Toledo

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Toledo, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

ACT I:

At a table in the bus station café. A cup of coffee. Men chatter and gesture at the bar about football, women, weather, whatever. The sun is hot; flies buzz and peck at the windowpanes. A dull rumble of waiting engines. The driver drinks coffee at the bar. And somewhere from the darkest caverns of the universe, echoing through the hallways of infinity, the farthest corners of the world, to the speaker there in the cafe, "I'm a genie in a bottle, baby. Come on, rub me the right way, honey!"

I got on that bus a-rumblin' in the parking lot and took it to Toledo on a sunny Thursday afternoon. I had just finished my first week of classes. Natalie had studied in Toledo two years before and we would stay with her Argentine friends, though Natalie would come a day later due to schedules and timetables. By the time I arrived at the station in Toledo it was already 10:30, I had taught that day and packed and cleaned the apartment, and I was tired. So after the Argentinians picked me up and took me to their flat, I only talked for a moment and then went straight to sleep.

The argentinians are in the middle of a huge love drama with the Spaniards from the Poligono. I will not go into the details, but here is a list of the characters.

NADIA: heartbreaker, sister of Anahi
ANAHI: girlfriend of Sergio Villacañas Sanchez (Villa)
VILLA: a Spanish gentleman and friend
SYLVIA: mother of Nadia and Anahi
RAMONE: Sylvia's man
FELIPE: friend, heartbreaker
IRENE: sister of Felipe
PILI: mother of Felipe and Irene
NATALIE: friend to all since her time abroad
JEFF: along for the ride

In the morning I woke up and talked with Sylvia for a while about life, love, Argentina, and Spain. The girls and Villa were all at work or class, and I had an entire day to go out and explore the city by myself, so I hopped on the bus and went to the Casco, the old part of town.

Toledo has been around since the Bronze Age (3200-600 B.C.E.) and has been passed through the hands of many cultures. It was run by the Romans, then the Visigoths (I have no idea what they were but I imagine it was something like the Mystics at the end of The Dark Crystal). And during the Golden Age It was a city of Christians, Jews, and Muslims all living in peaceful coexistence. Around the city the architecture changes and interweaves through the various histories, all placed so intricately among the streets and plazas that when looked upon from above, it resembles a coral reef.

Since the Roman times, the city has been famous for fabricating swords. Today, down whichever street you may happen to wander, there will surely be a shop of spades and shining armor. And in those shops they have whatever type of sword one could possibly desire—happy daggers of Damascene steel, swords of Middle Earth; of the old world Spaniards and Samurai; of the Roman legions of Hannibal. And many other trinkets and Spanish garb.

When I go to a new place, for the sake of becoming acquainted with it and its people, I like to get lost. And sometimes you can get yourself more deeply lost and have more conversations with strangers if you give yourself an impossible, and absurd quest—one that can never be completed no matter how many alleyways and hidden passages you walk down. Ceramic paint, bubbles, a ball painted in the style of Spiderman. For Toledo I chose a long boquilla from the 1920's that a dignified lady might take with her to the opera. And like this I went from one old woman in a novelty shop, to a man in a bakery, to another on the corner; "do you know where I could find a boquilla?"

One person would give me directions like "go up there and a little further bajas pa arriba y a la vuelta al izquierda de la no sé qué no sé cuánto de la bla bla...." and I would just smile and head off in the direction to which they were gesticulating. I'd follow whatever that was until I was good and lost among steaming cafés and marzipan bakeries, then I'd ask another individual who would point me very confidently in completely the opposite direction.

All of this zigzagging across the map and talking to strangers about relics of the past led me eventually to an antique shop that was itself antique down to the door hinges. Antique shops are amazing little kaleidoscopes into the past, full of any and all things that once were special to people that once were. Well, this antique shop was in the middle of a city that began in the Bronze Age and which had its golden age in medieval times. Thus, the things on its shelves, hanging on the walls, from the ceiling, were truly antiques of another era in human history—another people, another culture, another forever ago. Suits of armor with still the velvet undercoat, clothing more vintage than America, a door knocker that looked with vivid detail like the hand of a goddess demurely holding an apple, candelabras of ancient rabbis, silver fish pendants, weapons of gruesome utility, magic mirrors, golden angels, and the most frighteningly beautiful pendant I've ever seen. It was there among other old broaches and lockets, a man holding on, but falling into infinity nevertheless. Like when that Aureliano somethingorother in 100 Years of Solitude reads his own destiny in a book of history and realizes on the final line that when he reads that final line, time will churn and everything written and everything to be written will be unwritten and unspelled into the depths of forever. At least that's what this necklace brought to my mind. And that price tag? It says €210.

