Twice a day, an event takes place in our little town that brings traffic to a halt. Women and children freeze in their tracks. Homeowners peer tensely through their kitchen windows with a feeling of helplessness. You see…every day at 10:30am and 5:30pm, the Milk Dud Revolutionary Brigade rides roughshod through the sleepy town of Cabanillas del Campo, Spain.

OK, OK…so maybe I’m being overly dramatic. The Milk Dud Revolutionary Brigade is really just a placid flock of three hundred sheep and goats that are herded through town twice a day to graze. To be honest, there is nothing revolutionary about them. I just thought that this adjective would spice up the story a bit. The reference to Milk Duds, however, is appropriate. These critters leave a wide, speckled trail of them all about the streets and sidewalks through which they’ve passed. Once you’ve connected the dots through the streets of Cabanillas del Campo, following the Yellow Brick Road doesn’t seem quite so impressive.

The MDRB is based at ranch located a half mile from our house, and they graze at a different field each day. I suspect, however, that such grazing is of secondary importance since most of the flock dines quite heartily on flowers, trees and shrubbery planted by homeowners foolish enough to have built a house on or near the flock’s daily route.

The flock is led by two shepherds, four well-trained (albeit unkempt) sheep dogs and a donkey. One shepherd and the donkey take the lead, the four dogs flank the flock in staggered formation, and the second shepherd wipes up the rear – figuratively speaking, of course. This second shepherd is an interesting character. He is a balding man in his sixties who is partial to wearing straw hats. He carries a cane, but doesn’t use it as a walking aid. Rather, he wields it like a Viking battle-axe, which he gleefully whacks across the rump of any sheep or goat that has wandered more than four millimetres out of formation. What initially drew my attention to him, however, was his left ear. He doesn’t have one.

How the hell did he lose his left ear? After all, sheep herding isn’t an especially dangerous profession. The usual suspects of rural limb loss – i.e., combines and other mechanized farm implements – are more or less lacking from the daily life of a shepherd. I first speculated that the ear was gnawed-off by a goat enraged by one too many raps on the fanny by that cane? I quickly discarded this theory, however. Goats are herbivores and tend not to crave human flesh. My second theory took a more psychological angle. Perhaps this shepherd had an unhealthy fascination with the works of Vincent Van Gogh and Quentin Tarantino. Unlikely! He didn’t strike me as a man of the arts. In the end, I concluded that the answer to this (like so many of life’s other mysteries) could be found at Bar Alcázar, and resolved to tactfully broach the subject to José during a future coffee break.

I suppose this isn’t the stuff of a James Cameron movie. Neither Arnold nor Leo are likely view the role of a one-eared shepherd as being a prudent career move. Still, I find the MDRB’s daily sojourn to be an exciting event – and certainly not the type thing that I experienced with any regularity while growing up in Suburbia, USA. And there is a spicy side to living in the presence of the MDRB. Think I’m kidding? How does possible deportation from the United States register on your Spice-O-Meter?

Last December, we flew to Chicago to spend Christmas with my family. As we waited in the baggage claim area of O’Hare International Airport, I noticed a sign warning that incoming travellers who had recently visited a farm abroad must report themselves to the airport’s US Department of Agriculture officer. Foot and mouth disease had recently devastated Great Britain, and the US cattleman’s lobby was eager to avoid such unpleasantness on their side of the Atlantic. I thought nothing of this at first, but then…as the realization dawned on me…I lifted my foot to examine the sole of my shoe. There, clinging to the gap between two cleats, were the remnants of a flattened, hay-flecked Manchego Milk Dud.

This may someday cost me political office, but I must admit that I was unwilling to risk a vacation-spoiling deportation for the better good of a group of wealthy cattle ranchers. I therefore unlodged that sinister Milk Dud by clicking my heels twice and muttering “There’s no place like home…There’s no place like home.” An hour later, I was raiding my parents’ refrigerator with clean shoes and a clear conscience. Neither parent has since reported any adverse effects to their feet or mouths.

People often ask me, “Do you REALLY like working from home?”

To which I respond, “Love it!”

“What do you love about it?”

“Coffee breaks at Bar Alcázar!” is my standard response.

And I mean it. Bar Alcázar is easy to love. It is everything that Starbucks is not, and does not want to be. I make the five-minute pilgrimage to Bar Alcázar nearly every morning at 10:15. Without it, I feel incomplete, unfulfilled and, as María will attest, downright cranky. There are many reasons to love Bar Alcázar, but the main ones are listed below.

