tool for violence and war. The views of the city (only 1,200 people live there, but in negotiations a few hundred years ago, Albarracín secured the right to always be called a city) from the top of the wall are amazing.
We departed from Zaragoza at 8:30 on Friday morning and arrived at the hostel where we spent the night around 2 o’clock – lunchtime. We had stopped for a few hours at Teruel, another town rife with history and the capital of the province to the south of Zaragoza. Teruel has a lovely church and is famous for its mudéjar architecture.
Albarracín was the perfect spot for our short retreat, however. I loved the silence, a stark contrast to the city (I’m writing this at 11:20 on Saturday night, and the streets five stories below the windows are bustling and murmuring; they will until dawn). A particularly wonderful treat was our stop on Saturday on the way back north: we visited a forest with prehistoric rock paintings. However, rather than starring the art, for me the highlight of the very short hike through the sandstone-filled pine forest was its inspiration of memories of the lovely woods of Western Massachusetts and traversing them with classmates last spring. Another familiarity: people tap the trees in the area, although the sap is not used for sweet syrup but for paint thinner. Essential for artists. Detrimental to pancakes – but they don’t exist here, so it’s okay.
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