With mixed feelings, I watched my son go off to Spain for two weeks of work on a farm in Galicia.

Mixed because there’s nothing more educational and emboldening than foreign travel. And there’s no place I know more beautiful than Galicia. But I’ll miss Billy till I meet him in Madrid after his farming experience. (Though we’ve handled his first two years away at college well, being on separate continents is different.)

I studied a college semester in Madrid in 1983. By day, I discovered Bosch at the Prado and Tennessee Williams from the little library of the Instituto Internacional. By night, I went to the punk bars of Malasaña where a DJ was pleased that I knew Magazine and he played them when I came in.

Madrid is a peerless city in many ways. The city was undergoing a renaissance when I was there eight years after the death of Generalissimo Francisco Franco. Franco was “still dead” as the early Saturday Night Live joke went. But that didn’t stop Franquistas from holding a terrifying rally complete with heil signs.

Madrid is magnificent but dry and hot. Galicia is cool and damp. People compared it with Ireland. It was a good place for pulpo and various mariscos. (So was Madrid, which got fresh seafood every day, though located more than 200 miles from the nearest coast.)

My son traveled to Galicia through WWOOF—not a charity for dogs, as a neighbor guessed, but rather the World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms program. The closest I came to organic farming during my visit to Galicia was eating tetas de manchego cheese.

Billy’s farm specializes in jellies. I was heartened by his first message that he’ll be working before and after siesta—a concept that allows you to dream twice a day. But now it was Sunday, no work. Billy was sitting by a stream with his feet in the water and a bottle of local wine.

Another reason the Spanish should fight against austerity.