Wandering I

My first attempt to get a train reservation to Valencia earlier today failed because I had forgotten to take my Eurorail Pass and passport with me.  Unlike in France, in Spain the railway system requires reservations, and if you have a Eurorail Pass, you have to show it.  So I returned to the hostel emptyhanded and tried to figure out my travel plans for the next few weeks.  I have decided to go to Marrakesh to visit Faical (the guy I met on the train to Basel from Paris; see “Next Stop: Basel,” July 23, 2007) and his family, but I still need to buy the tickets.  I couldn’t find any reasonable fares online.

As I was checking different travel sites, a girl staying at the hostel came by and sat down in the common room.  She struck up a conversation with me and in between checking flight details, I chatted with her.  Her name’s Shauntel.  She’s from Holland, and she’s in Malaga studying Spanish.  Back home, she works at a casino.  I can tell that she’s a bit older, probably in her mid-30s.  I finally settled on a plan:  I would take the train to Valencia, stay there a few days, and then take a train to Madrid.  From Madrid I would fly to Marrakesh on the 19th.  I didn’t buy my ticket yet because I want to first receive confirmation from Faical that he’s in Marrakesh and that his invitation still stands.  I dropped him a quick email.  I told Shauntel that I had to head back to the train station, and she suggested we grab dinner later.  We agreed to meet in the common room around 9:00pm.

This time I took a bus to the station, and I made sure I had both my passport and my Eurorail Pass with me.  At the station I spoke to a different woman than before.  She suggested I could take an early morning train tomorrow to Madrid and transfer to a Valencia-bound train there.  This sounded better to me than staying two more days in Malaga and taking a night train to Valencia as the first woman had suggested.  I also made a reservation from Valencia back to Madrid on the 18th.

Shauntel and I bought some sandwiches at a small shawarma place and then walked around until we found a nice restaurant for dessert.  I told her about my disappointment at not finding chocolate cake on my birthday, and she offered to join me for some tonight.  I made sure the restaurant had the goods before we sat down, and then, finally, two days after my birthday, I had my chocolate cake.

Sweat flowed freely down my bare torso.  I felt a bit strange being the only person not wearing a shirt, but the desire to stay cool won over the embarrassment.  The sun hung low in the west, blazing right in my face.  This is what they meant by sol seats.  Directly in the sun.  I had seen an advertisement for the bullfight early this morning on my way to breakfast, and I had trekked to the Plaza de los Toros to purchase a ticket.  The cheapest they had was €18 for sol.  It was more expensive than I had expected it to be, but I was intent on seeing a bullfight, at least once in my life.  I shielded my eyes to check out the arena below.  The ring is fairly small.  The ground is a yellowish-brown dirt.  There are two white concentric circles about twenty feet from the perimeter.  I got a whiff of manure.  It reminded me suddenly of the sheep auctions I frequented as a boy.

It was unbearably hot.  People handed out paper fans, which advertised various businesses and services.  Several pipes ran around the plaza about five feet above our heads, and every few minutes sprays of water shot out from them.  The mist from these sprays hung in the still air, making it humid and the heat even harder to bear.  I wondered how much of the stuff dripping off me was sweat and how much was water.  I also wondered how useful this cooling system was until the woman sitting in front of me started fanning herself.  The air hit my soaking chest and instantly cooled me.

Suddenly the woman sitting on my right pushed my knee toward me and scolded me in Spanish.  Unknowingly, I had let my knee lean on hers.  I sat up straighter and pulled my knee closer.  Over the course of the bullfight, it would fall on her again and again, and by the end she would be thoroughly pissed off at me.  I covered my head and face with my towel and waited for the fight to start.

