept all banks here; it’s faster.”

Leonor froze, the three ten-thousand-colón bills suspended in mid-air. Sofia glanced at her sideways, her eyes wide.

—Do you accept... debit cards for municipal taxes? —Leonor managed to articulate, feeling that all her planning and the bank queue were crumbling out of sheer innocence.

—Of course, young lady, for years —replied the cashier with a slight smile—. Just swipe the card through the card reader and you’re all set.

With her face tinted, Leonor handed over the bills and waited for the thermal ticket. They went out into the central aisle with the stamped receipt, but with a mixture of embarrassment and suppressed laughter.

" Okay! Do you think we can pay with a card at Mega Super or are we going to use this cash?” Sofia asked as they crossed the street towards the supermarket’s storefront.

They lined up in the “Servipagos” lane at the front checkouts, surrounded by customers with carts full of their bi-weekly purchases. When they reached the counter, Sofía enthusiastically dictated her home phone number and NISE code. The cashier entered the information into the ICE system.

—The electricity, cable, and landline bills come to a total of nineteen thousand seven hundred colones, ladies —the cashier indicated, fixing her gaze on the screen.

Sofia, determined to get rid of the bills they had worked so hard to earn under the sun, held out two ten-thousand-colón notes, neatly folded. The cashier took the money, but before opening the register, she glanced at the girls’ heights and asked them automatically:

—Are you going to pay in cash? Wouldn’t you prefer to use a debit card or your bank’s app?

Sofia let out a stifled laugh that she had to cover with her hand. Leonor closed her eyes, exhaling a long sigh as she leaned against the counter. The “safe cash” they had gone to the bank to withdraw, driven by their own European prejudices, was nothing more than a logistical obstacle in a completely digitalized Alajuela.

—In cash, please —Leonor replied with humorous resignation.

The cashier handed them the Servipagos tickets and the change of three hundred colones, then wished them a good afternoon.

Walking back to the FECOSA Terminal to catch the bus to Santa Bárbara, the two sisters burst into uninhibited laughter under the evening sky. They carried the receipts, neatly tucked into their notebooks. Sawukir ’s experiment in everyday life had taught them their most amusing lesson: that prejudices about the modernity of a Costa Rican neighborhood could be cured by standing in line in the real world.

The iron gate of the house clicked shut. Leonor and Sofía shuffled into the foyer, their flip-flops dragging, exhausted and their cotton T-shirts still clinging to their bodies from the sweltering Alajuela afternoon. Sawukir was sitting at the dining room table, reviewing some notes on his computer while drinking a glass of cold water.

Leonor walked purposefully to the table and solemnly placed the printed thermal receipts from the Municipality and the Mega Supermarket right next to the computer screen. Beside the papers, she dropped the ten thousand and eighteen thousand colón bank notes and the remaining small change .

—Here are the Servipagos receipts and the property tax receipts, completely up to date—announced the heiress, crossing her arms with a mixture of tiredness and humorous resignation.

Sawukir looked away from the screen, glanced at the receipts, and then fixed his eyes on the cash. A brief, clean smile appeared on his face.

“And that money?” the writer asked, pointing to the bill. “I gave them the debit card. I didn’t ask them to empty an ATM.”

Sofia slumped down on the adjacent armchair, letting out a long sigh.

“We went to the bank first because we assumed that neither the City Hall nor the neighborhood mini-market would accept the card,” admitted Sofia, covering her face with her hand. “We stood in line for twenty-five minutes in the sun to withdraw that cash, only for the two tellers to look at us as if we were cavemen and ask us if we wouldn’t prefer to use the card reader.”

Leonor nodded, leaning back in her chair.

“It was a logistical miscalculation based on preconceived notions. The entire commercial and civil network of this canton is digitally interconnected. Cash worked for us, but we didn’t know we could pay by card.”

Sawukir let out a clean, easygoing laugh, slamming the lid of his laptop shut in one swift motion. He poured himself some water and looked at them with complete composure.

“And why do you think I sent them on Friday the 29th at noon?” Sawukir replied in a straightforward and amused tone. “I wanted them to see the face of the pay period. In Costa Rica, financial inclusion and card payments in public institutions have been the norm for years, even in the smallest grocery stores.”

Leonor raised her eyebrows, analyzing the former Scout leader’s words. Her methodical mind immediately detected the educational inconsistency of the exercise.

“Wait a minute,” Leonor interjected, stepping forward and pointing at the writer’s computer. “If the national system is so robust and completely digitized, how do you make the monthly payments for this property when you’re not using us as foot soldiers?”

Sawukir took another sip of water, walked leisurely to the kitchen, and turned around, leaning against the tiled counter with a smile of utter self-importance.

