You should see a brightly painted metal sculpture of two women walking side by side, one in a vivid pink coat holding a folded blue umbrella, while the other in a bright blue coat extends her arm in a frozen greeting.
History is usually defined by kings and bishops, but sometimes a city's soul is shaped by its ordinary citizens. These are the forgotten builders of a culture's identity. They do not leave behind grand palaces or holy relics, but their everyday lives become monuments of resilience all on their own.
These two women are Maruxa and Coralia Fandiño, affectionately known as The Two Marys. Before the Spanish Civil War erupted in nineteen thirty-six, the sisters were highly skilled seamstresses who sewed vibrant, original clothes for the local middle class. But their family was deeply involved in the anarchist labor movement. When the military dictatorship took power, the sisters' brothers went into hiding to escape execution.
The authorities sought to crush any earthly opposition. The police routinely raided the Fandiño home in the dead of night. They destroyed the family's belongings and publicly humiliated the women on the streets to force them to reveal their brothers' locations. The psychological and physical toll was devastating. When the war ended, the brothers were either dead or imprisoned, and the sisters were left destitute, ostracized by neighbors who were simply too terrified of the regime to hire them.
But the sisters refused to vanish into the shadows.
Instead, they turned their trauma into an act of theatrical defiance. Every single day, right at two o'clock in the afternoon, Maruxa and Coralia strolled through the historic streets. They dressed in striking, luminous outfits they sewed themselves, their faces heavily painted with stark white rice powder, vibrant rouge, and brilliant red lipstick. In the bleak, oppressive atmosphere of the dictatorship, they were a walking flash of color.
University students would sometimes mockingly flirt with them on their walks, to which Maruxa, the shorter but more outspoken sister, would firmly reply, You already have one.
While the regime was consumed by its earthly ambition to enforce total obedience, a quiet, almost spiritual devotion to these sisters grew among the locals. A grocer named Tito Carro secretly kept them alive. He handed them coffee and staples under the guise of free promotional samples, knowing their fierce pride would never accept direct charity.
For decades, authorities dismissed them as eccentric outcasts. But in nineteen ninety-four, after nine years of relentless petitioning by sculptor César Lombera, the city finally erected this statue. You can visit these iconic ladies whenever you please.
They outlasted the regime that tried to break them, transforming into unforgettable local heroes. Now, let us leave these modern civilian icons behind and walk toward the ancient heart of the city's power. Our next stop, Plaza del Obradoiro, is a six minute walk from here.
