When you manage to escape the hordes of tourists and finally get to the old Church of San Marcos, you go through the black curtains of the entrance and something disturbing happens. Suddenly there appears in the darkness, hanging from the wall, the magic of the alleys of the Jewish quarter, still alive and full of merchants; a bird’s eye view of the heart of the city, crowded and geometrical, sheltering three cultures; and the crosses of churches and temples, tens and tens of crosses of many forms, materials, and sizes, as if Toledo as a whole were itself one big cross; and the skies in biblical torment, suspended at dusk over the banks of the Tagus; and also the medieval light, spilling on passers-by and wrapping them in the elongated mythology of El Greco’s subjects...
