Granada, Granada, Gone

There are supposed to be more pictures in this, but they won't load to save my life. Sorry. I won't have internet tomorrow, so no updates until Italy now.
Today is my last day in Granada, as my train leaves early tomorrow morning for Madrid (where I stay overnight, then fly to Firenze, or Florence, Italy).
Since my last entry, I had some weird food and weird experiences (and great food and great experiences too). The evening after the Alhambra, I tried a little restaurant in the triangle formed by Gran Via de Colon, San Juan de Dios and the Cathedral (which [a] isn’t all that triangular, but you don’t care, and [b] should be called the Bermuda triangle because I can’t go there without getting lost). I had the Menu del Dia (of the day), where you choose a first and a second and a dessert, and it’s a fixed price and generally includes bread and service (which aren’t always included here, btw).
Now, remember, if you will, how I raved about the garlic soup in Vienna. It was like a cream soup of really strong garlic taste with croutons on top and it was so, so, so good. So one of the firsts here was garlic soup. Awesome, right?
Yeah, not the same thing, apparently.
Here, it was a kind of vaguely orangely broth with bread and pieces of garlic floating on top. At first, it seemed ok if a little strange, and too salty. But when I’d eaten a bit more, I discovered that the bottom of it was full of pork (believe me, pork is the best option here, so I’m going with that). I continued kind of eating a bit of the top part, pretending like there was no pork in the part I was eating (don’t judge me), but when I found some sort of big white ball thing at the bottom, I was done. It had the look of a ball of mozzarella (a bocconcini en Italiano), which would have been fine, but I cut through it with my spoon and it had the texture of tofu or (more likely) some sort of assorted animal product. Yeah. I tried.
Second course was roast chicken, which was pretty normal. Then super awesome chocolate mousse.
Also, on another recommendation from my friend Rob who, I think, lived (?) in the south of Spain for a while, I ordered Tinto de Verano, not really knowing what to expect. I knew it contained wine, and I’m not at all a wine drinker, but all of his other recommendations had been so good that I gave it a shot. It looked like a glass of red wine with ice and a lemon slice in it, and I was super nervous that I was going to be forcing myself to drink it. And it was really good. It’s basically one part red wine, one part lemon flavoured soda (imagine taking half sprite and half carbonated water because it’s way less strong than our sodas), over ice. Yeah, I’m definitely trying to make that at home, and if I figure out how to make it, you’re invited to come hang out with me and try it. Good stuff.
And, as you may have guessed from my description of where I ate, I got lost getting home. I mean, like I ended up halfway across the city before I could find any of the streets around me on my map, since my “get myself un-lost” technique, is to just keep walking in the direction that feels right, and hope I find something useful. Best technique? Probably not.
The next day, I slept in, then headed out to see the Capilla Real (Royal Chapel, basically the tombs of Los Reyes Catolicos, the Catholic Kings, Ferdinand and Isabel), the Catedral, and the Centro Jose Guerrero, since they’re all in the same block. The Capilla Real was pretty and kind of creepy. I saw the mausoleum pieces, and lead coffins for Ferdinand and Isabel, and some of their family members. The really cool thing, I thought, was the fact that in the stone sculpture, Isabel’s head is pressing harder and further into the pillow than Ferdinand’s, and my guidebook informed me that this was done because he was essentially a consort, and this symbolized that her head was heavier with knowledge and intelligence. Gotta love that. No pictures were allowed in there, and yet there was one brave asshole taking flash photos anyway.
The Catedral was a rather similar experience for me. I always feel a real need to act respectfully in places of worship, regardless of my personal feelings about religion. And I really felt like most of the people in there were just being completely flippant about the reverence a cathedral deserves. People were snapping photos right in front of the “no foto” signs, and talking pretty loud, and wandering around the front altar, despite the fact that, to me, these seem like things you just don’t do in a church when you’re there as a tourist. I think, if anything, being there as a paying tourist, makes me feel even more aware of the need to be respectful of that space because I’m not part of the congregation.