The two musicians I could see suddenly launched into a marching song of sorts, and a procession of men on horses, bullfighters, and mules emerged from beneath the sol seats.  They marched across to the other side of the arena, accompanied by the band and the ruckus of the cheering crowd.  Then the men on horses and the mules turned around and left the way they had come.  The bullfighters — I counted five at least — stayed in the arena and stood practicing with their pink cloths.  They were dressed very flamboyantly.  Most wore sparkling white pants with short matching jackets.  A horn suddenly sounded, and some men who had been tamping down the dirt in the arena hurried out.  The bullfighters edged behind wooden barricades at three exits around the perimeter of the arena.

There was a loud knock as of a mallet hitting a wooden door, and suddenly a big, black bull with jutting horns came charging into the arena.  It looked like a healthy animal, full of spirit and energy.  A bullfighter flicked his cloth from his barricade, and the beast charged towards it.  The bullfighter disappeared behind the barricade.  Then the bullfighter at the next barricade on the left flicked his cloth, and the bull raced that way.  Then the third did the same, drawing the bull in a semi-circle around the arena.  This went on for some time, back and forth.  I was surprised.  I hadn’t expected there to be more than one bullfighter.  Yet it was a team effort.  They all worked together to draw the bull this way and that way.  Then a man on a horse emerged, again from beneath my section.  While the bullfighters kept the bull occupied, the horseman rode towards the bull from the right until he was about fifteen feet away.  I noticed that the horse was blindfolded and its body covered with what looked like a heavy cloth.  The horseman wore what resembled large, metal clogs on his feet and full armor over his body, including a helmet.  He carried a lance in one hand.  The bull suddenly spied the horse and charged.  Just as it plowed into the startled horse, the horseman drove the tip of his lance into the bull’s neck.  The bull continued to push the horse and even managed to lift up its haunches.  The bullfighters, however, finally managed to distract it and lead it away.  The horseman prepared another lance and drove the tip into the bull’s neck once more.  The poor horse escaped a pummeling this time.  The man and horse then retraced their steps and disappeared under my section again.

A shiny, dark band of blood now coated the bull’s neck, and it seemed to have lost much of its energy.  One of the bullfighters then approached it with two short spears with colorful hilts.  He provoked the bull to charge him, and at the last second he dodged to the side and stuck the two spears into the bull’s neck.  The bull gave chase, but the other bullfighters distracted it.  Soon a bullfighter approached the bull with another pair of short spears.  He, too, provoked the bull and proceeded to thrust the additional two spears into the bull’s neck.

For the next fifteen or so minutes one bullfighter demonstrated his ability to maneuver and outmaneuver the bull.  He drew the bull to him by flicking his cloth, and when the bull seemed close to goring him, he stepped to the side and waved his cloth around, leading the bull right past him.  He did this several times and even got on his knees at one point to enhance the risk and the perceived danger.  I knew by now, however, that the bull really wasn’t charging the man.  Frankly, the bull didn’t appear to be an enraged, vicious animal that was intent on killing.  If the bullfighter stood still — even right in front of the bull’s face – it did nothing.  The bull was drawn instead to movement, and as long as the bullfighter shrouded his movements with that of the bright pink cloth, he was easily able to deflect the bull’s attention away from him.

When the bull became too tired to respond much, the bullfighter unsheathed a long, thin sword, and while the other bullfighters helped draw the bull away from him, he plunged the blade into the animal’s neck.  Two bullfighters then cornered the agitated bull by waving their cloths on either side of it.  The main bullfighter removed another sword, stepped closer to the bull, and knocked it once again on the neck.  The effect was instantaneous.  The bull crumpled to the ground, dead.  The crowed cheered enthusiastically while an assistant bullfighter retrieved the main bullfighter’s cap from the center of the arena where he had tossed it at the start of the fight.  The mules emerged from beneath my section.  A man chained the dead bull to them, and they dragged it out of the arena.

This whole drama was repeated another four times with another four bulls with little variation.  There were some close calls.  A bullfighter once slipped and fell right in front of the bull.  He immediately threw his sword and cloth to the side and sat completely still, unharmed.  Another bullfighter fell another time, but his teammates quickly drew the bull’s attention to themselves.  The horses definitely felt the brunt of the bulls’ attacks, but none of them was badly injured either.  It wasn’t until the last bull, the sixth one, that I experienced the true thrill of a bullfight.

