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long trips to exotic countries. There are no exotic countries left in Latin America, said Rosa. Oh, no? asked Anna, who had always liked Rosa’s wit. No, Anna, there are no exotic countries left anywhere in the world, said Jordi. Don’t you believe it, said Amalfitano, there are still exotic countries and there must be one or two of them left in Latin America. Catalonia is an exotic country, said Padilla. Catalonia? asked the poet Pere Girau. The moon is certainly exotic, said Antoni Carrera sadly. Not even the moon, said Jordi, the moon is just a satellite. I love the full moon when I’m at the beach, I love to listen to the tide—is it coming in or going out? I’m never sure—while I’m moon gazing, said the poet Pere Girau. It’s coming in, said Antoni Carrera, and it’s called high tide. I thought high tide was when the water stopped rising, said Padilla. Actually, it’s the time it takes it to rise, said Antoni Carrera. I adore the ebb and flow, said the poet Pere Girau, rolling his eyes back in his head, though low tide is more practical because you can find treasures. He rolled his eyes back in his head, thought Rosa, disgusting! Do you remember our honeymoon in Peniche, Toni? asked Anna Carrera. Yes, said Antoni Carrera. The tide was very low, hundreds of yards out, and in the early morning light the beach looked like some extraterrestrial landscape, said Anna. In Brittany you see things like that every day, said the poet Pere Girau. But what you’re talking about has nothing to do with the moon, said Antoni Carrera. Of course it does, said Amalfitano. I don’t think so, said Antoni Carrera. It certainly does, said Amalfitano. Peniche is an exotic place, too, said Padilla, in its own way and with its government workers. Have you ever been to Peniche? asked Anna Carrera. No, but a third of Barcelona has camped there, said Padilla. Funny, it’s true, now everyone has been to Portugal, but when we went it was unusual to see another Catalonian, said Anna Carrera. It was political tourism, admitted Antoni Carrera quietly. My father took me to the Alentejo on vacation, said Rosa. Amalfitano smiled, in fact they had made only a brief stop in Lisbon, but he loved his daughter’s finely honed malice, she might be Brazilian, he thought happily. What is an exotic country, essentially? asked Jordi. A poor but happy place, said Amalfitano. Somalia isn’t exotic, of course, said Anna Carrera. And neither is Morocco, said Jordi. It can also be a country that’s poor in spirit but deeply joyful, said Padilla. Like Germany, which at least to me seems very exotic, said Rosa. What’s exotic about Germany? asked Jordi. The beer halls, the street food, and the ruins of the concentration camps, said Padilla. No, no, said Rosa, not that, the wealth. Mexico is a truly exotic country, said the poet Pere Girau, Breton’s favorite country, the promised land of Artaud and the Mayas, home of Alfonso Reyes and Atahualpa. Atahualpa was an Inca, a Peruvian Inca, said Rosa. True, true, said the poet Pere Girau. Then he was quiet until the moment came for hugs and farewells. Take care of your father, Anna Carrera said to Rosa. Take care of yourself and think of us every now and then, Padilla said to Amalfitano. The plural, like a flower flung in his face, dealt Amalfitano a soft blow. So low, he thought sadly. Good luck and bon voyage, said the poet Pere Girau. Jordi looked at Rosa, made a gesture of resignation, and couldn’t think what to say. Rosa turned to him and said let me give you a kiss, silly. Of course, said Jordi, and he bent down clumsily and they kissed on both cheeks. Jordi’s cheeks burned as if he had a fever, Rosa’s were warm and smelled like lavender. Anna kissed Rosa, too, and Amalfitano. Finally, they all hugged and kissed, even the poet Pere Girau and Anna Carrera, who weren’t going anywhere. When they were in line to board, Amalfitano raised his hand and waved a last time. Rosa didn’t turn around. Then