Reason #1: The décor.

When I named this web-log “Sal’s Virtual Tapas Bar,” Bar Alcázar was the image that I had in my head. You enter Bar Alcázar through a curtain of plastic beads, and then through a second curtain of cigarette smoke. Inside, the main bar area is done in colors reminiscent of Darren and Samantha’s living room on Bewitched. The lower half of the walls are covered with flat-tone beige tiles, and the upper half with dark green fabric wallpaper. Green fabric wallpaper! Doesn’t that make you want to fire up a Leo Sayer CD?

The ceiling is covered with textured, tan-colored ceramic tiles. I’m not sure if the tiles came in this color, or simply evolved to it after exposure to decades of cigarette smoke. Someday I will smuggle-in a squirt gun loaded with Mr. Clean and find out for myself.

The floor is difficult to discern, because it is usually covered with an ankle-deep blanket of litter. I have been told by a Spanish Civil War veteran that the floor is tastefully done in beige ceramic tiles, but I have no independent confirmation of this.

Reason #2: The clientele.

Bar Alcázar patrons come in three flavors: (a) shepherds and construction workers; (b) politicians and priests; and (c) drunks without borders.

Group (a) floods the bar each morning before 7:30 and again from 10:00 to 10:30. They are an impressive bunch that would cause a scandal in the US; not because of their behavior (which is always polite and orderly), but because of their diet. Without fail, each member of this group follows-up (or substitutes) his coffee with a glass of anis, orujo or brandy on the rocks. At 10:00am! I won’t bore you with an elaborate description of what these drinks are. It’s enough to simply state that each is 80 proof, and poured with a heavy hand by bar owners Antonio and José.

Group (b) appears at 11:00am. Bar Alcázar is across the street from the City Hall, and around the corner from the Catholic church. Much like at the White House, there is no separation of church and state at Bar Alcázar. Most members of this group drink only coffee, but then light up a cheap cigar to reward themselves for having the discipline to forego alcohol at such a tender hour.

Group (c) can hardly be called a group, because it is comprised of only one man. I shall refer to him as “Skeletor.” Skeletor is in his late 60’s/early 70’s, has reddish hair, pasty skin, poor posture and tips the scales at a whopping 110 lbs. He drinks a brand of red wine with which I am not familiar. I suspect that Robert Parker would be equally unfamiliar, as this wine comes in a clear glass bottle with a metal, pop-off cap. Skeletor talks a lot, although not necessarily to anyone within hearing distance. For the last two days, he has been drinking alcohol-free beer. I don’t know if I should be impressed or concerned about this.

Reason #3: The coffee.

Man, their coffee is good! It’s a creamy, almost chocolately concoction with no trace of the “essence of ashtray-water” that typifies Starbucks’s product line. I’ve often wondered why the café con leche at Bar Alcázar is so much better than everyone else’s. At first, I thought it was the machine. Bar Alcázar uses an Italian-made La Cimbali machine that looks old enough to be powered by vacuum tubes. I later concluded, however, that it is neither the machine nor the coffee nor the water that makes it so darn good. It’s the milk. Bar Alcázar’s café con leche is 25% coffee, and 75% steamed whole milk. I haven’t consulted the Spanish Food and Drug Administration’s manual, but I suspect that this drink would be classified as a “Milk Shake” for regulatory purposes.

* * * * *

Now, I know what you are thinking: “A dirty, smoky, poorly-decorated bar that serves good coffee to strange people who aren’t interested in coffee? You must be mad!”

But I’m not mad. And I am not the only one who has fallen under Bar Alcázar’s mystical spell. My prim and proper in-laws would not dream of visiting our town without a pit stop at Bar Alcázar. My own mother – a woman who normally unsheathes a samauri sword if a smoker comes within 50 feet – makes a bee-line for Bar Alcázar before her toothbrush is dry each morning when visiting from Chicago. And then there is the story of my friend Scott the Texan. Within one week after first crossing Bar Alcázar’s threshold, he marched into his boss’s office in Houston and demanded (and received) a transfer to Europe.

Bar Alcázar would indeed be embodiment of perfection, were it not for two shortcomings. First, I wouldn’t recommend eating anything that has not been sealed in plastic and opened before your eyes. Second, Antonio and José are relieved at 5:00pm by a bartender whom I shall refer to as “The Grimace.” Why do I call him The Grimace? Because he looks like McDonald’s Grimace, except that he is neither purple nor jolly. Not that I am especially bothered by The Grimace, or that I go out of my way to avoid him. It’s just that Bar Alcázar loses a bit of its charm when drinks are being served to you with a scowl.

