Queen of Andalusia - Part 2

Queen of Andalusia - Part 1

As we were talking to the cop, a shopkeeper came up to us and pointed up to the woman on the balcony. About a minute a later middle-aged, blond woman came down and started talking to us in Spanish. We showed her the address we were looking for, and as she led us to the location (which was about a 3 minute walk from her house) we realized that she was the owner of the hostel we were staying at. On the way to the hostel she pointed to a church, to her eyes, and then said Mirador. I thought it was the name of the church, and that she was hinting that all we had to do is locate the church to find the hostel. But I later found out that I was wrong.

We finally reached Plaza Bardalome, a very small, cobble stone paved plaza, surrounded by beautiful homes that you can only find in Granada. She opened the door of the hostel, a place which had served as a home for a Muslim, Jewish, and Christian family, representing the rich diversity of Granada and a symbolic reminder of the religious tolerance that Granada was known for. Our room was small and dark, but that didn’t matter to me, I just wanted a place to crash at night. I wasn’t planning to spend much time in the hostel anyway, that is until I saw the stunning terrace. The house had a massive terrace, reimincent of the “asateeh” commonly found in Syrian homes. The terrace overlooked Albayzín, and offered a fantastic view of Alhambra set against a backdrop of snow covered mountain tops. In the house garden was an acadenya (loquat) tree, a fruit that I hadn’t seen in over 12 years, sparrows were flying left and right, and the "Mirador" church tower was almost within reach, to put it simply the sight was out of a post card. We were hungry and I was anxious to see the city. We went down to the valley that seperates the hill on top of which Alhambra sits from Albayzín. We took our time on the way down, once reaching Grand Via, I stopped by a small shop to buy a map and then continued on to find the first shawarma restaurant I could find. After eating we made our way back to the hostel to be greeted by our third travel partner who traveled separately from us on the way to Granada. It turned out he also got lost on the way, and ended finding his way to the same plaza where we saw the cop. A Spanish man invited him for a beer when he saw him aimlessly wandering through the streets.

I won't go into all of the details of the next few days since there are many. For two nights of the three we spent in Granada we spent it with 3 girls we met at the hostel. They were teaching English in a small village at the southern tip of Spain and were visiting Granada for a weekend getaway. We found out that Mirador meant "look-out point" in Spanish, and we ended up spending a bit of time mesmerizing over the stunning scenery as far as they eye could see. We walked through rundown alleys with great graffiti decorating the walls, some graffiti bearing the fingerprints of Banksi, who was rumoured to have visited Granada recently.

The major highlight of my short visit were seeing Alhambra. It's hard to describe one's feeling when you step into Alhambra, for me I think it was a mix of awe and sadness. To get to Alhambra I had gotten up earlier than I was hoping for you. I tried to wake up my two friends but after a few unsuccessful attempts, I packed some water in my backpack, a croissant and left the hostel in a hurry trying to beat the terrifying line-ups. I didn't know the bus schedule from Albayzín, so I opted to run down the steep, narrow alleys, making decisions on which path to take on the fly, focusing that I was moving in a downhill direction. The streets were quite and empty, every now and then I would get a glimpse of Alhambra, which looked even more elegant at the break of dawn. It was an experience I will never forget. When I got to the bottom of the hill, I ran towards the main plaza where I saw Alhambra buses waiting a day before. Sure enough I found the tiny bus that escorted the tourists on their pilgrimage towards Alhambra through the picturesque neighbourhoods. The streets were filled with party animals having just finished a busy night of clubbing at the break of dawn. The bus filled up quickly, and the red walls of Alhambra began to creep up closer and closer. The line-up wasn't as long as I thought, and it gave me an opportunity to meet with a Japanese girl, and a British guy who turned out to be a great company as we toured Alhambra together.

To say that Alhambra is an art piece is an understatement. If I had ever pictured heaven, it would look very similar to Alhambra. Nestled in on a hill, surrounded by lush gardens, and with water features running through the whole palace, one can't help but be in awe. No shortcuts were taken in building Alhambra. The best of best is all the King settled for, and that's what he got. I pictured the King overlooking his "Ghornata" as it is called in Arabic, from everyone of the gorgeous nooks decrated with Islamic arches and surrounded by painstakingly carved walls. How lucky of a king he was, I thought. Then, as I went into the The “Abencerrajes” Hall and the feeling of envy changed to a feeling of sorrow. Sorrow for the King, who in this very hall, handed over the keys of Granada after admitting defeat. How hard it must have been not only leaving a kingdom, but a place like this, I thought. After visiting the gardens of Generalife and the towers that form the silouhette of Alhambra we opted for a taste of home at a Lebanese restaurant in Albayzín. Kafta, kibbih, and dips filled the table, and what better way to wash it down than with the local summer drink 'tinto de verano.'