By then the stone bleachers had gotten quite uncomfortable, and the woman sitting next to me kept giving me long, mean stares.  The sun, thankfully, had set, and it had gotten much cooler.  The lights of the arena were lit, and they cast a bright white glow over the grounds.

The mallet pounded against wood, and the last bull charged into the arena.  Five of its brethren had already bitten the dust, and each had emerged with a similar energy.  However, this one surpassed all of them.  It galloped around the arena, driving its horns into the wooden barricades and kicking up dust all over.  At one point it ran into the middle of the arena with its head held low, ready to buck anything or anyone unlucky enough to be in its way.  Maybe it didn’t realize how long its own horns were because suddenly they dug into the ground, and carried by its momentum, the poor bull somersaulted through the air and landed on its side.  A surprised gasp escaped from the spectators.  The bull quickly got to its feet, shook its head, and charged in the opposite direction.  Again its head was too low, and its horns drove into the ground once more.  The bull faltered but regained its footing this time.  I think it learned its lesson after that because it didn’t have the same problem again.

The bullfighter who emerged to face this bull, I could tell right away, was different.  For one, he did most of the work himself.  Whereas the others had let their assistants drive the two sets of short spears into their bulls’ necks, this bullfighter did both sets on his own.  After the first set he had to run and jump over the side of the arena because the bull went right after him.  When he began maneuvering the bull, his tactics were much riskier.  He stayed close to the bull and even outran it at one point, instead of just letting the assistants distract it.  He kept turning the assistants away when they moved in to help.  He had several close calls, but he managed to avoid serious injury each time.  One of the bull’s horns even grazed his arm in one particularly close encounter, which lent greater credibility to his performance.

After he finished the bull, the audience gave him a standing ovation and shouted ¡otra! - another!  He walked around the arena bowing to his fans who showered him with all kinds of gifts, from flowers, hats, and shawls to paper fans and purses.  His fellow bullfighters threw most of these dubious gifts back into the audience.

Happy Birthday to me!  Even as I get older I look forward to my birthday.  As a kid I celebrated with a party and cake, now I simply enjoy spending time with friends, reflecting on all the good things in my life, and, of course, eating cake.  Unfortunately, the Italians left yesterday for Malaga after our visit to Al-Hambra.  They asked me to go with them, but as much as I wanted to, I still had to see the part of Granada known as Al-Bacyn.  Who knew when I would be in Granada again?  Now I found myself sitting at a cafe alone with my backpack sitting in the seat across from me.  I moved out of the hostel, and I planned to shift to another hostel run by the same man.  As I waited for the waiter to take my order for brunch, I gazed thoughtfully at my backpack.  In a sudden burst of cinematic inspiration, I decided that like Tom Hank’s character in Castaway, I would name my sole companion, my backpack (inanimate though it was), “Osprey.”  I chuckled to myself as I thought about what I would say to Osprey.

At the other hostel I found that they had no beds for me.  I explained to the woman there that her husband had told me that I could get a room there.  No way, she declared.  They had the place booked for weeks.  I left Osprey there and looked for another hostel.  No luck.  Finally I decided to just head to Malaga.  I had seen a bit of Al-Bacyn last night anyway, and I was ready to move on.  I trekked to the train station where the agent suggested that I instead take a bus, which departed every hour.  I found an internet cafe and booked a room at a hostel for three nights in the historic center of Malaga.  Then after making a pit stop at a Citibank to withdraw some cash, I retrieved Osprey from the hostel, and headed to the bus station.

