When I had gotten up that morning, when I…when I had…when I had gotten up that morning, I had a few plans in mind for the day, but among them, definitely among the one hundred variables, not one entailed wolfing down a whopper with cheese at a Burger King in Guadalajara 60 miles away. I think most people could have understood that, especially if you have ever been to Guadalajara. I try to tread with care about these moments because I believe in defending one’s hometown no matter what. But I don’t think I am stepping too much on anyone’s toes when I say Guadalajara, Spain, the provincial capital of one of the most forlorn cities in this country, hasn’t got a lot to offer the tourist and I don’t recommend reserving a lot of time to it. And normally you don’t just go to Guadalajara unless you have a good reason to…and we did.
One of the kids at the camp had fallen and broken his wrist. At least we thought he had because when he stuck it out in front of us so we could examine it, it went in three different directions. He needed to see a doctor, and quick. But the cook had just pulled out some great hors d’oeuvres and they looked so good we cried, “Jesus! Hold on kid. We’ll be there in a minute.” And we had a little bite for setting off. Then we went down to the local medical center where they would fix him up a little and then send him off to Guadalajara where they could give him an x-ray. That meant driving 60 miles over a mountain range. Six hours later we were back where we started.
That night I slept under the stars on the cabin rooftop. I don’t get a chance to do that too often in Madrid, I can tell you. It wasn’t too bad out there. By that I mean too cold. It can get like that up there, even in July. Just the toads kept me up most of the night doing the kinds of things toads do best, I guess.