THE SOUNDS OF CHRISTMAS
Make a Joyful Noise – Somewhere Else. Please.
There’s a man in our neighborhood we refer to as the yeller, sometimes as old yeller. Not that he’s old, or that he’s yellow, but that he yells. Or shouts. A nice enough looking man, perhaps in his thirties, he races around the neighborhood, striding rapidly up and down the lanes, in and out of shops and cafes, shouting out his message. For a while I thought that perhaps he had Tourette’s syndrome, as he is never, ever still.
These shouts can be quite startling, especially when he’s right behind you on the street and you don’t know he’s there. He doesn’t shout non-stop, but sporadically. He may leave a shop, cross the street, and then suddenly blast out his announcement, sending Kay into vertical motion. He seemed oblivious to our, or perhaps, anyone else’s presence. And no one else, other than his “clients” seems to notice him.
After being startled a number of times, Kay made it a habit to turn and greet him. Her strategy was to create an awareness of her. She wanted him to be aware that it frightened her when he shouted right behind her. It took a while, but her plan worked. He no longer shouts behind her and often greets us with an “hola” or a “buenas” before we can get ours out.
It took sometime for us to figure out what he was shouting about: he sells lottery tickets. There are two national lotteries in Spain, one run by the government and one by Once, an organization benefiting the disabled, primarily the blind. This reinforced my theory that our yeller suffered from a mild form of Tourette’s. What is he saying? We’re still not sure, perhaps the announcement of a new lottery, the winner’s share, or the promise of a winning number.
Around the middle of December, the yeller accompanies his cries with Christmas music, a mobile concert that lasts until three king’s day on January sixth. The music is played on a large, boom box the size of a small suitcase, which he plays loudly, very loudly. The music pouring from this portable loudspeaker is not White Christmas or Silent Night or even Rudolph. It is Spanish Christmas music sung by a very popular Spanish group in the Sevillanas style, a slightly more melodic and less harsh cousin to Flamenco. This particular group – we’ve seen them on TV – is composed of four women and four men. Sevillanas are usually performed by groups, but no matter how large the group, they sing in one voice. There is no blend of voices, no harmonizing. The lyrics are sung in absolutely amazing, almost perfect sychronozation, each word pronounced exactly and clearly. This clearly takes lots of practice. The yeller seems to play the same few songs from the very popular Christmas album. Perhaps they aren’t the same three songs; perhaps they only sound like the same three songs.
But the real problem is not the music he plays, or how loudly he plays it; it’s where he plays it. It’s not too bad when he simply walks down the street; the music comes and then it goes. But when he enters either the café beneath us or the one across the street, he leaves the boom box on the sidewalk. He does not turn down the volume.
Each morning I hear him coming from well down the street. Please don’t leave the box under our balcony, I pray. Please. The music stops moving and I hear his voice as he makes some transaction, then he moves on down the street. I sign with relief. Fifteen minutes later, I hear him coming again. He passes under our window, this time without pausing, and moves down the street. The music begins to fade, remains constant for a few minutes, and then begins to grow louder again. I stop what I’m doing or thinking to listen. He’s returning. The music gets louder and louder, then stops under our window, which begins to rattle. It seems to get even louder. Has he turned it up? Kay thinks not, and says that it’s my imagination, as it can’t get any louder. I pace. I grumble. I curse. I go out onto the balcony and look down at the box sitting by the entrance to the café. He is nowhere in sight. He is – there can be no doubt – in the café downstairs. Minutes go by and the box blasts out its constantly repeating refrain. I wonder if the vibrations could damage the building. People approaching the box along the sidewalk pause, then cross the street, as if in fear that the sound might harm them. It might.
I consider dropping a flowerpot on the box. Or emptying the watering can on it. Or even hanging off the balcony and dropping on it feet first. Instead, I step back inside, close the doors and wait, wait until he leaves the café and heads down the street, wait until afternoon when his roving ends, wait until January seventh. You’re over reacting, Kay tells me. A few weeks of Christmas music. It’s Spain. It could be worse.