Anyway, I found this cathedral pretty unspectacular after having seen Seville, as well as Madrid and Vienna.
When I came out the doors, a man, who had just been standing there holding a cup, starts making false little crying sounds and begging in Spanish, and it was so rehearsed and obviously faked and targeted, I was struck by, um, absolutely no sympathy at all. Ok, that’s not true, but very little sympathy, anyway. Then, as I tried to walk by the steps of the cathedral to get to where I was going, I was chased around by a lady trying to do one of those press some herbs into your hand, bless you in Spanish, demand cash routines. I felt absolutely ill. I just kept saying “no, no, no, no” trying to be polite, and keep my hands out of hers, and she was grabby and wouldn’t stop.
Going back a bit, the whole thing just compounded onto how I was feeling about respect for holy places. It seemed to me that none of this showed any respect for “god” or belief or religion. And regardless of my beliefs, I think it’s wise to show some reverence. Besides, shouldn’t you be able to walk by the cathedral without being accosted? If someone says no, I think it should mean something. I know they’re just trying to make money, but especially in Granada, I feel like there are plenty of ways someone could do that without making tourists feel violated. I don’t know. Do I sound like a bitchy, snobby twit?
(big sigh) So, anyway, I was in kind of a weird place when I got to the Centro Jose Guerrero; I’d just spent 7euro in religious buildings to be pretty much unimpressed and then followed. The Centro Jose Guerrero has free entry on Wed., so I just wandered about, but there was a group of schoolkids there, so it’s wasn’t very peaceful, plus I wasn’t really sure what the deal was with this place. I guess Jose Guerrero was an artist? and a collector? I don’t know. Anyway, I was glad it was free.
Then, I bought some souvenirs, including a pretty silver pendant in the shape of the Granada pomegranate, and had lunch (with a tinto de verano) before coming back here for a break.
By 5, I headed back out, off towards the Parque Federico Garcia Lorca (FGL, for short, fyi) and the Huerte San Vicente. It’s a decent walk from where I’m staying, so I was actually glad for the cold weather. I was actually comfortable in pants and shoes and socks, and I had a hoodie that I intermittently put on and took off.
The tour through Huerte San Vicente wasn’t until 6 (you can’t go through alone), so I killed some time writing and contemplating on a bench (as so much of my best time in Europe has been spent). Huerte San Vicente is one of the houses once owned by FGL’s father, and FGL would have lived there for some time during the middle of his childhood. The tour was all in Spanish, but, especially because I already knew so much of his biographical details, I was able to follow much of what she said, and just look around. I saw FGL’s certificate from the University of Granada, his writing desk, some early drafts of his work from his journals, etc. It was neat, but not worth a trip for most people who haven’t been fascinated by FGL.
The park around it, dedicated to him, was kind of a sad place for me. It’s basically a rundown park full of signs showing runners how to stretch properly, and a fountain where half the spouts don’t work. It’s, apparently, the largest rose garden in Europe, (so says Wikipedia), but it didn’t seem like much. Maybe I was just in this mood, but it just seemed like a pretty irreverent tribute to a writer who’s considered to be a Granadino (though technically, he was born and lived his early years in Fuente Vaqueros, but I won’t get started on that because you know I could go on and on)
By the time I started walking back toward the centre of town, it was raining a bit, and it was too early to eat, so I hit the hostal again. Unfortunately, in the time I was there, raining a bit turned into pouring, but by 9pm, I really did need to go find food and it wasn’t letting up. Shit.
I wandered in the general vicinity, but by the time I found a place that looked ok and not too expensive, I was soaked. My little black “rain” jacket? Well, in Vienna, I’d discovered it’s not even a little bit rainproof. Still true, but I don’t have anything else with me. I ate greasy pizza (and another tinto de verano), and then came home to try to dry off.
Today, having done all the tourist-book recommended things that sounded interesting to me, I had to find something to do. (Note, I gave up on the idea of taking a bus out to either the village where FGL was born or died. It sort of makes me want to have a heart attack, taking random buses that may or may not actually bring me back)

