It’s well known yet the existence of macabre signs of the black period, but gradually the area is getting clean in a long hygienic process of high complexity and arduous accomplishment. The impertinent presence of evil ghosts, shades of old demons that
stunk for four decades the living space of the Peninsula, seems imune to the most massive exorcisms of democratic attempts.
From that first travel I remember the green fields of La Rioja, the City of Vitoria and a very modest roadside hotel, the hard
outline of Burgos Cathedral marked by sharp points and edges.
Of Valladolid and Zamora absolutely nothing, almost nothing.
Back from Old Lusitania, after enjoying for a month its amazing places and charms, finally Évora, the golden key. Then it was
the turn of Extremadura, Badajoz and Merida. And after a long walking up and down through the winding Toledo, with a fierce
sun and some rain, in a typical tourist rush, the mysterious Cathedral, the Alcázar and the House of El Greco.
And then Madrid, where I only remember the quick visit to the Prado. And —through Guadalajara and Zaragoza— finally
the dazzling stage show of the rocks of Montserrat. Barcelona-City, well, the next time.
My last glare was the impact in front of ancient walls, the Roman Arc, the Arabic Gate and the Plaza Mayor of Medinaceli,
where late at night all of us had to leave their hotels and houses to witness an eclipse of the moon.
Madrid and Barcelona I have only lately been revisiting, for professional reasons. Given a choice, I would not know
which of the two big cities to choose ... if applicable.
Sure there are more attractive places with better quality of life, if possible by the sea. We'll see.
Photo: Courtyard in Toledo