Day 4-We are off to Toledo, former capital of Spain, one time home to El Greco. Hugo decides to test the speed capabilities of our rental car. It is the European equivalent of a Ford Escort. The speedometer is of course in kilometers per hour, but we know that by multilplying by .6 we can get a rough estimate of our speed in American terms. With a tailwind, on a long straight, on a slight decline, we top out at around 119 good old American miles per hour. At this point I�ve stopped being nervous about Hugo�s driving. I�ve decided that should anything go wrong, we will be a fireball rocketing across the desolate high central plains of Spain before I know what�s happened.

Toledo is set on a rocky outcrop in the bend of a river. The stone buildings, the same color and texture as the land, rise about the plains. The streets are narrow, twisty and cobblestone. It all looks like something from another time.

We duck through the low doorway of the El Greco house and museum and walk around looking at the paintings in their blacks and brown with their gaunt, elongated figures in religious scenes. We walk the narrow cobbled streets under the beating sun. The buildings lean in toward each other as they rise from the streets, not a case of faulty architecture, but a defense against the Sun. It will grow hotter and hotter as we go farther South, with temperatures pushing triple digits even in September.

There is a large cathedral in Toledo. Like many places of worship in southern Spain, it was originally a Christian Church, then converted to a Muslim Mosque during the Moors 800 year occupation of Spain, and then converted back to a Catholic church. Architecturally, the cathedral now represents bits and pieces of each regime, but Hugo is uncomfortable in churches, so we just walk around the outside.

Toledo is only a short stop. We are pressing on to Cordoba, the great White City of Andalucia. The road takes us through the mountains. Symetrical rows of olives trees spread across the valley floors.

Cordaba is booked solid. We have parked the car and are wandering from hotel to hostale to pension in search of a room and having no luck. Finally we have to settle for a place quite a bit more expensive than we had planned on. We go out in search of a McDonalds. Yes, I know. We have only been in Spain for 3 days, and already we are craving American food. But you should see the portions they serve there. So tiny. We are Americans. We need big meals with lots of fat and protein. Lots of fat. Buckets of it.

Back in town, there is a religious parade going down the street near our hotel. Women carrying candles and men with insence, chanting. Neither of us being Catholic, it doesn�t mean much to us. A huge papier mache float on the towns paton saint goes by. It is all very solemn. It is hard not to be moved.

When Hugo and I get to our room, we find that the double beds are pushed together. We are too tired to push them apart. We watch a Spanish variety show. Darth Vader is making a special guest appearance. About 10 minutes in, Spanish overload takes hold, and I stop watching.

Day 5-We stroll around Cordoba, over the Guadalquivir river, and try to see the Muslim mosque, but it is closed. Overall, we are not very impressed with Cordoba. It is time to go to Seville. We have much better luck finding accomadations in Seville. We are in a nice pension behind the huge Cathedral. The proprietess tells us a bar where we can go to see flamenco for free. We discover Granizada�s, which are nothing more than crushed ice with lemonade mixed in, like a low rent slurpee, but in the heat of Andalucia, they become our Soma. Seville is full of color. Nothing like sedate Cordoba. Which is exactly how the guidebook said it would be. I conside this my first real Spanish city. Madrid was just a nighttime whirl, Toledo and Cordoba sleepy. The leisurely pace, the color, the architecture. I am in love. Seriously. I can�t walk two steps without falling in love with whatever pretty Spanish girl crosses my path. What is the song Dennis Quinn sings in the bowels of his ship just before Jaws makes his appearance. "Farewell to thee, my fair Spanish Lady."

The bar is not so far from are hotel. It is smokey and crowded. In one room a couple of guys are playing Spanish folkpop. One with a guitar and his friend with the violin. I feel lightheaded. I feel carefree. I feel like I am where I am supposed to be. The violin bit is stuck in my head in a loop. My heart sings. I may never leave her.

The flamenco begins. Hugo and I have some tapas and beer. The staccato rhythm of the guitar, the clapping, the feet pounding, it gets in your soul. The dancer�s dress whirls and twirls. Her movements are controlled explosions. Her hands dart about like birds. Her hair comes unpinned and the rose in it goes flying and lands on the floor. The guitarist wails words I don�t understand but they must certainly be of longing. The Cante Jondo. The Deep Song. The rhythm is in my blood. My heart beats to it. Smoke burns eyes.

Day 6-We decide to take one of those bus tours of the city. It takes us through the 1992 Worlds Fair Grounds. They have basically fallen into ruin. Parking lots overgrown and weedy. Exhibits abandoned. Reduced to something just above blight. We see much of the city, but it is hard to get a feel from the top of a moving bus, with narration over headphones. We walk through the main square. To combat the sun, they have hung huge shades over the streets between the building tops. We drink more Granizadas. I remember to lisp the �z� when I order. Say it sort of like a �th.� We walk past the remains of the old wall that used to protect the city from Moorish invaders. We walked through the twisting streets past the old pastel colored buildings. We sit for awhile in the plaza behind the cathedral and watch the people go by. Page 4