Thursday, October 15, 2015 Holy Toledo!

Today we visit Toledo, Holy Toledo to be exact. Rolling over to Puerta de Atocha, we catch the 9:20 train out to Toledo. As cripples, we must always be one-half hour early for any ride. RENFE has a whole contingent of people delegated to loading disabled people onto their trains. (Disabled means those of us who can’t ascend the three steep steps from the platform to the train car level.)  The RENFE workers have cell phones and call ahead to your next destination. When you arrive, people at that station unload you, again via battery powered lifts (rampa).

Today, our tickets give us row six. RENFE uses their lift to load me on the train, Keith helps me walk halfway down the train car and Bloodroot makes my left leg move. I’m happy because we find and sit in the correct seats, unfortunately not a common occurrence for us.

In one half-hour, we travel forty-five miles south-west to arrive in Toledo, a walled medieval city built upon a hill. The train drops us off somewhat far from the old city ─unusual for Western Europe─in a beautiful Moorish-inspired train station situated in a plain below the towering Toledo.

We follow the crowd to the lovely accessible city bus, which kneels, not quite all the way, but low enough that the boys can bump Bird and me aboard. The delightfully strong bus motor drives us across the plain, over the Tagus River, through ancient gates up a frighteningly steep hill to the old center of the fortified city. The boys’ muscles rejoice in relaxing, at least for the moment, as the bus loudly powers a few tons of steel up a 30-degree incline. No pushing Bird and me to summit a big, daunting hill.

Exiting the bus at Plaza de Zocodover, Bloodroot and Keith take turns pushing me up and down the steep hills found in the city’s center. Our journey, a true workout, conquers elevations that vary considerably from one plaza to the next, or even one corner of a plaza to another. We traverse the peaks and troughs of an old and vertical development. Locals joke that all paths run uphill in Toledo. We believe ourselves saved from this cruel fate as Bloodroot has his iPhone with GPS, but au contraire! The iPhone issues bizarre directions leading us on a very convoluted, mountain-ascending trajectory through Toledo. IPhones ignore elevation, one of their many flaws designed to remind you of the danger of overreliance on a minute internet connection. We wander up and down and all over the place. Bear loves this. He enjoys the back streets and alleyways, dreaming of foraging in the old medieval city. His muscles don’t.

We first stop at the thousand-year-old mosque (Mezquita del Cristo de la Luz), partially converted into a church (the “Cristo de la Luz” part aka Christ of the Light), saving it from the medieval equivalent of the wrecking ball following the reconquista. Bloodroot kindly loans his mother his warm down jacket before crossing the street to tour the completely inaccessible building, where someone drew Jesus on the wall and stars on the ceiling. Bear and I happily bask in the warm sunshine, up on a hill, gazing at Toledo, enjoying the Moorish geometric designs on the outside of the building. Bloodroot decides, unexpectedly, NOT to buy anything at the conveniently located adjoining book shop, leaving us without a Toledo magnet or mug souvenir. He rejoins us.

After more convoluted trailblazing, we reach our second stop, the Cathedral. We drag Bear into the church as he kicks, screams, stomps and growls. He abhors all churches by this point in our progress through Spain, even this one, a very pretty gothic place replete with mudéjar (Moorish) architecture.

Despite Bear snarls and groans, we enjoy the tall stained glass windows with their pretty colors. We take a closer look at the various chapels, each dedicated to a particular saint. Mary is, of course, big. The Sacristy holds numerous religious paintings created by important artists (Goya, Velázquez, Titian, Rubens, Caravaggio). Having just visited the Prado, we breeze through. Spiritually sated, heaven bound, we find ourselves physically hungry.

Leaving the cathedral, we find a €13 fixed-price plate place called Coleccion Catedral. The boys bump Bird and me into the restaurant, climbing one step. Initially, we enjoy our plates of food. Slowly more patrons enter the restaurant. By the meal’s end, no one waits on us to bring us desert, tea, or the check. Via the servers’ incompetence, the restaurant wastes much of our limited time in Toledo, earning a C-.

Ah well, on to our third and final top, the Sephardic Museum, an ancient synagogue built, like many of the older buildings in Toledo, in an exotic pre-Christian architectural style. Moorish brickwork and tiles cover the walls and ceiling.  They dominate every space shining in bright blue, green, red and beige. Entering, I’m confined to one small space. The museum doesn’t really have much, most of the exhibits dull, the main draw being the astounding edifice itself. But finding this place has taken us a long way from the train station. The docent tries to explain the bus stop location, but ends up advising us to catch a cab back. Complying, we find a taxi and ride back down the hill to the RENFE station, ensuring we catch our train home.

Timely arriving at the Toledo train station, a RENFE woman hustles us on board, directing us to handicapped seating, for once. She continues to lecture us, telling us how to live our lives, I suppose. Cripples lack intelligence, requiring constant clueless advice from others. My limited Spanish precludes my understanding her. Bloodroot remarks, “She’s even more annoying if you know what she’s saying.”

One-half hour later, we arrive in Madrid. Leaving the Atocha station (at times our second home), Bloodroot expresses a desire to stop somewhere and have a hard cider. On the way home to our Lavapiés flat, we find a corner bar tapas place, called Santeria, selling the coveted hard cider.

Finding nice outdoor seating we sit down. Bear and I enjoy a glass of wine, while Bloodroot indulges in his hard cider. Suddenly a gentleman approaches us, interrupting our hard-earned reprieve. Instantly too close, invading our personal space, he begins to beg in Spanish. I look at him coolly, “No hablo español,” I respond. “That’s fine,” the beggar says, “I speak English. I’m down on my luck. Can you help me?” “No!” I respond calmly, “Please go away.” I say, according to my family gesticulating while I say it. “Boy, are you hard-core mom!” says Bloodroot in admiration. I feel I was unfailingly polite. After all, I said please. As the wheelchair-bound person, I no longer have any patience for people begging. I worry I’m becoming a Republican. All I think is, “You can walk, asshole. Go get a job for Christ’s sake.” The boys decide to direct all future vagrants to me. I fear I’ll be punched in the face for my attitude some day.

Bloodroot buys some hard cider in returnable bottles to take home. We depart. Reaching home, I snooze while the boys cook yet another delicious dinner. Indulging in their labor’s product, I realize, once again, how good I have it.