“I do it online through the official websites, that way I avoid long lines!” the writer replied, winking at them. “I log into online banking or the ICE and Municipal portals , enter my NISE and ID number, and in two minutes everything is paid for right here in this armchair. But if I told you before we left, you’d stay asleep in your room and never learn how to walk the streets.”

Sofia grabbed a cushion from the armchair and pretended to throw it at the writer, laughing heartily while Leonor shook her head, absorbing with a restrained smile the latest great lesson from her methodical mentor. The real-life laboratory wasn’t just teaching them how to use buses and payphones; it was also demonstrating, through lines and card readers, that modernity in Alajuela was moving much faster than their own European mental models.

Leonor and Sofía’s worldly life laboratory reached its absolute breaking point with the arrival of Holy Week. Strictly adhering to the clauses of the Treaty of Alajuela , King Felipe VI and Queen Letizia made a completely secret trip from Madrid to Costa Rica. They arrived Friday night, just before Palm Sunday, without any official entourages, ambassadors, or visible bodyguards.

The impact on the monarchs was immediate and tangible upon crossing the threshold of the Desamparados house. Five people living under one roof, in a confined space roughly the size of the royal bedchamber at the Zarzuela Palace, became a forced school of domestic adaptation. Without servants or protocol staff, the King of Spain had to learn to dodge flip-flops in the hallway, share a single bathroom, and settle into a worn armchair, watching his daughters navigate with complete ease a daily routine they already mastered perfectly. Felipe, who tried to maintain a formal appearance with his attire, watched Sawukir , his wife, and his daughters walk barefoot through the house, something unthinkable for Felipe at home, but here it seemed to be the norm.

On Palm Sunday morning, the drizzle let up and the dry heat of Alajuela began to warm the sidewalks. Sawukir guided the family group—all dressed in simple everyday clothes to blend in as ordinary civilians among the congregation—aboard the Santa Bárbara route bus toward the city center.

Upon disembarking near the city center, they joined the crowd that filled the streets surrounding the Alajuela Cathedral. For Felipe and Letizia, accustomed to the solemn masses at the Almudena Cathedral and having even experienced the simplicity of neighborhood processions in Carabanchel, on the outskirts of Madrid, seeing faith expressed on the public streets of Alajuela held a familiar echo, but with a completely new rhythm. Here, solemnity wasn’t shrouded in Castilian silence, but rather in the warmth of the sweltering night air, the cheerful beat of local drums, and the vibrant warmth of the Costa Rican faithful who cleared the way for the religious images among the drains and sidewalks of the city center.

The Palm Sunday procession began with the traditional blessing of the palms . Hundreds of Alajuelans raised their handwoven palm branches, singing hymns that resonated powerfully in the doorways. The girls showed their parents how to position themselves on the sidewalk to watch the live image of Jesus riding the donkey pass by, making its way through an atmosphere where the scent of incense mingled with the aroma of traditional shaved ice treats sold by street vendors.

The King pulled his cell phone from his shorts pocket, snapping photos of the intricate details of the floral arrangements. They were real, intimate, and raw images for the family album, captured from the perspective of an ordinary pedestrian, completely free from the intrusive lenses of the tabloids.

After a week of close cohabitation in the house, sharing simple meals based on fish and rice due to the traditional abstinence of the time, the group returned to the center of Alajuela for the most reflective and rigorous day of Holy Week: Good Friday .

The day began early in the morning with the large Stations of the Cross procession . The religious procession formally started from the colonial doors of the Church of the Agony , advancing slowly under a sweltering sun towards the Alajuela Cathedral.

It was in this setting that the two sisters underwent a complete deconstruction of their aristocratic upbringing. Actively participating in the community’s local liturgical traditions, Leonor and Sofía assumed the historical role of bearers in the street procession. Wearing heavy blue mantles and traditional tunics borrowed from the parish, the heiresses slowly made their way down the main street. They held firmly in their hands the white cloth bearing the three faces of Christ and the nails of the crucifixion, their backs straight, yet devoid of any dynastic pride.

Sawukir , Felipe, and Letizia, perfectly camouflaged among the crowd of citizens watching from the curb, observed them with a lump in their throats. The King, taking in the elegance of the dresses that seemed to be silks worn by his eldest daughter and Sofía, continued capturing the moments with his mobile phone. There were no VIP boxes or military cordons separating them from the reality of the people; his daughters were walking on the same ground as the workers and shopkeepers of the province.

