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September 2018


We are minor in everything but our passions. Elizabeth Bowen, 1938 Back in the Twentieth Century, near the village of Campello, in the province of Alicante, Spain, there existed a big old white-walled, tile-roofed hacienda on a sandy knoll above a beach.  The Casa Campello was a kind of unconventional youth hostel that featured a communal kitchen, dorm-style bedrooms, a patio shaded by an immense date palm, and a clientele composed of young backpackers from all over Northern Europe.  The lingua franca was English, the sexes were evenly divided, and the girls were tanned and healthy.  There was a dense pine wood (convenient for liaisons, though fouled in places by toilet-less villagers) on the hill behind the house, the water at the beach was warm and clear, and all the guests were free and easy and “down here for a good time.” “What’s not to like?” I asked myself…