Gerd had brought out a copy of her autobiography, color-xeroxed pages in thin plastic sleeves in a sky blue plastic binder. It is a work of art, full of photographs of Gerd, the places she has been on her quest and some of the people she has met, images of St. Teresa, typed text, and Gerd's paintings, all composed with what I can only describe as a distinctly Danish sense of design : full of color, simply arranged. She now offered to let me borrow it to read, and send it back to her when I was finished. I had in my hands an incredible document. I asked Gerd if she would mind if I made a copy of it. She thought about this for a few moments, and after a brief hesitation, said she would not mind.

We said goodbye, embracing and kissing on both cheeks, Spanish style. As Annette and I ascended the bajada towards la Muralla, I could feel myself shaking. Gerd had given us directions to arrive most quickly at the plaza nearest the restaurant where we planned to have dinner. I started to feel normal again over a copa de vino tinto and our dinner of luscious fried trout from the rio Adaja, stewed vegetables in oil, olives, and more wine.

The next morning we had our breakfast of café con leche and churros (fritters) and made our way to Gerd's freshly painted door. We rang and she answered promptly, already wearing her red coat. She invited us in for a brief daylight tour. In the sunlight her back courtyard garden was visible. It is covered with an arbor supporting a very old, thickly grown grapevine. Even with its shade, Gerd said this place is too hot in the summer. She opened the door to her storage room and showed us her current project for the nuns, a w.c. door for the convent museum which she had stripped and would refinish.

We made the short walk to La Encarnación. As we stepped into the courtyard, Gerd greeted the lay museum keeper, like Loli a young married woman whose husband is also employed by the nuns. They live with their children on the convent property. The museum door was closed. Even though it was still festival time and a small busload of visitors were arriving at that moment, the nuns had decided to replace worn paving stones in the floor and closed the public space to carry out their work.

We could still tour the church, and Gerd turned to the door of the convent of Las Esclavas - literally "slaves" - an order whose calling is to serve enclosed orders. She knocked and a cheerful nun emerged wearing a habit suited to work : full plain skirt, simple white apron and short wimple. They greeted each other, Gerd introduced Annette and me, and asked for the keys to the church. The nun disappeared for a moment and returned smiling to hand them over.

We stepped in the direction of the church and Gerd stopped for a moment in silence. Then she said, "I'm trying to feel if we should go to the torno first." She closed her eyes, then opened them again, and changed directions across the courtyard. The torno, yes.