Welcome to tokoni

My first night in Segovia, it rained. The soft drizzle began in the middle of our tour, and turned into a heavy rain that led us back to the center of town, marked by the famous aqueduct, a few minutes early. We divided into groups and began what should have been a 25 minute journey, back to our Spanish families’ homes sprinkled on the outskirts of the town.

We had stopped by our homes earlier that day to drop off our bags, have lunch, and take quick siestas. Accompanied by a small group of Americans and a paper map, I began the unfamiliar journey home.

As we strolled down the main street, the group thinned out. Their houses were closer to town. No one in the walking group lived in my neighborhood. I looked to my sides at the clothes stores and the farmacias, and winced at the overwhelming smell of blood and dead carcasses leaking from the carnecerias.

And then, waking me from my daze, a quick, “See ya tomorrow! Good luck!” as the last boy in the group peeled off to his apartment and left me walking alone.

The Segovian sky began to darken. Night was coming. The rain beat down against my map, making it a soggy mess of paper and ink— impossible to read. I began to worry. I sat at the four-way intersection, guessing which direction would get me home. My soaking wet leather flip flops began to bleed an orange-brownish color that stained the bottoms of my freezing feet.

A man was walking down the street. He looked fairly young, about mid-twenties, and smiled. I was desperate.

“Hola,” I began in my very American accent.

“Oh, I speak English.” He said, in a very Spanish accent. I decided to let him practice the second language. I was not in a learning mood.

“I’m lost, do you know Segovia well?”

“Ehhh,” he began, and then curled his head around to look at my wrinkled map where I pointed to my blurred address. It was somewhat clear that he was a stranger to the town too and was just as clueless as I—but I was not going to leave him on the off chance that he could offer some help.

After about five minutes of him saying English phrases that made no sense, I thanked him and told him that I could probably find it on my own.

He nodded, and turned away, only to throw his body back around a second later, and stare into my eyes. “Ehhhm, I eh want to see you again.”

QUE?!! As if I was not uncomfortable and scared enough already…dark streets of a foreign country, not familiar with the language or culture, clueless as to how to get home, without a cell phone, and now the one stranger who seemed nice wants to “see me again”….joder.

I tried to explain why I couldn’t see him in a complicated way to make him think that the language would be a barrier in our relationship…I couldn’t just run off—not as a young girl on a deserted street.

He apparently understood the rubbish coming out of my mouth that I could hardly make sense of…we adiosed and I chose to go left.

I walked through what seemed like an alley, carefully avoiding eye contact with all of the men who shamelessly looked me up and down and even dared to meow.

I finally came to a main street that looked somewhat familiar (unfortunately all of the main streets in Segovia are identical). When the traffic cleared, I crossed and continued across another intersecting street. I followed my gut instinct, and tried to ignore my shaking hands—cold and nervous. But fifteen minutes later, I was still wandering up and down a street lined with apartment buildings with silver metal doors and stained windows.

And then—almost uncontrollably—they came—tears, streaming down my face—scared, lonely, homesick, lost. The neighborhood streets were nowhere on my map.

I must have stood out—a young pale-skinned girl, soaking wet, sobbing and holding a map on the side of the street. To my great relief, a car pulled over and an older Spanish woman stepped out and asked if I was okay. She pulled out her cell phone and called the number I pointed to on my map.

Fifteen minutes later, I sat in my Spanish home, wearing warm pajamas, holding a glass of hot cocoa, and watching Spanish television, safe and happy.

A few weeks later, I ran across the man who had “wanted to see me again” on one of Segovia’s main streets. Well, he got his wish…

We acknowledged each other, both surprised by our unexpected rendezvous. “Eh did you ever find ehm the place you were looking for?”

I nodded and smiled—using every last bit of restraint in my body not to scream, “Nope, still looking!”