Psychologically Shanghaied
It started with a casual cup of coffee, which turned into a dinner invitation. That night, we were invited to next morning’s breakfast: oily eggs, wildflower honey toast, and shaved jamón cured from their own, beady-eyed swine. Thus began the vicious cycle. They were humble campesinos (country folk), hard-working Gallegans with chipped teeth that whistled the melodious language; an ancient yellow Lab named Las; owners of the modest campsite where I’d erected a tent, and that was quickly becoming “home.” One night, after I’d had my fill of tortilla and farm tomatoes, of local wine and homemade, digestive licor de hierbas , the Jefa (female boss) said that I’d need to learn the bar prices for next week. Being a broad abroad with Spanish as a second language, I was taken aback by her stark, Galician statement....