In many ways, I ran to Cuenca. Roughly two hours outside of Spain’s capital in the Castile-La Mancha region, the small town of my refuge teeters on a rocky ridge. Like a tightrope walker, I tip-topped through this UNESCO World Heritage city, almost as if I wasn’t supposed to be here. Then again, I wasn’t. Cuenca was never on my Spanish itinerary, until perhaps by happenstance, we checked into what could have been a minimum-security prison in Madrid. Just off of Puerta del Sol, I lost a little piece of my soul in that Madrid hotel. The accommodations reeked of trash, attracted salty characters Continue Reading