Carolina and I were sitting in the front seat of a car, she by the passenger window and I in the middle; Peggy was riding in the back seat. I picked up a small paperback book with an orange color and opened it. Written in another language, the book contained a play which someone had written about me; I was feeling quite proud about the play's having been written. I was planning to read it to Carolina, and I hoped Peggy would be able to hear it, too. Before I began reading, I told Carolina what I was going to do; I reminded her we had done a similar thing once before when I had begun reading Cervantes' Don Quixote to her. I mispronounced "Quixote" the first time I said it, then corrected myself.
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