11 February to 18 February 2019

Before leaving Cordoba, I found a duplex apartment in Granada. It was larger than I needed, with two bedrooms and two baths, but the three terraces with views of the city and the Sierra Nevada mountains compelled me to book it.

The response from the host, Rafa, was unexpected. He had just returned from traveling and was not eager to leave again. Would I be willing to share the space–he was not only very quiet, but we would each have our own floor–and in return, he would be my personal guide? I thought, Sure. Why not?

Rafa asked me my interests, and what I would like to do. I told him about my desire to know local culture and the non-touristy Granada. The Alahambra being the obvious exception, and a day tour there was the only activity I’d planned.

We made arrangements for him to pick me up when I arrived in town via a BlaBla Car (think Uber meets Airbnb). His station wagon was packed with some chairs, a table, and an array of large knickknacks. After his studies he’d become a web developer for ten years, but tired of it. These last three he was making a go at selling antiques and curiosities. I immediately felt at ease with Rafa. He was responsible, considerate, and happy to speak only Spanish.

His apartment resembled a museum. After settling in he showed me, like a proud father, some of his finds. The stuffed armadillo and lava lamp didn’t wow me, but the vintage clocks, radios, record players, all working beautifully, and the 19th century stereoscope with images of Granada and the Sierra Nevada did. The views from the terraces did too.

Later I decided to do some exploring on my own and wandered up the steep, narrow, ancient streets to the Plaza de San Nicolas.

Kind locals, who lived in this maze of winding streets, helped me find the way. In the bustling plaza, tourists gathered for a splendid view of Alahambra, young folks in Haight-Ashbury circa-1967-style sold handmade jewelry with their docile dogs in tow, and men sang and strummed their guitars for offerings.

I didn’t linger long and found an outdoor cafe with an equally stunning view, minus the crowds and fragrant smoke. It was a great place to relax, write, and spend a few hours admiring my surroundings. I sipped a beer and slowly emptied an overflowing dish of olives. The sun’s rays were fierce, but an umbrella provided shade.

I’d passed a flyer announcing a Flamenco Jam that evening at 9pm. Despite an early start and long day I decided to go. As soon as the sun went down so did the temperature. I was reminded of the snow-covered mountains’ proximity. I wandered awhile then sat in a Middle Eastern Cafe to wait an hour and get warm, sipping fresh mint tea and eating baklava. The other customers indulged in kind or smoked shisha.

The theater housing the jam was small and informal. Wooden benches filled the narrow space down to the elevated stage. Most of the seats were filled. Some of the audience had brought instruments. A guitarist, piano player(rather novel I thought), and singer filled the intimate space, baring their souls, with passion and song . After an intermission these gifted pros invited younger musicians to jam.

The musicians found a place both physically and musically on the small stage. Each took a solo in turn. A young woman sat unobtrusively on the side of the stage wearing a tee-shirt and jeans beating the rhythm with her hands. And then she stood up and was instantaneously transformed. She embodied flamenco with her every breath and gesture. Her body twirled, swayed, and stomped while her hands moved like birds. Song flowed in rhythmic harmony while she danced. Each sound encouraged another. And then all too soon, she sat unobtrusively once more.

The concert was over at 1am. I was more energized than tired, but I’d made plans to go swimming around noon the following day and I was happy to go back home. But where was that exactly? I had no idea. I’d wandered most of the day without paying attention. And my phone’s battery had run down.

Fortunately I remembered the address and knew the apartment couldn’t be too far. I stopped into a bar explaining my plight and a woman working there wrote down directions from her phone. After some additional requests for assistance, all graciously heeded, I found home.

In the morning, while drinking my coffee, Rafa asked if he could join me in the living room. “Mi casa es tu casa.” I replied. I didn’t wish him to feel unwelcome in his own home. I’d been enjoying the images on his stereoscope and was gently reproached for not being up on the terrace to enjoy the morning view. Frankly, I’d forgotten about it. The top terrace with a 360 degree view of the town and mountains was a perfect way to start one’s day, particularly after the sun rose enough to warm the day.

Rafa and I made arrangements to meet later at the pool. I would be his guest. And then he mentioned that my planned visit to the Alahambra during the day would be wonderful, but it couldn’t compare to seeing it at night. He handed me a ticket for that evening.

