We spent yesterday in Madrid. Not Spain, the one in New Mexico. It’s eighteen miles southeast of Santa Fe and half a century away. The little mining boom town that was virtually a ghost town for most of the Twentieth Century after the ore veins played out has been resurrected by hippies, some from the original batch, now retired but still seeking something outside mainstream culture, and some from the new generation who seem even more lost than the originals. They are joined by some yuppies who have opened galleries and cafes. The place is now a Mecca for tourists, including everything from retirees in their rolling motorhomes to bikers.
The closest thing to a bookstore in Madrid is a set of shelves on the porch of the general store. You can donate books if you like. You can take one if you leave one, or you can buy one for a dollar. I made a mental note to start picking up used copies of the Pot Thief books to leave in places like this.