Cáceres

✨On the road to Cáceres, olive trees stretched into a green ocean outside the car window. As the sunset dyed the sandstone buildings of Plaza Mayor the color of honey, we unexpectedly gained "exclusive viewing rights" to this medieval city. Beneath the empty arcades, our footsteps echoed strangely between the stone pillars, as if invisible ghosts were playing hide-and-seek with us. At the corner of Plaza de las Veletas, the notes of Debussy’s *Clair de Lune* suddenly drifted down from the second floor of a 16th-century noble mansion. The piano’s transparent melody spilled over Gothic window frames, engaging in a surreal dialogue with the statue of Saint Francis in the square. Holding our breaths under the cast-iron streetlamp, we stood there until the last note dissolved into the twilight—an encounter no travel guide could ever schedule. ✨Climbing the bell tower of San Mateo Church felt like traversing a time tunnel. Each of the 287 spiral stone steps bore hollows worn by pilgrims’ knees, while narrow arrow slits cast fragmented light. When we finally reached the top, the city unfurled beneath us like a magic carpet: storks nesting on chimneys, monastery cloisters forming geometric patterns, and beyond, the golden horizon of the Extremadura plains. Suddenly, I understood why Spaniards often say, "Cáceres is a poem written in stone"—the Renaissance coats of arms, the Mudejar brickwork, the Visigoth towers atop Roman foundations, all verses rhyming with history. At the Monastery of San Juan de los Reyes in Toledo, it was only on my third visit that I noticed the pineapple motif hidden in the cloister reliefs—a symbol of Columbus’ tribute to Queen Isabella. In the basement of Cáceres’ Archaeological Museum, a previously closed-off room now displayed stunning Roman mosaics of sea goddesses. It reminded me of Lorca’s verse: *"Spain is a parchment; every time old ink is scraped away, older words emerge."* When night fell, we dined in the courtyard of *Casa de los Solís* in Cáceres. Moonlight filtered through orange trees onto 15th-century heraldry, and the waiter served *jamón ibérico* so thin it was translucent. Suddenly, an elderly man at the next table began singing *cante jondo* in a hoarse voice—the raw, guitarless lament reverberating under the stone arches with an unearthly resonance. In that moment, I finally understood: Spain’s cultural charm lies not in static monuments, but in these sudden, warm bursts of living heritage. ✨Six ancient cities, six visits—each reunion felt like opening a new drawer. Perhaps true travel isn’t about collecting destinations, but about cultivating the courage to *look again and again*, just as Picasso returned to *Guernica* with each stroke revealing new shadows and light. As the plane departed Madrid, Iberia stretched beneath the morning sun, its ancient walls still hiding countless untold stories in their crevices—waiting for the next encounter. #MyTravelDiary #AroundTheWorld #Spain #CaceresOldTown