So, I wandered up through the Albaicin, a really old part of Granada built on a big hill/small mountain. Yes, that means I climbed, and climbed and climbed. And when I got up there and saw the view of the city, it felt so good to have made it. I stared at the Alhambra from across the valley, and looked down over all of Granada. I know I’m not in great shape or anything, but man, I am in way better shape than when I left Canada. My legs are like different legs. Having a car again is going to be plain weird.
I started on down, and ended up at a little terrace cafe right in the shadow of the Alhambra. I really loved just sitting there, having lunch, staring up at the Alhambra and writing and drawing. It was entirely antithetical to yesterday’s experience. I didn’t feel like such a stupid tourist there

View just over from where I had lunch, and some really lame little sketches I was doing of the Alhambra and a fountain in front of me. Obviously, you can see the perspective was a little different on the Alhambra where I was sitting, but I didn't take a picture when I was sitting.

So, I guess that's about all for now.

"Tell It Like It Is" by Aaron Neville has been stuck in my head since I saw the end of Pirate Radio, so go listen to that a few times. It's the only Aaron Neville song I've ever heard that wasn't irritating as hell.

<3angi

Lorca and the Alhambra

So I woke up yesterday early and checked out to head for the train station. Given how disastrous the walk from the station was, I decided to wimp out and take a taxi to the station. Right decision. I had a bit of a wait at the station because I wanted to be early and I wasn’t sure if getting a taxi right away would be easy (but a driver spotted me like the moment I came out the door of my hostal and I nodded at him and he stopped for me. It was pretty great).
The train was a bit different than the last one. I was going from a place much smaller than Madrid to a place smaller than Sevilla, so this wasn’t as fast of a train (I think around 130km/h), and had stops in what appeared to me to be the middle of nowhere.
In Granada, I started to walk, got about 2 blocks from the station and couldn’t find the street I was looking for, so after Sevilla, I said to hell with it and went back and took a taxi. Again, right decision. It was only 5euro, and I didn’t have to sweat like a crazy person and be lost for an hour.
The guy here speaks really good English, and, like in Madrid, he gave me a map and pointed out some things to do, then gave me the fax that had come from the company I booked my Alhambra tour with (more on that shortly). It was pretty much the best arrival I could have hoped for, and solved every concern I had about Granada in about 2 minutes. Sweet.
It was the middle of siesta time when I arrived, so I waited in the hostal for a bit, just hanging out. The guy from the front brought me an electric fan (because this one’s not air conditioned, but honestly, I fought with that a/c so much, I don’t really mind at all) for the room.
Eventually, when it should have been a bit cooler, I went out. I wandered up Gran Via de Colon, and turned towards what I now know is Plaza Nueva (though at the time, I was just wandering). I sat for a bit and wrote and thought. It was a really nice moment; the weather was warm but the sun was down enough that it wasn’t super hot and there was a nice breeze, blowing the leaves around. There was a fountain right in front of me, and every now and then, dogs would stop to drink and splash in it. A guy was playing Spanish guitar half a block down. It was just like being in a movie, and it got me thinking about what kind of plot my movie would have, and spurred a whole moment for me in my writing. A bit of navel-gazing never hurt anyone unless they were standing in traffic, right?
Anyway, when it finally seemed late enough to eat (a bit earlier here, probably because there seems to be a lot of older English-speakers here, a.k.a. the early bird specials), around 8 or 8:30, I picked a place right there at Plaza Nueva and ate on the terrace just on the other side of the fountain I’d been at.
I had a granizada limon (lemon slurpee, delicious), a tapa of tortilla de patatas (told you about that already, if you’ve been reading), and a tosta (like an open faced sandwich) with tomato, ali oli (garlic mayo) and little shrimps on it. It was really good, and this might have been the first time in Spain I’ve really felt like I liked the food. Mostly, I’ve found Spanish food to be ok if I order the right thing, but not my favourite. I don’t know how Spanish this meal was, but presumably more than “salty pancakes,” and I quite enjoyed it.
I also had helado from Tiggiani (which, according to my Andalucia book, has granadinos in a rave about their awesome flavours), and it was quite good. I wandered and explored and got a bit lost and wandered some more and felt a little nervous that I was actually really lost and then kept walking in what felt like the right direction and eventually hit a street I knew and found myself again (in the literal sense, not the figurative “finding oneself” sense).
The only thing I’ve found wrong about Granada so far is that this is the first European shower I’ve had where I don’t really fit. It’s way too short of a room, as in I can’t stand up straight and shampoo my hair. But really, of all the things to complain about, at least I have a shower.
This morning, I got up early to go on my Alhambra tour.
Perhaps I should explain what the Alhambra is? It’s a huge old Muslim walled city up on the hills above Granada where nobels and the Sultan used to live (before 1400, when Spain was still under Muslim rule). It’s also a UNESCO world heritage site, one of the most visited places in Spain, and widely considered to be one of the most beautiful places in the world for the architecture inside the palaces. History lesson over.
I had to go down a couple blocks to a bigger hotel to get picked up and I was very early, so I waited around. Finally, when the people arrived, she tells me (as the man tells the other people in French) that the Alhambra is having a general strike and so it was supposed to still have minimal services, but that her colleague, there since early morning, says it’s actually closed.
Shit.
So, she says, I can get a refund no problem, but really, you don’t go to Granada without seeing the Alhambra. That’s like going to New York city and not going to Times Square, even though you might never get another chance to go there. If Times Square was halfway around the world, was hundreds of years old, and was extremely beautiful, all of which, it is not.
She also says I can try to rebook for another day, but that tomorrow might be impossible because everyone from today will be rebooking for today. I leave here first thing Friday morning.
Double shit.
She gives me the phone number, and I start slowly wandering back toward my hostal, looking at my cellphone, trying to figure out what to do. I don’t even really know how to dial locally with it. But it’s the middle of the night back home, so I can’t call my Dad to ask. But I need to call right away to have much chance of rebooking.
So many shits.
Suddenly, the woman runs up behind me and says “She called to say it’s open, so we can go. Come on.”
No more shit. So many awesomes.
On the bus, I managed to hit my knee on an armrest so hard, it’s now purple and blue, despite the fact that it only happened a few hours ago. Go team graceless.
When we got there, they split us up into language groups. The English group was actually mostly non-native English speakers, but their native language was uncommon enough as to not get a full group (some from Holland, I’m certain I heard some German, and one couple were from India). Other than the daughter of one of the couples, I was definitely the youngest person there.
We walked through the gardens, and I managed to walk into a shin-high wall, scraping my leg open. Team graceless strikes again.
It really was a beautiful place.
But to be honest, I sort of expected more.