After checking in at my hostel in Malaga I showered and changed.  Then I headed out to have a nice dinner in celebration of my birthday.  People were out and about celebrating Feria, the annual week-long festival.  They sang, played music, danced, and drank.  They appeared to be having a great time.  Though it was already past midnight, there were several seemingly good restaurants still open.  I gathered that they had later hours these days to accommodate the Feria patrons.  I picked my way through the partygoers searching for the ideal restaurant.  I perused the menus posted at the entrances.  Nothing really sparked my interest.  I wandered through the winding allies.  The sounds of people talking, laughing, and singing followed me.  I let my nose guide me.  There was a whiff of something good.  I stuck my finger in the air to determine which way the wind was blowing; where was that smell coming from?  It turned out to be something not so appetizing.  Again I felt that sense of anticipation I feel when I arrive at a new place.  There’s something about the smell of the place, the touch of the air against my skin, that excites my sense of discovery.  What will I find here?  Who will I meet?  Where will I end up?  I kept walking.  It had become a game like musical chairs, I thought in amusement, except in reverse.  The more I walked, the louder my stomach growled.  If something appeared or smelled appetizing, it gave an extra growl.  Finally, when the growling became unbearable, I took a seat at a restaurant that advertised local cuisine.  It specialized in an oxtail dish.  I ordered their special and a plate of fried peppers.  Unfortunately, the food was less than satisfactory.

After dinner, I set off to find chocolate cake.  It’s not a birthday without cake — chocolate cake that is.  I found a restaurant that offered it on the menu, but after I made myself comfortable at a table, I was informed by the waiter that they did not have any left.  Admittedly disappointed, I meandered around a while longer looking for another place that had chocolate cake.  I had no luck, and I finally gave up.  I returned to the hostel and went to sleep.

The Al-Hambra Palace in Granada is a feast for the senses.  We hear the water fountains and tree frogs.  We smell the flowers in the luxurious gardens.  We taste the cold water from the drinking fountains.  We touch the wooden panels inscribed with Arabic calligraphy as the cool breezes caress our faces and bare arms.  We see all around us an intense beauty, a kaleidoscope of colors — pinks, greens, reds, yellows — intricate etchings, graceful calligraphy, sparkling white marble floors, and soft-orange walls.

In all that I see, all this beauty, what strikes me most is the evidence of human effort.  With their intellect and labor, my fellow men and women tamed a barren land and created a veritable jannah (heaven) on earth.

The girls and I awoke early to head to Al-Hambra.  If we had any chance of getting into the hugely popular, Moorish palace, we needed to get there early and get in line.  However, the four Italians - Luca, Maria-Grazia, Agnese, and Marisa - we met at the hostel yesterday were still asleep.  We had all agreed to go together.  It was already 10:00am, I think, by the time we headed out.

It was a pleasant walk through town.  It was a cool morning and few people were out, so it was still quiet and peaceful.  We had been walking for a good twenty minutes when Agnese discovered that she didn’t have her cell phone with her.  The Italians decided amongst themselves that Angese would return to the hostel to retrieve her phone while the rest of us proceeded to Al-Hambra.

When we arrived - after toiling up the long, gradually inclining hill - we were shocked.  There was already a huge line to buy tickets.  We took our place in the queue.  The sun climbed high into the sky, and it got very hot.  Still we waited.  An announcer got on a PA every few minutes and updated us on the number of tickets still available.  They were selling fast.  At this rate, we would never make it in.  I had heard stories of people who had waited in line at the Al-Hambra all morning only to be turned back.  Luis’ words to me in Madrid rang in my head: “It would be tragic to visit Granada and not see the Al-Hambra palace,” he had said.  It really did seem tragic.

Agnese finally joined us.  She had found her phone.  She spoke to Luca and went off again.  The line barely moved.  Suddenly there was Agnese again, practically jumping up and down in excitement.

Agnese had tickets.  When she saw the miserable situation we were in, she did what she had to do: She cut in line.  There was a separate line for people to buy tickets from automated machines.  She marched right up to the front and slipped in ahead of everyone else.  She bought the four tickets she was allowed to buy, came out, took another credit card from of one of the girls, and went back to buy four more.  Despite the ethics of the matter, I admit I couldn’t be happier.  Had it not been for Agnese, I would not have been able to see the unforgettable Al-Hambra.