In the time lefts in Granada we attended a Flamenco performance in a very intimate Flamenco bar in Albayzín. We strolled through the streets, hit the shisha bars, and soaked up Alhambra beer. We spent the last day sitting on the terrace, quite, sad, and reflecting on a place that had touched us in a way that we didn't expect. We packed our bags and headed towards the train station for our overnight trip to Barcelona. We boarded the train and took one last look towards Granada through the small window of the sleeper room. I retired in my bunk and waited for the train to start moving towards our next destination, officially bringing our visit to an end.

San Bardalome... finally!

The terrace

One of the streets I ran down on the way to catch the bus to Alhambra (in the background)

One of the many nooks where the King would have spent some time

The gardens of Generalife

A gorgeous Flamenco dancer.. Ole indeed!

Queen of Andalusia - Part 1

The story of Granada is a long one, one that will engraved in my memory forever.  Never had a city cast its spell on me as quickly as Granada did.  Out of all the stops on my Eurotrip last summer, Granada was the city I was looking forward to seeing the most.  The anticipation stemmed from a mix of its historical importance, and the special romance that I knew Granada would have... on to the story. 

After spending a few nights in Madrid, we used the ultra efficient metro system to get to the train station to catch our ride to Granada.  The train ride provided some of the best scenery I have ever come across.  The train made its way through mountains crowned with wind turbines and doted by numerous olive trees.  I looked at farm houses scattered here and there and wished that I the train would stop so I can take a closer look, and perhaps convince myself to give up all my plans and grow olives instead.   I kept looking ahead, hoping to catch an early glimpse of Granada before our arrival there.  Every time I saw a town from far away I would look carefully at the town’s features, trying to glimpse Alhambra, and every time I was disappointed. 

The train finally arrived, and to my disappointment none of the surroundings looked as I had imagined.  The train station seemed to be on the edge of the city, a city that looked very modern and lacking character.  Before finding our way to the hostel we first had to book our next train to Barcelona, which we managed to do using sign language and facial expressions.  After a brief encounter with the police (they stopped us to check our passports) we were on our way aimlessly trying to find the hostel.  All we were armed with is “Plaza San Bartalome” and bus route numbers.  We walked along what seemed to be one of the main streets in Granada trying to find a map of the city.  We managed to find a bus stop with a map, but to our disappointment the stop wasn’t part on the routes we were looking for.  Tired from carrying the heavy backpack and thirsty from the heat, we started to look for anything which might help us.  I noticed a shawarma restaurant, so I crossed my fingers that the owner spoke Arabic and went in.  I waited until he was finished serving a customer, found out he spoke Arabic, so I explained to him our situation. He offered to help us after short and pleasant conversation.  He couldn’t leave the restaurant so he went out and stopped a beautiful Spanish girl walking by, whom he seemed to know.  He told her to lead us to Albayzín, and we gladly followed. We communicated through smiles and the odd nod, until a few minutes later she stopped pointed to her left and said “Albayzín.”  We weren’t ecstatic about seeing a very steep hill ahead of us, but at least we were close… or so we thought. 

The steep slope ahead

Despite the hard walk uphill, my body was suddenly pumped full of energy with

 every step I took through the narrow alley. We came across an old bazaar which reminded me of Old Damascus, the people, the bustle, the merchandise, every last detail.  I was finally seeing the Granada that I had expected.   We kept making our way up the steep hill asking strangers about San Bartalome, most people didn’t know where it was, and the ones that did spoke to us in Spanish.  We started making left turns and right turns as we pleased, not knowing where we were headed.  Although I was vey tired, I couldn’t wait to get to the hostel, throw my bag down and roam the streets of old Granada.  

After about a half hour of walking we reached an open plaza bustling with people, all recognizing us as strangers to their little town.  We saw a police car and swiftly made our way there to ask him for directions, as we were asking him about San Bartalome, I noticed a Spanish lady standing on her balcony seemingly yelling out to her kid on the street.  The cop flipped through his little map book trying to locate San Bartalome.. it was about 45 minutes after we arrived at Albayzín and over an hour and a half after we got to Granada, and we still didn’t know where the hostel was.  To be continued...

The bustling plaza we came across right before seeing the police car