In the afternoon, the atmosphere in Alajuela became silent and profoundly solemn with the Procession of the Holy Sepulchre . The imposing, centuries-old carved wooden coffin emerged from the Cathedral gates, traversing the blocks of the historic center amidst collective mourning. The drums of the municipal band marked a mournful, measured pace that resonated in the hearts of the monarchs. Sawukir and his former fellow scout leaders participated as bearers of the coffin, while Leonor and Sofía, dressed in their finest attire, carried the relics. Felipe and Letizia, for their part, observed the entire procession from the curb as ordinary citizens.

Upon returning to the humble house in Desamparados that evening, the cramped space no longer felt like uncomfortable overcrowding, but rather like a true temporary home. Sitting in the small living room, looking through the photos on his cell phone where Leonor and Sofía appeared smiling broadly in their light blue parish robes alongside Sawukir , King Felipe VI grasped the true weight of his daughters’ maturation. Costa Rica had stripped them of deference, but in return, was returning them to Europe as the absolute masters of their own individual decisions, transformed by simple faith, the broken streets, and the heat of the Alajuela asphalt.

The arrival of April brought with it the province’s most important civic celebration: the commemoration of Juan Santamaría’s heroic deed on April 11th. The morning of April 11th began with an explosion of color, student fervor, and the deafening beat of hundreds of snare drums that flooded the streets of the city center. Leonor and Sofía, completely immersed in Alajuela’s daily life after more than a year in the country, accompanied Lucía to support little Luciana, who would march proudly in her public school band uniform. Walking through the crowd that thronged the sidewalks, the girls helped look after their neighbor’s youngest daughter, carrying water bottles and clapping along to the rhythmic drumming under the blazing sun of the Liga.

The real institutional breakdown occurred when the parade paused near Juan Santamaría Park for the official ceremonies. Sitting comfortably on the curb next to Lucía, the heiresses watched in astonishment as the President of Costa Rica walked at ground level through the crowd, without the three-meter-high security barriers or the imposing display of the Royal Guard they were accustomed to in Europe. The president stood before the microphone just a few steps away from them to deliver her official address, surrounded only by schoolchildren, teachers, and ordinary citizens of the province.

Leonor contemplated the scene with analytical eyes, assimilating the weight of that plain democracy: the highest authority in the country was within reach of any pedestrian, delivering his patriotic speech without the slightest suspicion that the future Queen of Spain and the Infanta were right there, dressed in simple cotton t-shirts, swallowing the dust of the street and sharing the communal space like any other Alajuelans.

April 29th dawned clear, marking the start of a purely youthful and vibrant day. To celebrate the youngest sister’s twentieth birthday, the laboratory of worldly life moved entirely to the Amusement Park. That day there was no room for political analysis or solemn walks; Sofia was the undisputed star, leading the group with a contagious enthusiasm that erased any trace of palace etiquette.

From the moment they passed through the entrance ticket booths, Sofía and Leonor, united in absolute complicity with Lucía’s two daughters, transformed into a quartet of untamed girls, running and laughing uproariously along the concrete paths. Sawukir and Lucía walked several meters behind, amused and resigned to their role as adults tasked with holding the bags and watching over the water bottles. Sofía dragged her older sister by the hand, impatiently queuing to ride the Tornado and the Boomerang. Enduring the vertigo of the free falls and head-turning, the Infanta screamed with pure adrenaline, her arms raised to the sky, her ponytail undone by the wind, her face illuminated by a pure and uninhibited happiness. After emerging soaked and laughing hysterically from the Pacuare logs, they devoured sugary churros and frosted apples, immediately running towards the Choconas Boats to start a pedestrian collision war against the neighbor’s daughters.

As evening fell, the frenetic pace of the amusement park rides gave way to the nostalgic tranquility of Pueblo Antiguo, the historical replica of 19th-century Costa Rica located at the back of the park. Walking barefoot on the tender grass that bordered the small plaza in front of the wooden church, the four girls sat down, exhausted but happy, to watch the sunset.

It was in that rustic and peaceful setting that Sofía turned on her cell phone screen to begin the secure transmission with Madrid. On the other side of the webcam, the faces of Felipe VI and Letizia appeared on the screen, devoid of the institutional rigidity of the Zarzuela Palace.

“Happy twentieth birthday, Sofi !” exclaimed the King with a genuine fatherly smile, observing his youngest daughter’s face through the monitor, its skin tinged by the tropical sun and her cheeks still smeared with sugar. “I see the celebration has been intense.”

“The best time of my life, Dad!” Sofia replied, her voice trembling with emotion, smoothing her damp hair as she stretched out her arm so her parents could see the whole scene: Leonor sitting beside her sharing mandarin orange segments, and Lucia’s daughters shyly waving at the camera. “We’ve run all over the park, climbed on everything, and my feet are covered in grass.”

