We come away warm and fed and happy. Gerd renewed her invitation to come to her house and see the place where she prays. We came into the shopping street above San José and into the midst of the local evening crowd, all out strolling, window shopping and greeting acquaintances and neighbors. Gerd asked, "Do they dress their children like that in the U.S.?" indicating another little infanta or infante of the kind I'd seen repeatedly, all decked out in scarcely less than 17th century grandeur. "The poor children, they can't play. In Denmark all the children are dirty."

Velazquez, "The Infanta Margarita of Austria"

Gerd was leading us toward the Plaza de Santa Teresa, clearly feeling some duty to show the sights, but just as clearly beginning to feel a bit unnerved by the crowds and the din. "They're all out - very Spanish, to see and be seen, I think. I keep to the small streets. I feel much more comfortable in the church than in the street. You can't carry on a true contemplative life in the midst of all of this." I assured her that we had seen the plaza and the small streets were fine.

We backtracked and headed through the small streets above the church of Santo Tomé el Viejo. "I came out into the Plaza once with a priest I know. He wanted to sit and have a café. I told him I prefer the small streets and the quiet. He asked, didn't I like the people crowding to show devotion to the saints? I said my devotion is in the quiet," and she added without harshness, "they're noisy and they come to show themselves. He thinks I'm crazy."

As we walked, Gerd pointed out structure after structure abandoned. "This doesn't exist in Denmark. You can let a house sit for only two years, then you are required to renovate or demolish it. Houses aren't allowed to die like this. The taxes must be very low here. They wait until they can afford it and buy a new flat, and leave these houses to crumble." One of the houses she pointed out is the provincial museum, which is quite viable, in good health and use.

Palacio de los Deanes (Provincial Museum), Avila

It was becoming apparent Gerd might be a bit of an extremist if not an outright nutcase, walking and talking and all the while glowing like she was lit with a lamp inside.

"Life is a night in a bad inn" - St. Teresa of Avila

We continued to walk in the cold air and darkness away from the bright lights, towards the basilica of San Vicente and the Puerto de San Vicente in the Muralla. I thought we might enter the walls, but Gerd headed instead toward the bajada (descent) leading below the walls and toward the barrio a distance beyond.

"We're very near," she said. We reached the margin of the neighborhood at the bottom of the bajada, where Gerd lives in one of a small row of old houses on the first road, facing the walls above. I'd passed it several times, both by car and on foot. Hers alone has its front freshly painted. "It's small, it's horrible, but there it is."