TEFLees in Spain

Not nearly as graphic as our previous stop at the zombie art exhibit, the torture museum shed fascinating light on what life was like during the years of Spain’s Inquisition. And, judging from some of the hair raising instruments such as the Iron Maiden (a short, Spaniard sized, rusty iron box, complete, for the comfort of its unfortunate recipient, with carrot-sized spikes that, interestingly enough, were still sharp), the rusty chastity belt (don’t ask), and the worst of all by far – “la rueda” or the wheel. The simplest of all torture instruments on display, and by far the least imaginative, if you were unfortunate enough to fall victim to the wheel, then you’d have every bone in your body snapped like twigs, your broken limbs woven like a French braid through the spokes of a large wagon wheel, and your whole body raised with the wheel to put on a grisly display of what human pretzels could plausibly look like resulting from opposition to the throne. Among other things on display were “tongue looseners,” “finger-nail ripper-offers,” “skin shredders,” and “socket dis-jointers,” or human racks that go a little farther than giving you a courteous pre-jog stretch out. Luckily all the displays had (poorly written) explanations in English in case your imagination couldn’t take you where it needed to go, and after a good half hour or so of grimacing and goose bumps, we decided it was time to get back into the setting sun and grab some more tapas before catching the last train home.

At some point during the day, as our group dwindled from nine to seven to five to three, someone somewhere along the line, had conveniently wandered away with the only map. Toledo is by no means a large town, but with its roads strewn helter skelter in every direction, and our minimal knowledge of the Spanish language, asking for directions and following signs from one end of Toledo to the other proved to be an annoyingly inconvenient task. So it was that we found ourselves, nibbling olives at an outdoor café, that we came to the sudden realization that the last train was due to leave the station in half an hour – and we were on the complete other side of the city!

Gathering our things, paying the bill, and being pointed in the general vicinity of the station, we chose a street without thinking, and broke into a steady sprint. While dodging cars in narrow alleys and stopping stranger after stranger for quick, confused directions, we did manage to finally find our way out of the maze, and over to the edge of the medieval city. With clock counting down to the final minutes, we chose to stop for one last time and snap a couple pictures of the city lights below – an incredible twilit view of this desert oasis. And, picking up once more, tore off towards the station as fast as our flip flopped feet would take us. We got in with just a minute to spare, and plopped down panting in our seats, wiping the sweat from our faces and laughing nervously at the close call we’d just encountered.

It’s been a long time coming, I know, but what good would I be as a procrastinator if I failed to at least put the finishing touches on our autumn trip to Toledo? Better late than never I guess, so if you want to read the tail in its entirety, back on up a couple pages in the blog – and while you’re there, why not just read through the rest of the posts until you make it back to this one? Take a minute to walk a couple miles (or months) in the shoes of an English teacher in Madrid – from humble beginnings and rookie mistakes, to veteran’s wisdom on all the English language has to offer. You won’t regret it! Anyway, back to the story…

So, after all the effort to find a quiet café to ourselves, and after a couple pitchers of refreshing sangria, we were ready to head back into the deepening afternoon shadows of Toledo’s echoing alleyways. But, as always, there was one bump in the road. The seemingly friendly barmen, through mischievous intentions or bad calculating, had somehow managed to completely butcher our bill. The chicken scratch recording of our orders scribbled with all the carelessness of a doctor’s signature were no help as we argued our way through the menu of prices. This, I have learned about Spain: if you’re in a touristy town, in a touristy restaurant, speaking touristy Spanish to the camareros, then you may as well have a bull’s eye-dollar sign tattooed on your forehead. In other words, if you don’t speak Spanish well, then watch out because you’re bound to get taken for a ride. (Side note: my friend and I, when we got off the plane for the first time in Madrid, got charged 55 Euros for a 25 Euro cab ride – with no Spanish whatsoever it’s hard to argue, so watch out!). Anyway, after passing the calculator and doing our best body language communications, we finally managed to punch out a number that everyone could agree upon, wave goodbye to the apologetic (caught red handed) barmen, and commence with the explorations.

With no clear direction in mind, we decided to take what I refer to as the new-to-Madrid approach, and wander aimlessly through the labyrinth of zigzagging streets until we found a place worth stopping. Foolproof in its simplicity, this plan of attack soon found us standing, high fiving in front of Toledo’s hidden gem of a tourist stop – the Museum of Torture. Now, I like art and I like history and all that jazz, but really, unless you’re writing a book or have aspirations of pursuing a career in the curator field, museums in Europe are a dime a dozen, and they tend to get old (at least for me), fast. But this, for our now dwindled group of guys, was a perfect find. So we pooled together our change, paid the four Euro cover, and went skipping merrily through.