I leave five minutes before a meeting and run to see if there is any invitation left, in the helmets from the head. I got a handball in San Francisco Square – of course not – I greeted some students and I reached the Txoko of the Giants. There is no invitation, but Jokin is as generous as ever on the portal. He has left me his place.

A beautiful piano occupies almost the entire stage. Next to a guitar and people without a chair sitting on the floor. I once heard that tradition becomes a tradition that passes from the hand of three generations. If it is three generations and three equivalent editions, rain only needs to translate into next year’s Kantu eta hitza cycle to become tradition. It is only a matter of a few minutes that this year’s visit was a good thing.

Mikel Urdangarin sings to keep a few moments forever, although sometimes the facts manage a little to beautify the letters – like many others – so we may have been awakening eternity. It is not easy to maintain a solo representation for an hour and a half, but the painter's son has kept his presence, although on the arrival of America the jet lag had it. We've heard old songs and not so old and more pins than normal, forgetting some printed letters. Birds help him in some instrumental stretch.

Like Ana, Urdangarin also has a song pulled out of a fire news story. A mature woman was burned to death in Reus, with no money to pay for heating and a wax filled house. Cardiac coplas are coplas of this impact. Maybe everything can be changed, perhaps if there is a road somewhere…

It's been bertsolari zornotzarra, and maybe that's why public attention has been kept to the subject, to be just on the table, or to transmit it, and to improvise dignified in unexpected situations. Jon Lopategi was a master of bertsos and has songs for him as well.

Despite being the most beautiful people in the world, Urdangarin has written more than one song to Vitoria, and he has also said that all songs are love songs, whatever the type. Songs of love or fear, anyway. In that sense he has dedicated the last one with piano. He's been learning to play for four years, and he looks more clumsy than he does with guitar. For the first time I have seen the zornotzarra live and what I have seen is what I expected, no more and no less.

Evening smells like summer and the two four- or five-year-old girls I've been by my side have danced as in summer, enchanted, under the atmosphere of Lauaxeta's words, while listening to what Ane has written or in the coffee atmosphere on the table.