I’ve not lost all hope for The Grimace, however. In fact, I think that he is finally warming up to us. Just last week, he barked “Gracias” as we paid our tab and left. At least, I think he said “Gracias.” Maybe it was just, “Grrrrr.”

People are quick to mock the Spaniards’ lisp. And rightly so. It does sound a bit odd. If a Madrileño were to enter a Tijuana bar and request “thinco thervethas,” he should not be surprised to exit with the band of his underpants wrapped around his forehead.

But what about the Irish? They have a linguistic quirk that is much more prominent than a mere lisp. You see, the Irish BURP.

By BURP, I don’t mean the audible expulsion of excess gas via the esophagus. I mean BURP as the acronym for Bad Use of Reflexive Pronouns.

For those of you who studied engineering, a reflexive pronoun (e.g., myself, yourself, himself, herself, ourselves) is used to reflect the action of a verb back to the performer. For example:

Seems straight-forward enough. And if everyone followed these simple rules, I might now be writing about that tasty chorizo sausage that I ate in Madrid last weekend. But the Irish have ruined the sausage-fest by taking artistic license with the humble reflexive pronoun. Here is a shocking example taken from an email that I received from an Irish colleague earlier this year. Only the names have been changed to protect my ass.

Let’s ignore, for a moment, the shockingly omitted comma after the word “below” and focus our energies on the two (TWO!) BURPs in this twenty-word sentence. I think we can all agree on the seriousness of this matter.

So what are we to do? How can we help the Irish help themselves out of this linguistic dungeon? Simple. We must, without exception, be diligent in showing the Irish the error of their ways. And responsibility for such diligence starts at the top. From the UN to the White House to Buckingham Palace, we need to start engaging the Irish in conversations like the following:

Do you catch my drift? All it takes is a little love, patience and guidance. And then, perhaps someday, the Irish will be speaking English even better the Texans.

——-

[Note from Sal: Obviously, this post is intended to be tongue in cheek. Just poking a little fun at my Irish friends and colleagues. There’s nothing in this post that I haven’t told them face-to-face. In fact, I think the Irish are great. Really! Without them, we wouldn’t have Irish Spring soap. So please…no hate mail or Italian jokes!]

I wish my enemies long lives

So that they may live to see all my successes.

[Author unknown.]

I was in Madrid last Saturday with the entire morning to kill. Maria was having her hair done, and the in-laws were babysitting Inés. This was more freedom than I’d experienced in years.

Strolling down Calle O’Donnell en route to a Hispanic grocery store, I passed a familiar figure on the sidewalk: Pedro Almodovar.

That’s it. I just passed him. I was walking in one direction, and he in the other. No chitchat. No brushing of shoulders. No flirtatious eye-contact. Still, I felt a bit giddy. He is, after all, Spain’s second or third best director (depending on your feelings toward cross-dressing).

He was walking alone; carrying a shopping bag. He wore Dockers, sneakers, sunglasses, and a golf shirt (untucked, of course). He had neither bodyguards nor an entourage. He looked totally unstressed and unhurried.

At first, I wondered if it might be a Pedro wannabe. Spain seems to breed these types. I recall that a few years ago, a woman named Rocio Carrasco injured her neck in a car accident. Never heard of Rocio? Well then, you must not be Spanish. She is the daughter of a singer and a former boxing champion. That’s her claim to fame. Nothing more. Not even a college degree. Yet every minute detail of her love life and bi-monthly vacations are chronicled in Spain’s many “magazines of the heart” (e.g., Hola, Diez Minutos, and all their imitators…many of which are accumulating on the floor my wife’s bathroom). During the weeks and months following Rocio’s neck injury, I noticed a rather sharp increase in the number of women sporting neckbraces in Barcelona. Coincidence or idol worship? You be judge.

But back to Pedro. I quickly ruled out the possibility of an imposter. While it is easy to don a neckbrace (a la Rocio), it’s entirely another matter to inflate the diameter of one’s neck to match that of the head (a la Pedro). Yep, it was Pedro all right. And I saw him in the flesh.

An hour later, I met up with my in-laws and broke the exciting news. Their response: “Pedro? Oh yeah, he lives around here.” That’s it.

From now on, I’ll leave idol worship to the readers of Hola.