I jotted down a quick note for Steph and Kathryn this morning and left it taped on their door.  I would miss hanging out with them. We had already exchanged contact information though, so we would be in touch.

The drive to Granada was a lot of fun.  The girls sang along to old Italian songs, and when they threw on American ones I joined them.  The girls are very in tune to the American culture and asked me a lot of questions about America and New York in particular.  They love Sex and the City and asked me if New York City really is like how it’s portrayed in the show.  I assured them that the show was not truly representative of New York, which is much more diverse than the frolics of a few women would lead one to believe.  Now that I think about it, Francesco! in Barcelona had mentioned the show as well.  It’s remarkable to me how global American culture is.  Everywhere I’ve been, I’ve heard American music, seen posters for American movies, and caught clips of American shows in various languages.  It’s a good time to be an American in Europe, especially an American from New York.

After moving my luggage to yet another room this morning, I took off into the city to see the Temple Debod.  It’s an ancient Egyptian temple that the government of Egypt gifted to Spain in recognition of her help restoring some temples in Egypt.  It’s not much to look at, especially since I’ve been to Egypt and seen most of the more important temples, and I didn’t hang around for long.  I had lunch and returned to the hostel to nap for a bit.

When I awoke, there were three Italian girls in the four-person room.  Convinced of the existence of a God who loves me tremendously (empirical evidence leaving little room for doubt), I went off to shower and to get ready to meet up with Luis, the father of a friend from Pepsi.  Meanwhile, the girls went to bed.  I wouldn’t see them again until late at night.

I met Luis in Plaza Mayor.  We walked around the neighborhood for a while, and then we had tapas at a bar. I orderd a salmon and a cheese boccadillo.  The salmon looked a bit spoiled, and it didn’t taste so great.  The cheese boccadillo, however, was quite good.  When I told Luis I didn’t drink alcohol, he remarked, only half-jokingly I think, “Never trust a man who doesn’t drink.”  I’ve heard the statement before, and I find it slightly annoying, probably because I don’t fully understand why.  To abstain from alcohol is a personal choice I’ve made, and I don’t see why it makes me less trustworthy, especially since I make it a point to be a man of my word.  Moreover, I don’t impose my views on anyone else, and when my friends go drinking, I am more than happy to serve as DD or DT — Designated Driver or Designated Thinker — as the situation demands.

Back at the hostel I ran into Leona, an Irish girl I had met earlier.  She invited me to go out with her and her friends.  Kathryn and Steph joined us as well, and soon we had amassed a group of ten.  Most of them were younger than me, either in college or recent graduates.  The night turned out quite lame, unfortunately.  Most everyone was drunk, and drinking was all that they seemed interested in doing.  Luckily, Steph and Kathryn were around, and I stayed with them most of the time.  We ended up at an Irish Pub where the group planted itself in a corner, smoking, making out, or both.  Despite my disgust, I stayed.  It took a lot of effort.  I danced for a bit, and Steph and Kathryn joined me.  They, too, felt too old for this crew.  Finally I could stand it no longer.  I said bye to Kathryn and slipped away.

It felt like a wasted night.  I needed to figure out when and how I was going to get to Sevilla.  Also, where would I stay?  I hadn’t resolved any of these questions and had gone out instead.  I trudged back to the hostel and sat in the lobby for a bit.  I resigned myself to staying in Madrid another day.  I headed up to bed.  The lights were on in the room.  Good.

The three Italian girls, Barbara, Christina, and Laura, are from Milan and are traveling through Spain on holiday.  We talked for quite some time.  They asked me what “I gonna way” meant.  It’s a phrase that many of their Italian friends use frequently.  It supposedly derives from some American cultural reference.  I told them that it had no meaning, but it sounded like “I cannot wait.”  Maybe that’s where it came from?  They nodded in appreciation.

