Since we didn't know what Phil looked like, we held up signs after we got off the plane, Jef's said "Andale" and mine said, "Stomp!" (This was a reference to a silly volley of e- mails Jef and Phil had once in which they were Flamenco dancing in cyber-space.) Phil, in turn, held up a print-out of one of Jef's works as well as the ASCII portraits I'd sent him. (I'd jokingly told him that @:+)->--< was me in my beret and that #:+)->---< was Jef.) Once we confirmed each other's identities, the three of us drove to Murcia, passing citrus groves and palm trees, short and tall. Although dry and Dali-esque, the landscape was not as flat as I expected; olive trees reached like gnarled hands out of the low-rising hills, while sprinklings of cacti were tucked in their creases.