Partagas and Lagavulin Distiller's Edition PX

The world is my humidor,  (echoing Frankie goes to Hollywood laughter). The world is my humidor, my humidor filled with seething tropicals, built of sherry casks and staffed by Montse and her crack team of Catalan adulteresses.  Privacy is an illusion anymore but cigar smoke repels and Islay offends and the hour's untenable and the seating crude.  So we are alone, you and I, except for the whiskey, old enough to smoke with us and talk as though he still had his balls.  But even the fiercest malts mellow and the distiller's art matches this fire with that smoke, this rough burn with that emollient oak.  But I'm talking too much. Talk to me about Spain, old friend.  I miss Spain.