Dear Sirs and Madams:

Let’s touch base to touch base regarding the leveraging of key concepts for promulgation and nurturing of core departmental, functional, and cross-corporate/cultural pollination. Specifically, paradigm-shifts, benchmarking, synergy, envisioneering and leverage championing are at the forefront of our core challenge. Allow me to elaborate further.

That which our department necessitates is a quantitative and qualitative trading infrastructure (be it through software, coaching, brainstorming, downsizing, right-sizing, real-sizing, restructuring, reengineering, reprocessing, realization, cognitive dissonance roleplaying or otherwise) that will enable the corporate culture to efficiently and effectively implement sophisticated non-parametric trading strategies for its growing client base. Metrics and granularity will be key to this process. Dedicated subject matter experts and customer intimacy facilitators will evangelize the attributes and business imperatives of product line synergies, with the medium-term action item of kick-starting the internal/external processes that will facilitate their ultimate bearing of fruit. What is the touch-stone that will allow us to leverage this functionality to its logical conclusion? Allow me to philosophize this concept further.

This prime directive of this action plan is to rationalize, commercialize, socialize and capitalize on the various linear and non-linear discontinuous change drivers with an intense sense of urgency. Every member of our team (each of which being an essential cog driving the corporate revenue-generation machinery) must offer individual leadership and a personal commitment to achieving and/or exceeding their own set of mission-critical goals and deliverables towards building a more cohesive corporate singularity and value-chain. Accelerating the pace of change will be the key to success and a major factor behind achieving our goal of reaching “Best in Class” status by Q4. What are the metrics driving this imperative? Allow me explanitize with deeper granularity.

We need a degree of autonomy with processes in place to sandbox our activity within acceptable constraints. Hopefully this will allow us to ring-fence our previous value-enhancing competencies and exorcize any recalcitrant empressorial hobgoblins, so that all internal gatekeeper, loss-leaders, task-masters and image-enhancers will be singing from the same hymn-sheet of synergistic profitability facilitation. The imperative mission of such non-diluding change agents is to get into the psychological profile of the perceived customer, to gain a tri-dimensional visual perception of them in their given base environment, and enhance customer intimacy within the perceived framework of EBIT maximization. Of course, this will require that we monetize some under-utilized physical assets, as well as leverage various tactical and strategic partnerships in a synergy of blue-sky intra- and extra-box thinking in order to develop a big picture of client-partner activities for symbiotic development through effective touch-base communication.

These themes are critical to our success in 2003 as we continue our journey towards a services grid model, with high-availability systems underpinned by a robust standards base; as we continue to decouple vertical silos and move closer to “real-time”; as we disaggregate bundled and archaic cost structures and reaggregate them by asset class, thereby providing our business with the nimbleness, flexibility and responsiveness they need; and as we reduce product proliferation and increase straight-through-processing. You will hear more about this in Q1 ’04.

Let’s throw this one up the flag pole and see if anyone salutes it. Let’s action the action items and touch base in Q3 via a non verbal communiqué. I look forward to partnering with you on this roadmap, in order to cultivate a synergistic and mutually-beneficial win-win scenario.

Best regards,
Fat Sal

Madrid and Barcelona have a rivalry as intense as its NY/LA counterpart; only worse. At least NY and LA speak the same damn language. This rivalry certainly extends to matters of the tummy, and I anticipate a rash of complaints that my Madrid restaurant recommendations below should be followed by a listing of prime Barcelona eats.

Because the “country” of Catalunya is rightly proud of its culinary heritage, because Catalunya is home to 50% of Spain’s Michelin three-star restaurants, and because my own lovely daughter Inés is Catalan, I am compelled by a sense of fairness and diplomacy to list below my favorite restaurants in Barcelona (and one in Sitges).

AGUA

Pg. Maritim de la Barceloneta 30 (in Port Olimpic)

93-225-1272

Specializes in paella. Right on the sea. Reservation required.

BILBAO

Perill 33 (in Gracia neighborhood)

93-458-96-24

My favorite restaurant in Barcelona. “Market cuisine.” Cash only.

Reservation highly recommended.

CAL PEP

Plaza de les Olles 8

93-310-7961

Specializes in fried fish. Best seats are at the bar. If you go for

lunch, get there BEFORE they open and wait. Otherwise, you will never get a seat.

FOLQUER

Torrent de l’Olla 3

93-217-43-95

Great restaurant with refined cooking.

FRIENDS

Deu i Mata 125

93-439-3556

Great Catalan “home cooking.” Restaurant looks like your aunt’s living room. Note that all the waitresses look exactly the same.

