Catching up: Granada and Adventures with Columbus

I do apologize to you, my precious few readers, for not having updated this blog for a few weeks. A few things contributed to this. First, I've been more busy as of late than I was at the beginning of the semester. Second, I haven't taken any big trips a-la-Barcelona since, well, Barcelona. Third, I'm historically remarkably lazy when it comes to documenting things. From my first planner in middle school to this travelogue, I tend to drag my feet quite a bit before I muster up enough discipline to write out anything. So, again, I apologize. Spain is still wonderful, and I'm still having a great time and doing fine.

A few weeks ago, we made our first multi-day excursion of the semester to Granada. Granada, as with many cities we've visited up to this point, was a very important city in the context of the Arab rule in Spain from 711-1492. Granada was the last Muslim stronghold to fall to the Christian Reconquista, or Reconquest, of the peninsula. Indeed, it was only after the fall of Granada that Spain as we know it today was properly unified. Thus, granadinos (people from Granada) like to say that their city is the birthplace of Spain.

I was really looking forward to going to Granada, in large part because of a particular poster that used to hang in the classroom at Cypress Falls High School where I took Spanish IV and V. It featured the ornate Alhambra, the sultan's residence, with gorgeous greenery and flowers. Its caption read, "Dale limosna, mujer, que no hay nada en la vida como la pena de ser ciego en Granada." , which translates to, "Give alms, woman; for there is nothing in life like the pain of being blind in Granada." This is a popular dicho that is actually featured several places in the city. The context is an exhortation to passersby to be generous to the ubiquitous beggars, especially those who are blind, because they bear the terrible pain of not being able to see the beauty that surrounds them.


Arguably Granada's most famous attraction is the architecturally spectacular Alhambra palace. It was built in the 14th century as the house and main offices of the ruling emir, a medieval White House, if you will. It is perhaps the most stunning example of Moorish architecture in all of Spain, which really is saying quite a bit. Tragically, my camera ran out of batteries before we got there, so I'll have to rely on some stock pictures.

The incredibly intricate patterns shown in the picture above are literally everywhere in the sprawling palace. People come to the Alhambra and take thousands of pictures essentially showing the same thing. In this sense, the Alhambra is almost like a man-made, Moorish Grand Canyon. When people go to the Grand Canyon in Arizona, they have a tendency to be overwhelmed by the views surrounding them. And rightly so. The unfortunate thing for the people who have to sit through their slideshows is that they take pictures at every turn, all of which look rather similar. Same with the Alhambra. Take any single room from it and put it in a museum in the US or, really, anywhere in the world, and it would be a huge attraction, all passing by would be stunned. Multiply that by hundreds, and you start to get a sense of what walking around the Alhambra is like. It's a bit numbing, actually, which really is a shame. "Oh," you begin to think, "another cavernous room covered in the most incredibly detailed and beautiful molding that I've ever seen. What time's lunch?"

The one thing that disappointed me about the Alhambra, and Granada in general, was that the beautiful plants and flowers that I had seen a few years ago in my classroom weren't there: it's winter, and nothing's really blossoming. Which was unfortunate. But, on the bright side, it gives me a reason to take another trip to Spain in the future.

After our visit to the Alhambra, we went to our hotel to check in and rest. Earlier, some of the staff was talking about organizing a trip to one of Granada's famous cuevas (caves) to see flamenco, which is by many accounts some of the best in Spain. I jumped at the chance. And I have to say, it was one of the most incredible things I've ever seen.

It was a very intimate setting, a small room with a wooden floor in the middle surrounded by chairs one row deep. We got a drink with the price of admission, so I sipped on a glass of house red wine while we waited for the dancing to start. We had maybe a dozen students, plus a few faculty and staff. I got to sit next to my literature professor, Dr. Connie Scarborough, and her husband Chuck.

