In thirty-three days, I will have walked over nineteen marathons with a three year old on my back.
Like Don Quixote and his horse Rocinante, I am awkward, past my prime, and feel that I am engaged in a task beyond my capacities.
I look forward to salmorejo, jamon bocadillos, and every night when I take my backpack off. It's quite heavy.
My friends are working today. I'm going to Paris!
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