I, I kept on walking down steep and narrow streets, through secret cobble stone passages, past the most beautifully decaying buildings with grapevines growing right out of them into the sunlight—through the city of a fairytale with strange magic in every brick and lovers in love at the center of stage. And by the end of the day I was completely exhausted with blisters on my feet so I sat down to have some eggs and wine before returning home to pass out on the couch until Natalie arrived.

The next day was filled with more adventuring through the Casco, this time with Natalie, Nadia and the rest of the Argentinians. And I made everyone take a walk through the cemetery with me, for I do love them so. This one apparently was used in the filming of several Almodóvar films and was the home of innumerable graveyard kittens. I have precisely 67 photos of cats peeking around graves, playing in the sunlight, or skittering away from me. I'll only make you look at one.

Or maybe just three.

may my heart always be open to little kittens who are the secrets of living

More narrow stairs and winding streets. We had fresh tea of cardamom and rose beneath the elms in the afternoon. Nadia took us up to a small lookout above the city from where we could see the old chains still hanging from the church used to publicly torture the witches and whores and heretics. And somewhere far down in the courtyard of the church, two vagabonds sang All of Me by Billie Holiday.

Look close. The chains are there.

And speaking of torture, there was a museum filled with the most gruesome devices and very professionally produced signs with very graphic descriptions. It was disgusting to think of how horrible we humans could have been to each other. But are there not still people like that? And later we went to a museum of the Knights Templar and I was not nearly as enthralled with its history.

That night, it must have been a Saturday, we made great plans to botellón and dance all night. Botellón is as much a part of Spanish culture as tapas or flamenco. It is when, on the weekends, all the young folk go to a certain park or abandoned parking lot and drink booze. In the supermarket are sold botellón kits which consist of a bottle of Brugal rum, Coca-Cola, and plastic cups, all wrapped nicely together. In this way, the people can have their fun, save loads of money by mixing their own drinks, and talk to each other without having to shout over loud techno-pop. We bought three large bottles of varied alcohol and one small carton of orange juice, dumped it all into a 5-galon jug, and called our creation Agua de Valencia. We stored that monstrosity in the car while we wandered to a döner kebab in search of food. And we ate our great plates of kebab, drank Syrian tea, and smoked hookah on a patio table set out on the street—a street so small that we had to scoot our chairs in every time someone passed. Smoke, steam, and clinking plates, the chatter of happy Spanish nights.

We stood around at the botellón, bobbing and dancing to fight off the cold. Someone threw a wig at us so we passed it around and took silly pictures. Then at 2:30 a.m. as the crowds of people were beginning to wane we hiked up to a very old church that had been recently turned into an art museum/café/music venue/dance club. A dream come true. We danced until 5:30 in the morning, when we could dance no more, and called it an early night. Here, it's only considered a late night if you stay up for breakfast the next day. But as for us, we tip-toed to bed and in the early afternoon awoke to have some excellent coffee in Il Café di Roma.

We said goodbye to the Argentinians after we'd finished our coffees, and went to the house of The Spaniards of the Poligono, planning things carefully to avoid any possible conflict between the two families. There on the fourth floor in a tiny, warm kitchen, Pili with her apron and floury hands welcomed us with widespread, greeting arms. On the stove there were pots boiling and oil sizzling, and Pili rolling croquetas de bacalao and then tossing them into the hot oil. Fresh fruits and jars of spices, dried pomegranates and almonds, homemade olive oil. Oh, and the wonderful smell of it all! We ate pumpkin soup, fresh salad, roasted chicken in broth, the croquetas, and flan with coffee for dessert. It was a fine meal and afterward we were full and giddly.

Felipe and Irene took us to the valley after lunch to see the city from afar. I dug my fingernail into the ceiling of his car to write my name because everyone, even the Natalie of two years prior, had done the same. And up on the lookout across the valley, the sun was golden and nostalgic. And the gulls that flew under the old arched bridge, with the old city as a backdrop—that coral reef of doors and windows—looked as if they'd all been painted just for us. That night we hitched a ride back to La Solana with one of Natalie's professors, who was conveniently visiting his girlfriend that weekend. And in the plaza waiting for us was a newly arrived Holt, the other American who'd had problems with his visa.

The very next day, we four Americans in La Solana (Dee, Natalie, Holt and myself) got on a bus to Ciudad Real to apply for our identity cards, where while waiting in a long line we met our Austrian friend Andreas.

ACT II:

Two months later, Natalie and I returned to Toledo with Holt and Andreas. We had another wonderful dinner at Pili's with Turkish coffee and good feelings. We stayed again at the house of the Argentinians, all cramming ourselves into any possible sleeping space we could find. We dolled ourselves up and went out to another botellón, and danced this time until the sun came up. And in the early morning fog we trudged through the streets to a churrería to have churros and chocolate—the most perfect Spanish food that says to you after a crazy night of dancing; now the storm is over, the winds have changed, and everything is going to be all right.

[close curtain]