After maybe ten minutes of waiting, two men, one carrying a guitar, came and sat down across the floor from me. A few moments later, three women, two young and one old, wearing colorful, form-fitting flamenco dresses, took their seats next to the man without a guitar, who turned out to be the singer. What followed was a thing of beauty. The guitarist began to play, the singer began to sing and clap, and the three women began to clap and stomp their feet in rhythm. Then, one of the women stood up from her chair and took her place in the middle of the floor. I recorded a brief snippet of it. It's not the best quality, nor is it the most representative bit of the performance. But you can at least get an idea of how the dancing and clapping and stomping and singing worked.

In this performance, I was reminded a lot of the Preservation Hall Jazz Band in New Orleans. Like them, these flamenco artists perform in an intimate setting, practicing an art that relies as much on technical prowess as it does the performer's ability to "feel" the music, the soul of it, if you will, and which is filled with controlled improvisation. And like the famous New Orleans jazz band, these performers were so completely in sync with what the others were doing that it was as if they shared the same heart, lungs, hands, and brain. There weren't five individuals, but rather a single entity comprised of five bodies, all intimately connected with each other. It was moving in the deepest sense of the word. Music, when done at such a level, has a way of communicating the unsayable, the emotions that would be impossible to convey any other way.

Yes, the place was touristy. Yes, they probably do this show every night. But that's the point. They do this every night. And yet, every single night, when they get into their groove, they put their entire heart and soul into their performance. It's as if they were alone in the middle of the floor, without an audience, without lights, just them and the music. And it's truly a thing of beauty.

When I got back from my flamencan adventures, I was greeted by piping hot, freshly made bread that my hotel roommates had bought. Spanish bread is magnificent. Crispy crust, angelically dense, soft inside. And cheap, too. Each of the loaves pictured below, which were made to order, cost 75 cents.

The next day in Granada was left completely open. Some wandered around the city, others spent the day in the gorgeous Sierra Nevada mountains that overlook the city. I decided to take a few side trips with Dr. Scarborough, her husband, and some of the staff from the center. Our first stop was the summer home of Federico Garcia Lorca, whom I talked about in my Cordoba post, which has been converted into a museum. Huerta San Vicente, as it's known, is a really neat place. All of the furniture is original, and it also houses original letters, manuscripts, and other memorabilia from the poet. Unfortunately, we couldn't take pictures OR touch anything, the latter I promptly broke upon entering Lorca's room. How could I not put a hand on the desk where my favorite poet wrote some of his classic work? Sure, it got me a light reprimand from the tour guide. Whatever. I don't live in Granada. They can get over it.

Anyway, the rest of the day was spent walking around and touring churches, which are spectacular, but which also make for poor blogging material. For those who are interested, I'll post the pictures on facebook.

Our next excursion, the following weekend, was a Columbus-filled road trip which covered the place from where he set sail for the new world as well as the monastery where he convinced Queen Isabel's confessor, who later convinced the queen, that his journey around the world was a good idea.

Pictured above is the place from where Columbus set sail. The structure in the middle of the picture is a well; the last thing to be loaded onto the ships was fresh water. Now I can already hear the sarcastic comments. How did Columbus set sail on dry land? Back in the day, the water actually came right up to the well. Now, the water line is almost a mile away. But rest assured, this was the actual well where they filled the ships, which would've been anchored a short distance away.

After seeing the authentic sights, we went to the docks where they have full-size replicas of the three ships Columbus took on his voyage. I didn't really take any pictures, for two reasons. Number one, it was really cheesy. Complete with mannequins and recorded sounds of the sea. Number two, I've already seen them. No, really. There were two sets of replicas made. One is here in Spain, and the other... Is located in none other than Corpus Christi, Texas. So that was a bit of a letdown. The take home point there is that the ships were really quite small, and had a lot of people on them. Not worth the camera battery.

After a day of exploring, we stopped at a beach on the way back to Sevilla. The Atlantic was cold that day, but that didn't stop me and a handful of other guys from jumping in in our boxers. Maybe not something I would do in America. But this is Europe. No one would have batted an eyelash even had we gone in stark naked. A wonderful finish to a so-so excursion.

More soon.