Federico Garcia Lorca (as you may know, one of my writerly obsessions in the past year) said “The melancholic and contemplative man goes to Granada to be all alone...near the bonfire of saffron, deep gray, and blotting-paper pink—the walls of the Alhambra.”
That description...I mean, in typical Lorca fashion, he makes it sound like the most perfect place on earth.
But the trouble is that the Alhambra that Lorca saw is not the Alhambra of today. It wasn’t really a tourist attraction then, it wasn’t half under renovation and restoration as it is now, it wasn’t populated by shouting teenagers and screeching children, all on field trips. It was contemplative and beautiful. It was a place a writer could go to write.
And I expect, if I could see it as Lorca saw it, I would feel very differently about it. But honestly, it felt like a very beautiful, but fairly empty (in an emotional sense) tourist attraction.
However, I’m finding Granada to be a lovely city. Granada means pomegranate in Spanish, and Lorca described it as hard and skull-like on the outside, but inside, containing the “blood of the wounded earth.” How beautiful is that? He grew up around and in Granada, and I’ve been reading a biography of him (by Leslie Stainton, it’s extremely detailed and about 2 inches thick, and yes, I carried it with me), trying to see how he might have seen this place. It might seem really cliché. I’m probably pretty far down the list of young writers who’ve idolized him, and thus come to Granada because of his life. But I find something about him and about his writing to be so endlessly fascinating. And don’t even get me started on his relationship to Dali.
Anyway, Granada is treating me well. It really is beautiful here.

“Al coger tu paleta, con un tiro en un ala, / pides la luz que anima la copa del olivo. / Ancha la luz di Minerva, constructora de andamios, / donde no cabe el sueño ni su flora inexacta.”

approximately “When you take up your palette, with a bullet hole in it’s wing / You call on the light that brings to life the olive tree / The light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds / Where there is no room for dream or it’s hazy flower”

-from “Oda a Salvador Dali” by Federico Garcia Lorca.

<3angi