Finding Home Where You Weren’t Looking

Un israelí en la meseta (An Israeli on the Plateau) by Hungarian author Miklós Cseszneky is a collection of short stories that orbit around Ido — a clumsy, clear-eyed, and quietly disoriented twenty-something who moves from Israel to Spain after acquiring Spanish nationality through his Sephardic heritage. He’s not fleeing anything in particular, but he’s definitely not staying where he was.

Between bureaucratic mazes, awkward coffee orders, impossible flatmates, and parties he’s never sure whether to leave or survive, Ido wanders through Spain with a mix of patience and disbelief. Each story is a self-contained episode — sometimes sad, often funny, always honest. The book paints a comic and tender portrait of the kind of everyday uprootedness that rarely makes headlines but defines so many lives.

Here’s an excerpt from the book, translated into English for the first time.

The Jewish Quarter That Didn’t Recognise Me

I went to Toledo on a whim. A grey Sunday, no plans, no one expecting anything from me. I got on a train with a notebook, a bottle of water, and a romantic notion: to reconnect with my roots.

My mother always spoke of Toledo like it was Narnia for Sephardic Jews. — That’s where our ancestors lived, she used to say. — They kicked us out, but deep down, it’s still our home.

I had my doubts. But that day, I chose to believe her.

I arrived to find a sign that read “Jewish Quarter Tour.” I signed up. There were eight of us: a German couple, three retired folks from Murcia, a very serious French girl, a guy who asked strange questions, and me — the emotional descendant.

The guide was called Lola. She wore sunglasses even indoors and spoke with textbook enthusiasm. — Jews lived here in harmony until their expulsion in 1492, she said. — How many were there? someone asked. — Quite a few. It’s estimated that… quite a few. — And why were they expelled? — Well… political and religious reasons. You know how it was back then.

The way she said it made me uneasy. Like she was describing a no-fault eviction, not a collective trauma.

We entered an old synagogue, now a museum. High ceilings, Mudejar décor, glass cases with objects and info panels that talked about “the Jews” like they were an extinct species.

I leaned in to look at a miniature model: a rabbi, a bakery, a tiny family wearing tiny kippahs. I saw my reflection in the glass and, for a moment, I felt like part of the exhibit.

The guide pointed things out: — Here they prayed. Here was the market. Here they lived. Here’s the cemetery. — And now? I asked. — Now? Nothing. Just history.

A woman from Murcia remarked: — What lovely names they had. So… exotic.

The French girl asked if there were still any Jews in Toledo. Lola replied: — There are a few left. But not the old kind.

I wanted to say: — Hello, I’m right here. But I didn’t.

I left before the tour ended. Wandered alone through cobbled streets. I stopped in a souvenir shop that sold keychains with Stars of David next to Templar swords and t-shirts saying “Toledo is killing me.”

I bought a fridge magnet. Out of spite. Out of longing. For five euros.

I sat down in a small square and opened my notebook:

I’ve returned to a house that doesn’t know I lived here. I’ve stared at glass cases where I’m just decoration. I’ve walked through a neighbourhood that was mine before I ever existed.

I stayed a little longer. Listening to the tourists, the wind, the stone.

Then I went back to Madrid.

No answers. But something like a sense of belonging. Second-hand, maybe. But real.

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