She was right. This year, our second Christmas in the Albaicín, it got worse. For reasons unknown to myself, firecrackers have become an expression of Christmas cheer, at least by ten- to thirteen-year-old boys. A favorite place to set off these little bombs is in the plaza across the street. We’re both getting a bit jumpy.
Ah, the sounds of the holiday: the cries of the yeller in the street, a Christmas concert rattling my window, explosions in the plaza. It rained today, keeping the yeller, his box and the adolescent bombers inside. It’s supposed to rain all week. Wonderful.
A DAY IN THE SNOW
Where Not Seeing Can Offer Its Own Rewards
Unless you’re walking due west and never look back over your shoulder, it’s impossible to walk the streets of Granada without seeing the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The peaks of the mountains are snow covered from late-November till April, during wet years as late as June. Mount Mulhacén, at 3,481 meters, or 11,421 feet high, is the highest peak in Europe outside the Alps, and can be seen throughout the city. The skiing, we’ve been told, is good and the price reasonable.
Kay had her heart set on going to the snow. And what better time to do it than during the holiday season. So we checked it out. We found that getting there, even without a car, is relatively easy. Three buses a day leave the bus station for the 45-minute ride to Pradollano, high in the Sierra Nevada. One left at the civilized time of 10 a.m., the price was only $8.40 each roundtrip, and the weather forecast was perfect: the low around 15 F., a high of 35. We were at the bus station by nine, bought our tickets, breakfasted in the cafeteria, and were soon on our way.
Granada lies at the foot of the mountains, and the bus began to climb after leaving the city. The switchbacks begin almost immediately. The road, which climbs from 2,100 feet to 6,890, was good and reasonably wide, but there was, for the most part, no shoulders. The edge was the edge, and it was a long way down. Occasionally, when the road hair pinned back upon itself, I caught glimpses of Granada, far away and far below. At one point, well into the drive, I saw a small town, so far beneath us that I couldn’t make out vehicles on the road. Look, I said to Kay, pointing out the town.
Kay nodded and smiled. Her eyes were closed. “I’m sure it’s lovely,” she said.
Pradollano is not a typical Spanish village. It is a ski resort. And although every business caters to ski tourists, there is nothing tacky or cheap about it at all. There is a large, central square, two smaller squares, and wide lanes and stairways that connect them. There are no cars. The squares and lanes are lined with ski and snowboard rentals, clothing and equipment stores, and dozens of cafes and restaurants, most of which had outside tables. Even though the temperature hovered just above freezing, a number of the tables were occupied.
According to our information, we could take a lift in the village for a nominal price. We decided not to take the lift to the higher peaks, since it cost considerably more and we didn’t ski. We walked through the village, which took only a few minutes, watched the skiers climb into the gondolas, inquired as to where to buy tickets, bought our tickets for the lift, and returned. Not here, we were informed, over there. We recrossed the square, went around another building, found the second gondola run, and tried to insert our electronic tickets. Not here, we were informed, over there. We went around the building. And there it was, climbing steadily over the village, then steeply up the mountainside, a chair lift. Yes, a chair lift. This is, essentially, a plank, upon which one sits, encircled by a single iron bar, which serves as a back and arm rest, and a restraining bar, which is pulled down across your lap after you sit. The purpose of all these bars is, of course, to prevent your falling out. They are also the perfect size for gripping tightly until one’s knuckles turn white.
“Oh, no,” Kay murmured. I felt her hands clutch my arm.
“We don’t have to do this,” I said.
“No. I’m here and I’m going up.”
We inserted our tickets into the reader, stood where we were instructed to stand, and sat as the plank hit the back of our legs. And up we went. We had assumed that the lift took us to the next village, Barrequilles, 8,678 feet high. As it turned out, this lift took us only to the top of the village, which, considering that Barrequilles was almost 2,000 feet higher up the mountain, was just as well. At the top, I raised the restraining bar and stepped out. Kay stepped out, then tumbled. The operator and I quickly got her to her feet. Kay stood and brushed herself off. Other than a sore knee, the fall was more embarrassing than hurtful.
