La Mezquita, Córdoba
9:30 a.m. We pawed frantically through the basket of scarves, looking for one in a color inoffensive enough to wear again after this morning.
“Going to the Mezquita, aren’t you?” the storeowner observed. She should know, seeing as she had cornered the market on tourists who needed last-minute shoulder covers to appease the Mezquita’s security guard.
“I’ll take this one,” I gasped, pulling out a peach-colored scarf that didn’t bear any resemblance to its gaudy floral cousins. Cindy, coincidentally, had picked out the same one. We plunked down our Euros, then ran toward the door. If we didn’t make it to the Mezquita before 10 a.m., we would have to forgo the free entrance.
Our shoulders modestly hidden from view, the security guard now smiled and waved us inside.
Mezquita Monday, I repeated to myself during the visit. Mere hours later I would hop the bus back to Madrid, confident that I had saved the best for last.