After swimming an hour in the warm waters of a nearly empty pool I went home to change. Rafa had recommended a restaurant just down the street. It had a tapas bar, small round tables, and several large ones accommodating colleges coming from work. It was packed, understandably so. The ample three course lunch of the day: calamari, fish, and fresh pineapple was delicious and cost around eight dollars. Despite people waiting for seats, the wait staff had no issue with people lingering over their coffees. Interfering would be liking rushing someone through their prayers.

That afternoon I wandered again through the narrow streets to meet Rafa, fortunately taking a Uber part of the way up into the hills where Spain’s Gitano or Romani communities have been living in caves for centuries. The interiors of these dwellings stay nearly a constant temperature through hot summer days and cold winter nights. Recently the area has attracted those wishing to live off-grid. The homes, varying from simple to ornate, lack basic utilities, but have wonderful views. The steep, dirt and rocky, walking paths provide the only access.

Rafa introduced me to his friends, a couple, whose beautiful home, painstakingly decorated with carved wood, ceramics, glass, and plants, despite having no running water or indoor plumbing, belonged on the pages of House and Garden. They sell pizza , from their wood-burning oven, in the summer months to passersby, much to the irritation of their neighbor, who clearly cherished his privacy and solitude.  Rafa and I continued our stroll then sat and watched the sky turn red at dusk.

Soon after I hurried off on foot to the Alahambra in the near dark for the night visit. Visitors were beckoned to behold the wonders of architecture and design.

I walked slowly from room to room in awe of the prodigious craftmanship and beauty. The structure was artfully illuminated, but it was the moon glowing above the outside courtyards that stopped my breath.

The following day Rafa took me to a nearby bar. It had a counter, a few tables, and stools like in a 1950’s diner.  A pot-bellied man behind the counter greeted us, then attended to several men already seated at a table. There he introduced me to his friend Paco. It was around noon and Rafa and Paco ordered beer, I ordered coffee. We took our seats on the stools. Unlike Rafa, whose every word I understood, Paco spoke Spanish quickly and less distinctly. I had to make a considerable effort to catch his gist when he spoke. The owner/waiter/cook then placed a heaping plate of potatoes with a dozen quails eggs atop. We each took a fork and shared the food. Its simplicity was deceiving. The flavors were rich and complex.

Rafa, who’d be busy all day with appointments arranged my day to be spent with Paco who’d offered to introduce me to the local tapas culture of which Granada is renown.

After we finished eating Paco and I walked a short distance on the streets of the neighborhood. There was no view of our surroundings, except the four-story buildings tightly wedged together one after another: apartments are generally above with shops below. Each block looked identical. Unlike the serpentine roads in the ancient quarters, these streets all met at right angles. The entrances to the buildings open on to the road so there are no sidewalks, but traffic is scarce and vehicles usually go slowly.

Paco stopped in front of a nondescript door with opaque glass. There was no indication that anything lie beyond. But we stepped inside to find a lively, tiny space with a wrap around counter. A few barrels were set up like tables and six or seven stools edged up to the bar providing the only seating options. There were at least twenty people huddled in small groups engaging in animated discussions. I looked up and saw a sign indicating that the legal maximum capacity was fourteen.

Paco ordered us glasses of beer. Two plates of tuna and peppers with bread were placed in front of us. This pattern would continue for the next few hours, although I quickly switched over to sparkling water and apple soda, and each dish would be different. Paco continued drinking beer. Each time he placed a drink order, complimentary plates of food including artichokes, mussels, pork, olives, anchovies, and sausage were served. Although the fare was simple, it was all delicious. While Paco showed no signs of sating his thirst, or appetite, I drank up the atmosphere. He shared his philosophy on art restoration, one of his professions, owning an antiques shop was another, and working in the Alahambra, including doing restoration on the exquisite Court of Lions. While this miniscule bar was humming and tightly packed with customers, I did my best to imagine the Friday night dancing he described beneath the hoisted disco ball.

When Paco was ready to move on after drinking his ten beers, I had four assorted beverages, I paid the bill as a thank you. It came to fourteen Euros. Our tapas bar hopping would continue awhile longer. There was still gazpacho and other regional specialities to eat elsewhere.

That evening. Rafa had invited me to a highly coveted annual event with the company Gato Gordo whose speciality was “micro-theatre.” Their original pieces ran about thirty minutes in length for an audience of fifteen to twenty people. This evening had been sold out months ago, but Rafa was close friends to several of the members and he had managed to get my name on the guest list. In the past the evening consisted of four pieces performed in different rooms of the same building, but this year that building was unavailable. So friends opened their homes and shops throughout the neighborhood to the audience.