We looked around. Although the town center was far below, at least two rows of condominum and apartment buildings stretched across the hillside above. We walked up to the top, where there was a parking lot, a ski lift, the end of a ski run, and a sign forbidding pedestrians from proceeding. We stood there on the icy ground and looked out over the ski runs crisscrossing the mountainside, then turned to go down. Suddenly Kay was flat on her back. She quickly assured me that she was all right, then lay there for a moment and sighed deeply, as if resigned to the unfairness of her fate. Or perhaps she was evaluating the possibilities of survival. We’d gotten off the bus only an hour ago, and I couldn’t help but wonder what misfortunes the next four hours might hold. I helped her up and we walked very slowly and very carefully back to the lift.
The descent is actually more discomforting than the ascent, as you’re looking down, down at the village square below. But we had an excellent view of the ski runs. Or at least I did. When I looked at Kay, she had a wide smile on her face, but her eyes were closed.
We sat outside at the end of one of the ski runs and had a beer and a plate of steaming paella (yes, even in the ski resorts of Granada, the tapas are included) and watched the skiers and snowboarders finish their runs. We walked the village, browsed the shops, then began our search for lunch. Although there were more diners eating outside than inside, we opted to eat inside, as we were a bit chilly. Outside, people lounged at the tables in the sun, as often as not their coats flung across another chair. Steam rose from the plates. Didn’t they know that it was only a few degrees above freezing? Later it occurred to us that they were probably wearing thermal underwear. We had an excellent lunch. Our table was in the sun by the window, through which we looked across the deck filled with diners, and across that to the snow-covered mountainside.
Afterwards we walked around the village again, stood in the cold square (the large thermometer over the ticket office read 0 C.), before heading to the parking lot to catch our 4 p.m. bus. Seats on this bus were not assigned, so we were there early in order to get seats behind the driver; the drive down would be on the outside of the road, the 2,000-foot-freefall-to-certain-death side. The ride down was beautiful, which Kay had to take my word for it because her eyes were closed.
It had been a fine day. “How wonderful.” Kay said, “We walk out our front door, take the city bus to the station, then a bus to the mountains, and less than two hours after leaving our house, we’re standing in the snow.” She declared it one of her very favorite days. I guess that not getting hurt by either fall, not slipping out of the lift, and not plunging over the road’s edge, had given the day an extra joy understood only by her sweet self.
BLOG CONTENTS BY SUBJECT
Through December 06, 2005
I - Life in Granada
II - Obtaining a Spanish Visa
III - Learning Spanish
IV - About Spain
V - Trips
(Scroll to the bottom of the page for the archives)
I - LIFE IN GRANADA
(Most recent entry first)
• Dos Billetes, Por Favor
Maybe it wasn’t meant to be — Nov. 16, 05
• A Short Walk in the Albaicin
Where One Discovery Leads to Another
• We Interrupt this Doldrum . . .
A Little Excitement Goes a Long Way — August 20, 05
• Trouble in Paradise?
Adrift in the Summer Doldrums — August 19, 05
• A New Lease on Life
Learning to Say “Inmobiliaria” — July 24, 05
• A Country Hike
A Cliff-Hanging Tale of Caves & Gypsies — June 23, 05
• A Night at the Opera - May 7, 05
And Not a Marx Brother in Sight
• Cleanliness Is Next To - April 18, 05
We visit the Arab Baths
• A Little Bit of England – April 10, 05
At Nerja on the Costa del Sol
• Segunda Semana Santa – March 27, 05
Our second Holy Week
• Taint a Fit Night For – Jan 29, 05
Strategies for winter survival
•Letting The Holiday Come To You — Jan 5, 05
A Christmas Story
• Singing the Stovetop Blues — Jan 10, 05
Good things come to those who wait, and wait.
