A world of pitchers
It's 11:15 p.m. on a balmy late-July night in Valencia, Spain, and I should be out at dinner. As I stroll down the Gran Via de la Turia in a white Nautica button-down, Polo Jeans and Sperry topsiders, passersby might think I am meeting friends for drinks or catching a movie before the discotheques open at around 2 a.m.