Letizia watched the scene with a lump of pride in her throat, observing the ease and maturity with which her youngest daughter blew out an imaginary candle on a piece of dry cake that Sawukir had bought her at one of the general stores near the old train station. In that corner of Pueblo Antiguo, surrounded by the simple affection of the Alajuela neighborhood and under the protective gaze of her Sawukir , Infanta Sofía celebrated her entry into adulthood, being, for the first time in her life, the absolute and sovereign mistress of her own joy.

The weeks of May and June flew by amidst the summer heat and the pressure of final exams at the University of Costa Rica. For Leonor and Sofía, sitting on benches along the parapets reviewing their blurry photocopied notes, the idea of returning to Spain had become a bitter pill to swallow. They were no longer the docile young women who had left Barajas Airport; the Costa Rican asphalt, the lines with debit cards, and the afternoons spent barefoot in the park had transformed them.

“I don’t want to go back to formal dresses or speeches written by government committees, Sofí,” Leonor admitted the night before the trip, folding her old jeans inside her hiking backpack. “Over there, everything is designed to keep us from thinking. Here, we learned to breathe.”

Sofia firmly closed her backpack, looking at it with analytical focus.

“Returning is our dynastic duty, Leo, but we’re coming back on our own terms. No one on the protocol board is going to tell us what to do again. From this moment on, we control our own lives in Spain. We learned to fend for ourselves during the Alajuela debacle; defending our autonomy in the palace will be a piece of cake.”

Four hours before boarding their regular Iberia flight to Madrid, the two sisters stepped out onto the public sidewalk for the last time. The night before, Sawukir , true to his direct style and unwavering Scout philosophy, had made things clear to them while washing his coffee cup.

“Don’t wait for me in the lobby tomorrow,” Sawukir had told them with a brief smile. “I’m not going to waste my time at the airport. You already know which bus to take and how to get to the terminal. Your training is over.”

The real farewell took place on the inner street of the residential complex. Lucía and her two daughters, Adriana and Luciana, came out to meet them with tears in their eyes. The young women cast aside any pretense of distance and enveloped them in long, tight hugs, thanking them for the custard, the games in the park, and the warmth of having treated them simply as the neighbor’s nieces.

Carrying their own bags, they walked alone to the security checkpoint, boarding the intercity bus to the airport without the need for official escorts.

As they stepped through the glass doors of the Juan Santamaría International Airport terminal, the mundane surroundings took a dramatic turn. Waiting for them in the immigration area, dressed in an impeccable dark suit, was the head of the Spanish Royal Guard’s security team.

“Good afternoon, Your Highnesses,” the officer greeted, bowing stiffly in a manner the girls hadn’t seen in months. “The phantom perimeter has been lifted. The Iberia plane is ready for boarding.”

Leonor moved toward the express lane, but as she glanced around, her analytical, forensic mind immediately began connecting the threads of counterintelligence. Behind the security officer, lined up in a discreet formation by the counters, were several airport workers, familiar with their daily routines in the country.

The mental short circuit was absolute when the girls recognized their faces:

1.The two aviation mechanics wearing reflective vests shared a bagged soft drink at the remote cargo terminal on their first day of arrival.

2.The driver of the direct interprovincial bus that picked them up every morning and dropped them off every afternoon in front of the residential complex’s spire.

3.The clerk at the college’s photocopier who charged them ten colones per stapled page.

4.The cashier at the subsidized university cafeteria who handed out the plastic trays with the institutional lunch.

They all made a slight, synchronized nod, maintaining a firm posture of military respect before dissolving into the crowd of travelers.

The princesses understood everything in that instant. They had never been in real danger; the protection of the Spanish state had always been readily available, perfectly camouflaged within the everyday landscape of Tiquicia. This entire rigorous laboratory of mundane life, from the clash of bus signals to the NISE at the Mega Supermarket, had been a process masterfully organized and coordinated before their arrival by Sawukir himself . The writer and former Scout leader had designed the perfect scenario of dispossession, using the Royal Guard, embassy security, local police, and special units of the Ministry of Security as actors in a daily routine that forced them to mature through legitimate effort. Sawukir, in his capacity as Lord Protector of Asturias, was in command of a coordinated security deployment, so much so that the girls never realized the phantom protection that surrounded them at all times.

Costa Rica offered them the purest, most honest, and transformative life experience they could ever have imagined, protected by an invisible ring that allowed them to suffer in order to teach them freedom. Leonor and Sofía boarded the international flight with their heads held high, clutching their handwritten notebooks and smiling with complete confidence. The heirs were returning to Europe, but the Spanish throne would never again control their destinies.

End.