By and by they mentioned that they should go to sleep because they had to drive tomorrow.  They were leaving early in the morning.  My ears perked up.  Where were they driving to? I asked.  Granada.  Almost without thinking I asked them if I could go with them.  Sure, they said.  They were only three so they had room for one more.  It wasn’t a bad idea.  I wouldn’t have to worry about reserving a seat on the train, and it would  be a nice change to drive through Spain.  I was in.

This morning I had to shift to another room yet again.  I’ve been trying to extend my reservation for more than one night, but the desk attendants aren’t very helpful.  They insist that I have to book online if I want more than one night at a time.  So I continue to move from room to room.

As I was heading into my new room, a guy followed me to the door.  He thought he was in the same room but turned out he was actually staying next door.  His name’s Frasier, and he’s from Scotland.  I had thought Daki the Irishman’s accent was hard to comprehend, but I am completely lost with the Scottish one.  I stared at Frasier blankly for several minutes when he introduced himself.  I had not a clue what I had just heard.  He had to repeat himself more slowly and enunciate each word before I managed to piece together his name and origin.  I asked Frasier whether they were taught this type of English in school.  I imagined all sorts of strange spellings, grammar, and maybe even a different alphabet being taught to Scottish children.  But no, they are taught “proper” English in school.  The vernacular remains unchanged, however, and for Frasier to speak “proper” English is like speaking another language.  Lucky for him, Steph has no problem understanding him.  She spent two years teaching in Edinborough, so she has a good grasp of the dialect.

Later tonight Steph, Kathryn, and I attended a flamenco performance at the nearby Casa Patas.  Two guitarists, two singers, and a percussionist (beating with his hands a box that also served as his seat) comprised the music ensemble.  First a man and a woman danced together, and then each performed a solo.

The woman’s dance is intense, sensual, and controlled.  Not once does a smile crack her face or break her focus.  Her ebony hair is slicked back, tied in a bun. She wears a long, black skirt with full sleeves and covered neck.  Like petals of a flower, pink frills trace the hem of the skirt.  Her movements are graceful.  She twirls, every movement sharp and purposeful.  Face glistening.  Body swaying.  Hips curving.  Skirt swirling.  Eyes intent, head held high, proud, defiant.  Arms swinging, fingers snapping, body twisting.  Flashing eyes sear us with their suddenly haughty glare.  The wailing voices of the singers, accompanied by the twangs of the guitars, the drumming on the box, and the rhythmic clapping, all in synchrony, propel her on.  The singer’s voice strains higher, a sound of profound yearning and loss, the effort of which contorts his face weirdly, almost comically.  Maria, the dancer, has slowed down, her body now weaving sensuously, her hands following, curving like two serpents at her sides.  Suddenly she launches into a fury of movement.  Her body twists and turns wildly.  Her hands clap above her head and slap against her body, and her feet pound the floor, the staccato of her footsteps growing in intensity.  The music and clapping swells to keep up.  The tapping of her feet reaches an astonishing speed and intensity.  She lifts up the hem of her dress to reveal powerful, smooth calves, pumping tirelessly.  She flings her body around, pounds her feet one last time, and brings her right fist up. Instantly, all falls silent, and the lights turn on.  Then thunderous applause and yells of “Ole!” fill the small room.

Afterwards, Kathryn, Steph, and I found a place to eat churros.  Usually eaten for breakfast, churros consist of a cup of bittersweet, hot chocolate and a plate of fried batter sticks.  You dip the sticks into the chocolate and then eat them.  Quite delicious and filling.

Spaniards, I’ve noticed, love ham.  You can see maroon-colored, smoked legs hanging almost everywhere, from restaurants and street carts to boutique stores at airports and train stations.  As someone who doesn’t eat pork, I cannot share the Spaniards’ passion for the meat.  Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to eat meat that’s been hanging out in the open, exposed to all kinds of impurities I imagine.  I’ve been told, however, that the meat stays preserved because it’s been smoked.  Before you eat it, you simply remove the top layer and bite in.

