I love our apartment. Except for the four flights of stairs, that is. It's in the oldest part of the city, with winding narrow streets and stone buildings.

Unless the sun strikes the neighborhood at the right angle, it's usually dark and sort of eerie.

Romanesque arches give on to small plazas. Some contain tables where you can get a drink.

Gargoyles unexpectedly jut from walls.

Barcelona is really old. Way older than Madrid. A Roman wall and bastion a few yards from our door mark the original city perimeter.

In Roman times, Madrid was a cow pasture.

Almost completely hidden by medieval walls, a few Roman columns remain.

These may have been reconstructed after falling. To me, they are like the old roots of the city. There are not many cities in the world that have been in continuous existence for over 1,600 years.

Walking through the old city, glancing through an opening on my left, I saw this:

What the hell was she doing in this hallowed place? Some airhead bimbo strutting around—looking for what? A party? A date? C'mon! She doesn't belong here!

Then I realized that in 350 C. E., another girl just like her undoubtedly strolled here, wearing a skimpy toga, shopping for myrrh—very much at home in her own city, as is our modern girl.