A small flaking white house in lost Spain

Adrift for many years, washed up in the steppe of Spain, far from the coast and just far enough away from anywhere. Before setting up camp in Caceres, Spain I had traveled through 5 continents and lived on 3 of them. First crossing the Americas and Europe countless times as an itinerant musician and using my downtime for in-depth explorations of the time-machine that is northern Florida. From there to Madrid's tapas bars and the medina in Fez. Later I perfected my Khat chewing technique in the Yemeni capital Sana'a during the first years the most recent Gulf War. Next stop was the shores of the oily Caspian, teaching within the evil empires of BP and Halliburton, admiring the west's hypocrisy close up in their democratic outpost in Baku. After a stop in Iran long enough to realize that it isn't everything they tell you, I opted for the smiles that grace you on the streets of Vientiane, Laos and the sheer pleasure of a cold Beerlao on the banks of the Mekong. A brief stop in Tripoli and now drive west of Madrid, through the dehesas of holm oak trees just far enough to think you are in Portugal and you will find my house.