One evening a waiter at a tapas bar tried to convince me that ham in Spain comes from lamb and not pig.  Ham, after all, simply refers to the meat of the hamstring, and it could very well belong to any animal.  I wasn’t convinced, but he insisted.  He pointed to one of the ubiquitous legs of meat hanging inside the restaurant and claimed that it was definitely lamb.  He offered to prove it to me, and I followed him inside to take a look at the paper wrapped around the leg.  There, in all its swinish glory, was a sketch of a pig.  Normally, this would be evidence enough, but the waiter still did not believe and asked another person working at the restaurant who finally set him straight.  I wonder if he had been eating the ham all this time thinking that it was lamb?

Steph, Kathryn, and I ended up in the same room at Mad Hostel in Madrid.  There was another girl named Mary in our room.  The four of us decided to take a day trip to Toledo, and we booked an early afternoon train to the old town.

We had to wait about an hour, so we walked to the nearby Reina Sofia Museum.  Picasso’s Guernica is located here, and I was eager to see it in person.  It proved to be a provocative painting.  The human forms convey intense pain, all the more poignant due to their deformed, inhuman shapes.  However, it is the bull with its gaping mouth and eyes placed incongruously on its expansive face, that seemed to somehow elicit the most intense feelings of torture and misery.  War: What is it good for?

At the train station in Toledo, the girls voted to walk into town instead of taking a bus.  I was outnumbered.  We walked down the road and along the river.  The small town, sitting atop a hill, is beautiful to behold.  We had been walking for about ten minutes when we passed by some bushes.  I was last in line, and I had my nose buried in my guidebook, trying to look up some information about the town.  Suddenly there was a wasp buzzing near my book.  I absentmindedly brushed it away, but it wouldn’t leave.  I swiped at it with the book.  The next instant there was a searing pain in my right hand.  I flung my arms out, and the book went flying.  I jumped off the sidewalk onto the road yowling in pain.  I grabbed my right hand with my left.  It was as if a hot knife were digging into my hand.  I peered at where the wasp had stung me.  A small red dot marked the spot.  The wasp, at least, was gone.  The girls turned around to see what was wrong.  In between gasps, I managed to let them know what had happened.  Kathryn gave me a disinfectant cloth to clean the wound, but within a few minutes, my hand swelled up.  Sharp pains jolted through my hand as the poison spread.  We arrived in town, and I picked up some ice cubes from a restaurant to place against the sting.  It soothed the pain somewhat.

We meandered around town for a bit.  Toledo is a quaint town with narrow cobblestone streets and numerous buildings from Moorish times.  We walked up some of its deserted back allies in an attempt to climb high enough for a good view of the city below.  Finally, we just entered the cathedral and climbed up the tower.  It provided a spectacular view.

We left Toledo earlier than we had planned to and so ended up taking a bus. On the bus we sat in random seats and not the ones assigned to us.  I sat with Mary.  As the bus began to move, however, Steph and Kathryn showed up at our seats.  They had been kicked out of their seats by the people whose assigned seats they had been sitting in.  This was unfortunate because few people were actually sitting in assigned seats.  Steph and Kathryn stood in the moving bus not sure what to do.  Finally I got up and asked the man sitting in one of the girls’ seats whether he was supposed to be sitting there.  He wasn’t, but he didn’t appear to care.  Next I eyed the children.  Did the parents buy separate tickets for them?  They insisted that they did.  How could there not be any seats left?  This wasn’t going anywhere.  I marched to the front of the bus to get the driver’s attention.  He saw me coming and seemed to have become aware of the commotion.  He stopped the bus and walked back to help us sort the matter out.  A man gave up his seat, and Kathryn took it.  I gave my seat to Steph.  The driver looked around desperately to find me a seat.  I graciously offered to drive, which he thought was amusing.  He finally suggested that Steph, Mary, and I share the same two seats.  It didn’t seem like such a good idea to me, but at this point we didn’t have much of a choice.  Then a woman sitting with her child offered to move him aside and let me share the seat with him.  I settled in, and we got back on the road.  The boy immediately fell asleep on my shoulder.