Berta and the Leaning Houses

Polly wakes to claws clicking on stone. An elderly stone marten is watching her from a drainpipe, whiskers first. She introduces herself as Berta, says she has lived inside these walls longer than most roofs have, and offers a tour before the day gets hot. A marten's tour, she warns, involves shortcuts. Polly says she is excellent at shortcuts.

The lanes of Albarracín do not believe in straight lines. They climb in steps, duck under archways, and squeeze between houses until the wooden balconies above nearly touch, so that neighbors could pass a cup of sugar across without leaning far. The walls are plastered in that soft pink that comes from the local earth, and every door seems built for someone a little smaller than expected.

At a corner, Berta stops with the pride of a museum guide. Above them rises a house that leans in every direction at once, narrow at the bottom, wide at the top, not one straight edge anywhere. It is called the Julianeta, and it is probably the most photographed crooked house in Spain. It has stood like this for centuries, Berta says, which is more than most straight houses manage.

They end the morning on a rooftop, sharing a fig Berta produces from somewhere. Below them the pink town rearranges itself into stairways and chimneys. Polly asks how anyone finds their way here. Berta considers this. You do not find your way, she says. You let the town lose you kindly, and then you are home.