QU-QU

Passeig de Gracia (near Casa Batllo, but on other side of road)

Great tapas. Large selection.

XAPELA

Passeig de Gracia (near Casa Batllo, but on other side of road)

Great Basque pintxos.

ELS POLLOS DE LLULL

Ramon Turro 13 (Tel: 93-221-3206)

Napols 272 (Tel: 93-162-2250)

Second best chicken in Europe. The best is a place in Lisbon called “Bon Jardim,” but that’s a subject for another post.

CAN CARGOL

Valencia 324

93-458-9631

Grilled meats. Cheap prices.

LA BELLA NAPOLI

Villarroel 101

93-454-7056

Barcelona’s best pizza. True Naples-style pizza. Run by Italians.

Pizzas cooked in wood-burning oven.

LARRUSKAIN

Mallorca 442

93-232-2367

Basque “asador.” House specialty is roast monkfish. Close to Sagrada

Familia.

TXOKOA

Marimon 20

93-414-1991

Awesome Basque restaurant. They have a great multicourse set menu

(dessert and wine included) for 25 Euros per person; at least, that was the price in 2002.

LA TORRETA

Platja Sant Sebastia

Port Alegre 17, SITGES (note: This is in Sitges, not Barcelona).

Very good paellas.

I would be the world’s worst food critic. I like almost everything that I eat. Who, in their right minds, would read a dining column in which every restaurant is awarded four stars. I suppose that’s why Gourmet magazine won’t return my calls.

Although I do like everything, I like some stuff more than others. So…for the info-tainment of my loyal virtual tapas bar patrons, I list below (in no particular order) my restaurant recommendations for Madrid, Spain. Before running out and requesting a table, please remember one important factoid: People START eating dinner at 9:30pm in Madrid. Any earlier, and the restaurant will probably not accept you (unless it is a tourist trap). No, Toto, you ain’t in Kansas anymore.

La Bola Taberna
Bola, 5
Tel: 91 547 69 30
Metro : Santo Domingo
*Does NOT accept credit cards.

La Castela
Doctor Castelo, 22.
Tels: 91 573 55 90
91 574 00 15
Metro: Ibiza
This place has a bar in front that serves some of the best tapas in Madrid. The restaurant is behind the bar (i.e., go through the doorway that is on the left-hand side of the bar), and it’s outstanding.

La Hoja
c/ Doctor Castelo, 48
Tel.: 91 409 25 22
http://www.lahoja.es/
This is an Asturian (northern Spain) restaurant. Everything here is great. The house specialty is Fabes Asturianas. They also have some interesting game dishes.

Casa Pello
c/Doctor Castelo, 2
Tel: 91-574-0103
Order the Cocido Madrileño. It’s the house specialty.

Asador Velate
Jorge Juan, 91
Tel: 91-435-1024
A Basque restaurant specializing in roasted meats. I highly recommend filet mignon with foie.

Al-Jaima
c/ Barbieri, 1
Metro: Gran Via & Chueca
Tel: 91-523-1142
Our favorite Morroccan restaurant. Not pricey. You will need a reservation.

Buen Gusto
Pº Santa María de la Cabeza, 60
28045 Madrid
Tel: 915-30-50-62
Our favorite Chinese restaurant. Confirmed authentic by the friend of a friend who lived in China.

Entre Suspiro y Suspiro
Caños del Peral, 3 (Semiesquina Pza. Isabel II)
28013 Madrid
Tel: 91-542-06-44
Perhaps the only great Mexican restaurant in Spain. At least, the only one that I’ve found.

Tandoori Station
José Ortega y Gasset, 89
Madrid
Tel: 91 401 22 28
My favorite Indian restaurant. Vibrant flavors abound. Serves a Chicken Vindaloo that set me adrift on waves of eye-watering, nose-dribbling, tongue-throbbing ecstasy.

Other notes:

Central Spain is known for roast meats. Try “cochinillo” (roasted milk-fed baby pig) or “cordero lechal” (roasted milk-fed baby lamb). Madrid has two specialty dishes: Cocido Madrileño (multi-course stew of garbanzo beans and other stuff), and “Callos Madrileños” (tripe stew). Casa Pello has a great Cocido.

Spain is also known for its sherry. You can order a glass in any bar. There are various categories. From lightest/dryest to darkest/sweetest, they are: Fino; Manzanilla; Amontillado; Oloroso; Pedro Ximenez.

