Granada …

Granada …

We all have expectations of what a new life will look like.

Perhaps that’s what makes it hard to uproot oneself.  The fear that the reality may not match the dream.

I had secret fears it would happen to me.  That the Andalucia I fell in love with when I walked through six years ago was remembered through romantic eyes, by naïve recollections.  I wondered if the potent mix of cultural heritage that  intrigued and delighted me had perhaps been diluted by thousands of expat Brits moving in, or never as rich in the first place.  Deep down, I was haunted by the same fears that haunt all of us: was I doing the right thing?  Was it not, perhaps, time to hang up my backpack and accept that life is not an endless adventure?

My dear friend Jeanie and I arrived in Granada in the mid afternoon.  By early evening, we were ensconced on a terracotta terrace, bottle (s) firmly within reach, olives and nuts on a plate, gazing in awe at the ancient stone of the Alhambra changing colour in the dusk.  An hour later we watched a shining moon beam down upon it like a benediction.  In that moment, I think most of my fears evaporated. Those that hadn’t melted away over the coming days.

Slightly worn out after an arrival in Madrid that ended in both of us waltzing into our pension at seven in the morning –complete with roses in hand – having enjoyed rather too much of the local tapas, wine, and gin (don’t ask), we planned on taking it easy the first couple of days in Granada. We were staying in the Albaicin, where I now have a flat.  It is the old part of Granada, a Moorish scramble of white washed terraces tumbling down a mountain side.  Mostly free of vehicles – apart from the odd suicidal scooter rider -  the only sounds come from birds singing to the evening, and strains of flamenco floating from open windows.  Cobblestoned alleyways twist and turn beneath overhanging boughs of pomegranates and lemons, delicate moaic patterns winding sinuously through the stone. A snow capped Sierra Nevada stands sentinel over the thousand tiny bars and teterias serving tapas, vino, and mint tea.  And above it all, the Alhambra curls in sensual folds, lush gardens and intricate designs, reminding all who pass through her of life’s infinite beauty.

Andalucia is an instant antidote to cynicism and doubt.  Its incandescent beauty would melt the ice of a thousand analytical minds.   On the second day we were here, somewhat numb after touring the city trying to find a flat, we took refuge with a couple of seriously big mojitos in the sunny forecourt of a local restaurant.  It was a holiday, and the Albaicin was humming. Moroccan shopkeepers lured the visiting tourists into their hole in the wall stalls.  The hippy students who constitute much of the Albaicin’s population sold their handmade jewellery and played guitar on every corner.  Families wandered, couples ate, and Jeanie and I basked in the delicious Andalucian sun. Three women arrived in the middle of the plaza.  Two sat on low stools, one with a guitar, one clapping softly.  The third placed a wooden board on the cobblestones, and after clapping her hands to find the beat, began to dance. Right there in the middle of the plaza, surrounded by rapt onlookers, she danced and stamped to the music around her, completely absorbed.  The crowd grew and grew, loving the passion and sponteneity erupting in the middle of a tiny alleyway on a lazy sunny afternoon. Finally, chest heaving and sweating in the heat, she threw her arms up to finish the flamenco, and the crowd erupted in rapturous applause.  Totally unselfconsciously, she went over to the nearest fountain and doused her face and neck in cold water, then packed up and walked away. She reminded me of all the reasons I love this place.  She was neither young nor lithe, but, God, she was beautiful.  Her smile stretched her whole face and she danced with everything she had. I struggled not to cry as I watched her, caught up in every move of her body.  Flamenco is, I think, the most powerful of all dance forms I can imagine.

Two days later, Jeanie and I went to the Alhambra. Walking up the steep hill to its entrance days before, I’d been aware of gradually entering another world as the gardens became thicker and more lush, the sound of tinkling water and utter peace taking the place of the central traffic.  But on the day we actually visited the palaces themselves, it was bucketing down rain, and so we exchewed the long approach for a far more comfortable taxi ride, and entered at the top. The Alhambra has been described, by far better pens than mine, using a variety of voluptuous language.  From those who wrote of it in its Moorish beginnings to  Washington Irving’s delightful 19th century book (which I am currently loving), it has never ceased to inspire awe and passionate response.  The word ‘sensual’, for my money, is the description I like the most.

It is the detail, above all, that I love.  Everything is perfectly geometrically positioned, so that at any point, one window lines up with another, one doorway frames a further perspective.  Every inch has been worked with curlicued, painstaking pattern and design, every one absorbing and mesmerizing.  It is an overwhelming onslaught of sensory delight; around every corner, there is another wonder awaiting, an even greater beauty.  From the official palaces to the traditional residence of the Moorish rulers, to the magical tranquility of the Generalife gardens, I wandered, awestruck by every inch.  There wasn a nook or cranny that I didn’t feel I couldn’t curl up in and be happy to spend the rest of my days.  I was silenced, thrilled, and passionately grateful to be somewhere so stunning.

The very best of it for me is that I can now go and sit in awe as often as I like. I began my language course last Monday, having fortuitously found a flat the day before I was due to begin.   After a few moments of wondering if I’d be living in a hostel for the rest of my stay, on Saturday afternoon I came across the most gorgeous apartment, on the ground floor in the Albaicin bajo – the quietest part of the Albaicin, and exactly where I wanted to be.  If the multi roomed layout for a budget price hadn’t already sold me, the view of the Alhambra from the rooftop certainly finished the job. Hard to take, sitting up there with a vino or two.

My course is going incredibly well so far.  I am doing five hours of Spanish study a day, five days a week, so it is pretty full on, but seriously enjoyable.  There are only two of us in my class, and bizarrely, the other is Australian as well, so we are certainly getting our moneyś worth.  Four months of this and I should be yabbering away happily! I guess I will try to update this more regularly now, although I often wonder if I’ve much of anything important to say.  I don’t have access to the net at home, so I am not that regular at checking everything.

Just so you know.

Meantime, I am going to wander back up my little alleyway, have a mint tea and speak some very ordinary Arabic with the patient Moroccan stall holders, and then go and talk to the Alhambra.  (This is it from my terrace.)

Which is pretty much my idea of heaven.

I guess that the fears are always there.  But when I sit on the terrace and gaze across the valley at the snow topped Sierra Nevada gleaming in the dusk behind the purple walls of the Alhambra, I figure that every one of them is worthwhile.  There isn’t an adventure out there that isn’t worth having, and I truly hope I am fortunate enough to have a thousand more.