Granada
Posted on 9/21/03
The ride from Torremolinos to Granada was done completely comatose.
I had only managed minimal restful sleep during my last two days in Torremolinos
and due to a communications breakdown between the bus station lady and myself,
I showed up almost two hours early for my bus. I propped myself up with my
book and was barely alert enough to bust a guy trying to unhook the Office
from the Barge and slink off with it. Once I was finally on the bus I passed
out and other than brief moments of consciousness to wipe the drool off my
chin, I stayed that way all the way to Granada.
Despite being September, Granada was hot. Africa hot, which
probably explains why there was a long history of Moors and Arabs making their
homes in the area. There was no ocean breezes to cool things off, just endless
brown, desert-like landscapes and arid plant-life decorating the hillsides.
This dry climate only intensified my cravings for a cool, refreshing jug of
sangria at the end of each day.
I didn’t have a room reserved, but having been to Granada
before I knew it was just a matter of getting off the bus in the city center
and within about two square blocks I would have no less than a dozen “hostals”
(hostels that are not affiliated with the International Hostelling
organization) and pensions (a small step up from hostals, usually hosted out
of someone’s over-sized apartment) to choose from. I found a place on
my first try that offered a private room for only 17 Euros a night. I checked
in immediately.
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As I already mentioned, my feet were a painful, puss-oozing
mess, so other than a slow, excruciating limp to the tourist information office,
I stayed off my bandaged feet until near the end of my second day when I found
the tenacity to venture up into the narrow, steep, winding streets of the
old hillside Arabic neighborhood known as Albaicin. Houses and shops lined
every inch of these claustrophobic streets. Despite being only two or three
stories tall, these structures loomed so closely together that, other than
a brief period in the afternoon when the sun was aligned just so, the streets
of Albaicin were thrown into a merciful shroud of cool shade. Due to the lack
of street space, much of the area could only accommodate foot, bike and scooter
traffic. This transport limitation was even further reduced in the unpleasant
places where the street was so steep that it deteriorated into very precarious
steps. The uneven rocks and stones that paved these thin corridors demand
one’s constant vigilance as a sprained ankle was only a minor mis-step
away. How the residents of this neighborhood moved their furniture in and
out of their homes was beyond me. In many places you couldn’t negotiate
Albaicin with a fair sized wheelbarrow much less a moving van.
After spending the requisite time being thoroughly lost in Albaicin’s
snarl of streets, I managed to escape and move on to tour the numerous cathedrals,
churches and palaces that were scattered around the city center. It was a
Saturday night and dozens of raucous wedding parties were spilling out of
the churches and parading through the streets to their various receptions.
If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I was in Morocco. In addition
to the north African architecture and street designs, Granada stills hosts
a strong Arab community which was evident in the copious number of Arabic
shops and restaurants generously scattered throughout the city, blaring their
distinctive music and smelling of tea and spices.
The big kahuna of attractions in Granada is without a doubt
the Alhambra, a giant, thousand year old fortress on the outskirts of the
city, built by the Moors back when they dominated southern Spain. As I’ve
mentioned repeatedly, massive, ancient structures such as this are a huge
turn on for me, so when I felt that my feet had recovered enough for the hiking
required to take in the Alhambra I moved in. I could have taken one of the
innumerable Rube Tour buses up the hill, but that would have been totally
uncool, so I hauled my sorry ass up the road to the Alhambra, taking several
long breaks to rest and gaze at the never-ending stream of beautiful Spanish
women flowing past. I spent a total of three hours touring the fortifications,
gardens and buildings, all the while being stunned as to how something so
old could still be standing much less looking so good. Then it occurred to
me that with the weather in that part of Spain only swinging from very hot
to mildly cool over the course of the year, it made sense that something built
with the right materials would be able to stand much longer than in, say the
U.K. or Scandinavia where the weather conditions cover a much wider spectrum
and are more punishing to man-made structures, even if they are made out of
steel.
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I haven’t been to Italy or Greece yet, which I hear are
much worse, but so far I have to credit Spain as being the most scooter infested
placed in western Europe. Scooters are everywhere and they are all desperately
in need of a tune-up. You could hear these noise-makers on wheels coming from
blocks away, a phenomenon that was greatly magnified at night when the street
traffic was thin and peaceful. With the heat being what it was, it was vital
to leave the window in my room open all night long and I was lulled to sleep
each night with the high pitched roar of scooters speeding around the city
center. The odd thing I noticed about the scooter community, aside from the
universally mufflerless assault on the ears, was that inevitably when I saw
a guy and his girl riding together on a scooter, the guy was always the one
wearing the helmet. I’m not clear on the exact rules of chivalry
in Spain, but with the Spaniards being so courteous in every other way, I
couldn’t understand why the guy wouldn’t surrender his helmet
to his girl, so that she might be spared a brain damaging injury when the
inevitable collision with a wild cat occurred. Then I realized that perhaps
these women were turning down the helmet in the interest of preserving their
painstaking hair styling efforts. Either way, I saw an unusual number of women
walking around Granada with broken arms. Coincidence?
Despite my partially crippled feet, I managed to hobble through
the brunt of Granada in three days and I promptly made plans to move further
up the coast to Alicante.