Do not, under any circumstances, order sangria. You will get the cheapest, most vile, low-quality wine in stock…flavored with enough juice, fruit, and other additives to make it barely palatable. If you want sangria, come to my house and I will make it for you.

Wines are typically categorized by aging. This varies by region, but is generally true. Categories are:

Joven (youngest)
Crianza (aged longer in barrel and bottle)
Reserva (aged longer still)
Gran Reserva (aged longest)

Stick with Crianza or Reserva, if you have the choice.

Spain has a ton of different wine regions, but my favorites are: Somotano (My favorite region…great wines at reasonable prices); Priorato (strong, dense wines…also expensive); Ribera del Duero (Spain’s second largest wine region…with unique smell); Rioja (Spain’s largest and most famous…great stuff, but you can find it anywhere in the world); Toro (powerful, purple wines that are becoming trendy…but are still quite reasonable).

Friends, Romans and clones of Dr. Funkenstein:

Greetings from the plains of Castilla-LaMancha, Spain…and welcome to the first posting of my blog. There were many challenges to be surmounted in bringing this blog to you.

Challenge #1: Figuring out what the hell a blog is. I’d heard this term used with increasing frequency in the US media during 2004. Blog-mania hit a fever pitch during the democratic primaries. Each candidate seemed to get two things in his “I Wanna Be President” starter kit: A US flag lapel pin, and a copy of “Blogging for Dummies.” Dean did it. Kerry did it. Gephart did it. They all did it. Well…actually, none of them really did it. Their “people” did it for them; but delegation is the sign of a good manager, so we won’t deduct points.

But what is a blog? Sounds like something one drinks from a pewter mug. I turned for answers to the oracle of our generation: Google. A blog, as it turns out, is a web log. An Internet dumping ground for people’s thoughts, observations, recommendations and other ramblings…no matter how banal they might be. The digital wasteland done found itself a ‘nuther niche. So I got one. If you’ve got a niche, scratch it.

Challenge #2: Figuring out why I needed a blog? Truth be told, I don’t. Between changing diapers, cooking meals, grocery shopping, working out (when I feel sufficiently motivated to resist the snooze-bar’s siren call) and that work-thing that constantly conflicts with my sunbathing schedule, I didn’t really need an additional item on my plate. What I did need, though, was some kind of respite from the dryness of my daily existence. Spending forty hours per week (Editor’s note: If you are reading this, Paul, I meant to say sixty hours) staring at contract clauses in eight point type and debating the most prudent placement of terms like “hereinafter,” “thereby,” and “notwithstanding the foregoing” does cause one to seek a creative outlet of sorts; and Spain’s warm climate seemed to render butter sculpting impractical. Plus, my lovely wife Maria travels on a weekly basis, and there are just so many times one can watch the same Sopranos DVD Box Set before going bonkers.

Challenge #3: Naming my new blog. I thought this would be easy. Just think up a clever word play by substituting the word “blog” for “dog,” “hog,” “cog,” or any of its brethren. I churned out a healthy list of candidates: Sal’s Blog Cabin; Sal’s Blog Day Afternoon; Goin’ Whole Blog with Sal; Sal’s Three Blog Night; Blog Wild with Sal; etc. Feeling proud of my sharp wit and powerful mind, I decided to do a quick Google search to confirm my belief that no one on earth had ever coined any of these magnificent titles. Well, my confidence was a bit unfounded. Truth be told, the least used of the bunch yielded no less than 17 pages of hits. That’s the problem with the Internet age. It reinforces the fact that nobody on this planet has had an original thought since Jimi played Berkeley. In the good old days when people actually went to the library to do research, I might have operated under the delusion of my own cleverness for years before stumbling upon a DesMoine Star Register clipping that mentioned “Cooter’s Blog Cabin” in the “For Singles Only” column. In the Google age, however, delusions of grandeur are measured in nanoseconds. In my own defense, however, one of my phrases did register a startling zero hits: “Sal’s Triple Blog Dare Ya’.” I’ll bet there will be a hit tomorrow morning. In the end, I decided that word play is the domain of burned out ad execs and opted for the geographically relevant title, “Sal’s Virtual Tapas Bar.”

Challenge #4: Deciding what to write about. Indeed…the toughest challenge of all. I’ve no answers for this one quite yet. But I have faith that my masterful typing skills, combined with Spain’s plentitud of cheap yet outstanding wines, will lead the way forward. Take this first posting, for instance. I’ve barely finished a glass of wine, and have already spewed 1,127 words.