The staff, a ragtag bunch of closet fascists, at the Alliance of the Blessed Flower (a sanatorium) took us out for a field trip, and whereas most people, institutionalized or not, would have contemplatively admired the méli-mélo of ankle-high flowers at the arboretum, we crushed them mercilessly with our mud splattered boots. The Spaniards in charge of the flower squelchers were armed to the teeth–half of them expecting the blue-eyed among us to make a break for it and the other half just wanting to dress in the finery of the Guardia Real. Naturally when a doddering fool chained himself to a fire hydrant, there was consternation. But some of the inmates were acting strangely too.