Rafa took me to a park where the lucky few of us gathered. There in costumes the performers sang, danced, and then calling roll call broke us up into separate groups. We followed our leaders who, outrageous and hilarious in manner and dress, led us through the streets to four unique “theatres” where a microplay would unfold.

First we took our places on the wooden floor of a crowded antique shop, Paco’s by the way, and watched a man lament to women about an assault he’d experienced. But instead of receiving understanding and assistance he was met with indifference, suspicion and blame; enduring a trauma not once, but twice. Then we squeezed into a small art gallery where a young woman sought guidance from two shaman to be free. Afterwards in a bookshop we huddled around a loquacious witch who cackled infectiously while telling her dark tales. And finally in an elegant apartment, we lounged on comfortable sofas while Edith Piaf’s voice emanated from a record player and a couple unsuccessfully struggled to find the love they had lost.

The next morning Rafa asked if I’d slept well. I had not. Images from the evening kept on weaving through my mind. Some of them prompted laughter and others tears. I was elated, exhausted, and enchanted.

It was the day I’d originally scheduled to tour the Alahambra. The night visit did not provide access to the gardens so I spent some hours during the day wandering the beautiful grounds and visiting the Alcazar. It was now the strong sun and not the moon rising overhead. I sought shelter from the rays and wandered through rooms I’d seen before, but previously unseen details continuously revealed themselves.

That afternoon I was to meet Rafa. He was taking me to have lunch up in the hills. I passed an artist market and once again head into Albaicin’s winding cobbled-streets up towards Sacromonte. Some of the streets began to look familiar and landmarks were helpful, but locals answering my questions were even more so.

After meeting up with Rafa, Paco joined us. He’d been out most of the night drinking and looked it. I asked him what time he’d woken up and he said. ” I haven’t, I’m still sleeping.” Our trio would soon include seven more. Friends, and friends of friends, including a young man from India who was studying architectural photography. We gathered at a home, one of the cave dwellings, where a woman outside was busily preparing paella. Her home was also her restaurant, not that there was any indications. It was simply luck or word of mouth that got you there.

Soon we would all be sitting around a long table feasting. I am no connoisseur, but the meal was divine. Many bottles of beer and wine were opened and quickly finished. I drank mostly water but felt no less festive. I soon found myself learning the basics of flamenco from the women who literally welcomed me into their open arms as they moved my hips to the music.

Singing and dancing filled the hours. Coffee was eventually served with a potent digestif. We chipped in for the feast and hugged and kissed our hosts goodbye.

By now it was around 6pm. We all walked back towards the town center, but ten minutes later we stopped at another cave dwelling. I’d mistakenly thought our socializing was nearing an end. A small woman in her eighties welcomed us in. She ran a drinking establishment, for those in the know, from her home. We each took a seat around a large table. Once again the sun’s warmth had faded and we were grateful to cover our legs with blankets and feel the warmth from a heater placed under the table.

Copious amounts of beer were served and drank. Laughter was frequent and although I couldn’t understand everything and said very little, it was impossible not to join in.  My not saying much caught the attention of our host. When she was told I came from New York her eyes widened. “That is very far away. They speak English there.” she said. “Now I understand why you are so quiet.” And warmly laughed.

Her neighbor, a shaman, sat with us and occasionally shared some insight about our pasts or futures. The shaman did not seek payment. He genuinely wished others to benefit from his gift. And a young woman was eager to know if the man she was with was the right man for her: it was obvious to everyone in the room that they were completely smitten with each other. The shaman’s private comment was not shared, but she seemed no less content than when she arrived.

Usually I’m a sceptic, but suddenly I wanted to know what he saw in me too. As we were saying our goodbyes, the shaman approached and looked at me intently. “You have a grandmother who is ill.” His unsolicited words surprised me. I was silent for a moment then replied, “She’s passed away.”  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that both of my grandmothers had passed away ages ago. Admittedly, I was flattered that he thought I could have a grandmother still alive, but any faith in his gift that I might have mustered quickly faded.

As our group walked toward the center of town we gave each other big hugs and said our goodbyes before heading off elsewhere. I was invited to meet with them again, but that would have to wait. I was leaving Granada very early the following morning.

Rafa and I walked on awhile longer. I had some last-minute errands to take care of and he exhausted from his exuberant gallivanting was off to bed. We strolled comfortably in our silence like old friends. Then, before turning toward our destinations, I thanked him as I had numerous times before, and we wished each other well.