Living La Vida Loca
Despite being a nominally Catholic country, Spain has never had much of a hang-up with sex. Not in the north, at any rate. Up here we’ve always been more natural with the subject. Which is why most brothels are on busy roads and are well visible. Something will always give it away. It will either be the neon lights, a sign with a busty, silhouetted woman, or the word “Club” in garish lights at the top of the roof. Believe me, it won’t mean a book club. Last Sunday night, an elderly, single man left one of those clubs on foot. He, apart from enjoying the company of a lady, had drunk a few of the high-priced drinks such places tend to sell, and was a little the worse for wear. So much so that he set off in the wrong direction. When he realized it, he had walked over two kilometers, and it was very late and dark. The night was cold and it was drizzling. So he left the road and looked for a barn to shelter in. He found a little porch on the side of a shed. There he sat on the...