Always buy a new broom for a new house to avoid bringing bad luck from the old one

[Scene: Lucía’s new apartment in Valencia. Cardboard boxes everywhere. A broom leans in the corner, wrapped in plastic.]

Carmen: (setting down a box) Whew! That’s the last of them. You officially live here now.

Lucía: (grinning) ¡Gracias, Carmen! And you noticed the most important thing—my brand new broom.

Carmen: (raising an eyebrow) That? I thought it was for some Instagram cleaning aesthetic.

Lucía: (seriously) No, no. You have to buy a new broom when you move. Otherwise, you bring all the bad luck from your old place. Malas energías.

Carmen: (sits on a box, amused) Lucía, you don’t believe real energy travels through broom bristles, do you?

Lucía: Not like electricity, Carmen. It’s more… spiritual dust. Like sadness, stress, heartbreak—all swept into the old broom. Why would I bring that here?

Carmen: So the broom is a kind of emotional vacuum cleaner?

Lucía: Exactly!

Carmen: (laughing) Then my Roomba must be cursed beyond repair. I spilled wine and cried watching The Notebook last week—it cleaned it all.

Lucía: (laughing too) That explains your love life.

Carmen: Touché. But seriously, where did this broom rule come from?

Lucía: My abuela told me. And her mother told her. In our village, people wouldn’t even enter a new house without a new broom. It’s as common as blessing the bread.

Carmen: That’s beautiful in a cultural sense. But there’s no actual evidence that using the same broom affects your life in any measurable way.

Lucía: You say that, but remember my cousin María? She moved into a new flat in Madrid, used her old broom, and within a week, she broke her ankle and her ex called to “get back together.”

Carmen: Or maybe María didn’t see the slippery rug and answered her ex’s call because she missed him?

Lucía: Or maybe… she swept in her bad luck.

Carmen: (smirking) So by that logic, I should throw out my mop every January just in case?

Lucía: Well, if it feels off, yes! You should cleanse your space.

Carmen: Lucía, I love you, but if I followed every cleansing ritual from every culture, I’d go bankrupt. Sage from North America, salt from Japan, lemons from Mexico, and now a €20 broom from Mercadona.

Lucía: (grinning) Think of it as a subscription to good vibes.

Carmen: (teasing) Then you need to offer a student discount.

Lucía: Look, I know it’s not scientific, but these things give me peace of mind. Moving is chaotic. A small ritual helps me feel like I’m starting clean.

Carmen: That part I get. Rituals can be comforting. Like my morning coffee routine—I don’t believe it wards off evil, but if I skip it, I’m the evil.

Lucía: See! Same idea. Yours is caffeine, mine is a broom. Both are powerful tools.

Carmen: Okay, okay. I’ll accept your broom—if you let me test the scientific hypothesis.

Lucía: How?

Carmen: I’ll bring my old broom from home and sweep a tiny corner here. If a black cat explodes or the Wi-Fi dies, I’ll admit you were right.

Lucía: (mock horror) ¡Carmen, no! Don’t even joke like that. My plants might wither!

Carmen: (laughs) Only if they’re emotionally unstable. Like me before my coffee.

Lucía: Deal. But if you start crying randomly this week, it’s the broom’s fault.

Carmen: Or hormones. Or taxes. We’ll never know.

[They both burst out laughing, leaning back against the boxes.]

Lucía: I’m glad you’re here—even if you don’t believe in the magic.

Carmen: And I’m glad you believe enough for both of us. Just… don’t make me burn sage in my sneakers, okay?

Lucía: No promises. But you can pick the next ritual—maybe something scientific… like a Netflix documentary?

Carmen: Now that I believe in.

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[End Scene]