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…
