This is the final post in a series about Italy, Malta, and Spain that starts here.
Our last night in Toledo. We had dinner at a restaurant called Dehera d’ Majazul. I don’t know what that name means but it sounded nice. The food was unremarkable, but the waitress was memorable. She looked to be about 18, she was very pregnant, and she had eyes tattooed on the insides of her forearms. She spoke no English and I found myself looking at the eyes on her arms instead of the ones on her face as I tried to make conversation.
Not for the first time, I had assumed a person with tattoos would be rough and hard. But she was sweet. This was her first baby, she was very excited, and no, it wasn’t hard working on her feet. Well, she was a baby herself, like I was when I had Vince. You can do anything when you’re 18.
The Toledo train station may have been the most ornate building we saw in all of Spain. Here are a few photos to give you an idea. I’ve got a a new camera in the works, so you won’t have to wince at my shitty photos much longer.
They screened our bags before letting us onto the platform, but the bored “guard” couldn’t have been bothered to look at the monitor. Really, what is the point of making passengers line up and hoist our bags onto and off of a conveyor belt? I guess it was all for show. Some politician in Madrid can say, “We take security very seriously.”
You would think the Spaniards, of all people, really would take it seriously, since Madrid trains were the target of terrorist bombings in 2005 that killed nearly 200 people and injured 2,000.
The arrived in Madrid in half an hour, and it was like going through a portal to another world. We left behind dark, cramped, steeped-in-medieval-history Toledo for the sprawling, brightly colored high-rise apartment buildings that run for miles before you enter Madrid itself.
Naturally, the taxi stand was on the opposite side of the station, across a treacherously busy thoroughfare, and there were no signs for it. We asked strangers until we found it. The driver didn’t know how to find the hotel. It wasn’t in his GPS and he seemed to have lost his map-reading skills—if he had ever had them—since like our waitress he also appeared to be 18. He asked if we knew how to get there and handed us the map. Lynn and I rolled our eyes at each other.
Eventually, after much muttering of mierda! and puta madre! we arrived at our hotel, a functional place near the airport. It was only 5:00, so the bar and restaurant weren’t open.
We decided to go for a wander around the neighborhood, because unlike most airport hotels which are in deserted warehouse areas, this one was set in a regular neighborhood.
I quickly spotted a pair of blue velvet pants in a shop window. “I’ve got to have those!” I exclaimed, pulling the door open. “I’ve always wanted a pair of blue velvet pants.”
“Oh please,” Lynn shuddered, “Don’t say pants!” Because pants, of course, means underpants to an English person. It was a Chinese shop full of the cheapest, tawdriest clothes you’ve ever seen. I loved it!
Next we rootled up and down the aisles of a grocery. If you love pig-derived foods, you’d love this store.
I always buy Vince foods with funny names when I travel, and this time it was Bonka. What a great name for … coffee?
Fancy some Chilly gel for your intimate places? I love the literal name for stain remover—quitamanchas—“get out spots.”
Our final stop was a hardware store, which offered every size of paella pan.
And that was that. We had a salty, fatty dinner at the hotel, slept, jumped on a shuttle at 6:30 a.m., and flew out in our separate directions.
In the bathroom in the immigration hall in Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, there was this sign.
Sigh. Vacation over. Soon, back to work raising money for torture rehabilitation.