Toledo

The stone wall to my left radiated heat onto my open hand despite probably receiving just a few minutes of that withering Spanish sunshine each day through the narrow opening to the sky above this tiny Toledo lane. Who knows how many hundreds of years, thousands of lives, countless victories and heartbreaks, this wall has seen?

I brushed my palm along the warm wall as I walked on, slowly, down the narrowing alley. At mid-afternoon the heat was at its most punishing and the city was silent. I must have been the only one deranged enough to venture out in 115 degrees while everyone else napped or lounged poolside as we wrongly imagined everyone still does in this remarkable culture. The linen of my shirt stuck to my sweaty skin. A lonely cat peered at me over a windowsill, then retreated to the cool and dark recesses of an interior courtyard. I walked on.

Not going out that afternoon wasn't an option. Tomorrow a seemingly interminable succession of taxis, trains, and planes would return us, with ruthless speed and efficiency, to our own apartment a continent away. For now, alone and in silence, I walked on.

Then suddenly, in silent gratitude, I began to cry. I could touch both walls along the alley now. I stretched wide, letting the tears roll, claiming my place for a moment in this big wide world. Finally, for a few minutes, I was at its very heart.