Now these are words to light up the imagination. Who is Gonzalo Garcia and who or what went into his arms?
He sounds like the hero of Mexican romantic novel. Picture him in his high-waisted jacket, tight fitting trousers and wide sombrero pulling his horse up below the window of the object of his affections; the beautiful Rosita, her dark hair falling in ringlets over a heaving bosom, denied to him by a strict and disapproving curmudgeon of a father. She climbs down a rope of knotted bed sheets and into his arms, riding off on the back of his horse, the outline of a tall cactus plant silhouetted against the full desert moon.
Nope, that’s not our Gonzalo. I know but I’m not going to tell you…