A lot has happened in the four weeks since I last wrote, and also I recently raced through Emily Perkins' newest novel The Forrests (a surprise package that turned up in a small French village from my pretty amazing family), which really lived up to my expectations, as I so hoped it would (Perkins being one of my favourite authors). In it she successfully leads the reader through nearly the entire lives of the main characters in a very personal way with the use simply of one anecdote or life event full of beautifully described ordinary details per chapter. As with all good books, I found it very inspiring. Viola, some short snippets from the past little while ...
-
We managed to successfully navigate the adventure that is flying with a cheap European airline and then finding the bus station, purchasing tickets in a language you don't really speak and trundling along past olive groves for three hours to finally reach Granada. Like many things when travelling, this otherwise mundane experience brought with it a decent sense of achievement and some minor fascination. Dismay also threatened to make an appearance when we were staring out the bus' windows at the grey, industrial looking outskirts of Seville and Granada - where was the beautiful Andalusia that everyone had told us about? Soon enough though we were, indeed, among churches and plazas and road-side orange trees.
The next morning we hauled ourselves out of bed when it was still dark in order to visit the most popular tourist attraction in Spain, the Alhambra (Andalusia's Gaudi). A very animated taxi driver took us through the winding streets and up the hill, turning tiny corners with precision - cheerful, laughing, hurrying to get us there on time, telling us all about Andalusia and how Granada is the fairest city of them all. At about 7.30am we were faced with the huge, sleepy cue for tickets, the sun not yet fully risen. Thanks to an insider tip from our hostel's owner we managed to find the shortest line, tiny cups of dark coffee in hand, and be in the gates just after opening.The day was spent wandering the extraordinary palaces, prison grounds and gardens of the Alhambra. Thanks to the way it is maintained, this felt like walking side by side with the "foppish ghosts" (a very apt phrase courtesy of the Lonely Planet guide) who inhabited its grounds, like stepping back in time and discovering that something so old it seems like fiction really is (/was) a reality.
-
On our last night we weaved through the white houses of the hilltop neighbourhood Albaicin to see the Alhambra lit up. We watched the moon rise as the sky became darker and the orange lights flicked on one by one. Afterwards we found a bar where free tapas were served with each 1.50 euro beer and, being in the South (where English is hardly spoken), we pulled out the phrasebook to try to decipher the menu (although we eventually went with our usual, "what the hell, let's get this strange-sounding one" strategy anyway). The owner took a liking to us and when we refused food with the last beer because we couldn't possibility eat any more, he (while at first appearing a little offended) decided to compensate by bringing out three shots of beer for us to share over some jumbled, hand-gesture laden conversation, followed by some chilled dessert wine. And so Granada welcomed us with open arms.
Our hostel was a 500 year old building with tiled walls inside and three rooftop terraces. One of them had a hammock which we made great use of, especially one morning after admittedly overindulging in the vino tinto at a few of Sevilla's side-street bars. Surrounded by hundreds of roofs and a few church steeples that seemed so close you could just about jump onto them, every square metre offering a quirky or beautiful detail - I felt days and days could be spent looking at the view. That night we were still up there (having returned from a brief foray into the city centre) which turned out to be the perfect spot to watch a huge Mothers' Day parade (held in Spain on the first Sunday of May, as it is in Hungary). Like Easter, this was a very religious event, a huge statute of the Virgin Mary being carried down the street surrounded by priests, marching bands and onlookers.
One evening we went to a flamenco show at the world's only Flamenco Museum. Having avoided them in Barcelona for fear of being ripped off, and because Andalusia is the home of flamenco (among most other things "Spanish"), we were lucky enough to attend one of the twice-daily shows that included the Museum's choreographer along with his partner, a guitarist and a singer (who all did individual performances as well as together). And we were suitably dazzled (inspired, awed, enlightened as to what all the fuss is about ...) by the emotion, energy and skill displayed. It just about made up for our collective disappointment in coming to Sevilla during one of the few weeks when there was no bull-fight to watch. Being illegal in Catalonia (and undoubtedly, soon everywhere), we (especially M) had been excited to watch this age-old Spanish tradition. However, loving Sevilla as much as we did made it easy for us to resolve to go back to remedy this.
-
Rain slashed the bus' windows for three hours straight on our way to Sevilla but as we began walking the sun peeked out and decided to stick around for our whole stay. We were immediately enthralled by the city centre, the gorgeous buildings and tiny streets (with even tinier and thereby mostly ineffective footpaths). A few hours later we found ourselves sitting on a boat-bar on the river drinking (of course) Alhambra beer and feeling... well, pretty stoked.
-
Our hostel was a 500 year old building with tiled walls inside and three rooftop terraces. One of them had a hammock which we made great use of, especially one morning after admittedly overindulging in the vino tinto at a few of Sevilla's side-street bars. Surrounded by hundreds of roofs and a few church steeples that seemed so close you could just about jump onto them, every square metre offering a quirky or beautiful detail - I felt days and days could be spent looking at the view. That night we were still up there (having returned from a brief foray into the city centre) which turned out to be the perfect spot to watch a huge Mothers' Day parade (held in Spain on the first Sunday of May, as it is in Hungary). Like Easter, this was a very religious event, a huge statute of the Virgin Mary being carried down the street surrounded by priests, marching bands and onlookers.
-
One evening we went to a flamenco show at the world's only Flamenco Museum. Having avoided them in Barcelona for fear of being ripped off, and because Andalusia is the home of flamenco (among most other things "Spanish"), we were lucky enough to attend one of the twice-daily shows that included the Museum's choreographer along with his partner, a guitarist and a singer (who all did individual performances as well as together). And we were suitably dazzled (inspired, awed, enlightened as to what all the fuss is about ...) by the emotion, energy and skill displayed. It just about made up for our collective disappointment in coming to Sevilla during one of the few weeks when there was no bull-fight to watch. Being illegal in Catalonia (and undoubtedly, soon everywhere), we (especially M) had been excited to watch this age-old Spanish tradition. However, loving Sevilla as much as we did made it easy for us to resolve to go back to remedy this.
The following night we attended a paella class (not really necessary as M had already put his hand to it a few times during our weeks in Barcelona and has really mastered it) hosted by the hostel. We drank sangria and got chatting to some of the interesting (or kooky or completely normal depending on your point of view) people that one mets at a hostel - the Aussie guy who appears intent on visiting at least several dozen countries and is apparently making good progress; the Dutch guy with South-East Asian heritage who takes hundreds of photos, mostly of people he's just met and will probably never see again (except in the photos ...); the lovely, cheerful Spanish lady who runs the hostel and rather surprisingly throws a few swearwords into her English conversation.
-
One more night in Barcelona before our Spanish adventures ends, or at least takes a pause. Of course we go to Les Tapes. We take wine and a card and stay till after closing talking with S and B. Email addresses and promises to keep in touch are eagerly exchanged but we can't help feeling a bit sad as we make the same walk home for the last time. I think this is what's called bittersweet, and it's also completely typical of travelling. So, as a first, it was perhaps a little shock to the system in preparation for all the goodbyes that meeting wonderful people necessitates.
-
As always with love - France coming soon!
No comments:
Post a Comment