• The Show Before the Show — Nov 30, 04
Front row, Saturday night seats
• Something from Inside Something — Nov 25, 04
To Eat or not to eat: Unidentified frying objects
• Adventures in Cookie Diplomacy — Oct 22, 04
Your American Ambassadors in Spain
• Low-Tech, Traditional Cooling — Oct 20, 04
Spanish strategies for summer survival
• Lots of Beauty But No Beasts — Oct 6, 04
An exercise in cultural math
• Street Scene, Right Outside Our Window — Oct 6, 04
The Albayzin just wasn’t built for trucks
• Hey, Compadre, Can You Spare A Euro? — Sept 8, 04
Panhandling, Granada style
• Casa Fantastico! — Aug 5, 04
We move to the Albaicín alto
• Boabdil’s Curse — July 23, 04
For us, getting to Granada is never easy
• Take It Easy, Hombre — June 23, 04
Not sweating the small stuff
• Royal Wedding and a Roma Parade — May 24, 04
A day of pomp and tradition
• On the Town - Never a dull Moment — May 6, 04
Dia de la Cruz and more
• Semana Santa, or Holy week — April 13, 04
Giving new meaning to Easter parade
• Take-out Food Granada Style — March 5, 04
Pollo asado con salsa
• Giving In To the Day — Feb 3, 04
Captured by lunch and the February sun
• Out on the Town — Jan 27, 04
Music is where you find it
• Christmas in Granada — Jan 6, 04
There’s no place like home for the holidays
• Humdrum Details of Daily Life — Dec 3, 03
From rent to heating to garbage
• Shopping and Cooking — Nov 9, 03
Marketing Granada style
• Tapas Tour / Pub Crawl — Nov 2, 03
Sampling the neighborhood treats
• Our Street — Oct 22, 03
Bourbon Street in the Albaicín
II - OBTAINING A SPANISH VISA
• Spanish Inquisition Begins — Oct 13, 03
Plus: Getting to Granada Is Not Easy
• Police Visit #1 — Oct 26, 03
We encounter the Spanish bureaucracy
• Police Visit #2 — Dec 22, 03
Déjà Vu all over again
• Police Visit #3 — Jan 19, 04
Trials, tribulations and triumph
• Let There Be Champagne
Four Reasons to Celebrate
III - LEARNING SPANISH
• Learning Spanish #1 — Feb 23, 04
Mucho verbosity
• Learning Spanish #2 — April 18, 04
Of marbles, a doe and breasts
• Learning Spanish #2a — April 25, 04
The curse of speaking Southern
IV - ABOUT SPAIN
• A Very Short History of — Jan 21, 04
Moorish years, Catholic conquest, etc
• March 11 Terrorist Attack — March 17, 04
Hello twenty-first century. Goodbye illusions.
• Spanish Dignity — April 3, 04
Hurray for President Zapatero
• A Passionate Dedication to the Good Life – May 5, 05
Testimonials and Observations by the experts
V - TRIPS
• Road to Morocco #1 — Nov 21, 03
During which Flannery thrashes the robber
• Road to Morocco #2 — Nov 25, 03
We learn Flannery’s value in camels
• Trip to Munich — Dec 17, 03
Christmas markets and glubvein
• Leaving for Madrid on Track Two — Aug 27, 04
A cautionary tale
• Tales of Travel, Tales of Woe — Nov 12, 04
By Car or Rail, There’s No Avoiding Misfortune
• Seeking Solace in a Strange Land — Nov 15 , 04
In Search of the elusive Martini
• The Trains in Spain Move Slowly Cross the Plain
Every Day a New Adventure. Or Misadventure.
• A Room with a View
Climbing a Stairway to the Stars — Nov. 1, 05
MISC
• Writing of the Blog Explained — Dec 17, 03
The burdens of authorship
