It’s Tuesday, May 16, 2006. On Thursday we leave Granada, two years, seven moths and one week after our arrival. We’ve sold or given away most the goods we bought here. Some items, like the microwave, toaster oven, coffee maker, we’ll leave. We shipped four boxes a week ago. The rest we’ll carry on the plane. We had last haircuts, rented our last movie and I had my teeth cleaned for the last time in Granada. We’ve informed the local merchants that we’re leaving. We’ve made our goodbyes to our friends. Our landlady and rental agent came by this morning to check out the house. Our deposit was returned. Tomorrow morning we’ll turn in the phone, terminating telephone and Internet service. Afterwards we’ll climb the hill for the last time and enjoy a last tapa in one of the neighborhood plazas. Tomorrow night we’ll watch Barcelona play Arsenal of London in the European Champion’s League soccer final. We had to change our travel plans. The previous plan, to bus to Malaga, fly to Frankfurt on Lufthansa, spend the night, then fly to San Francisco on United, fell apart when every flight to Frankfurt filled. Something very important must be taking place there. Instead, we’ve bought tickets on Ryan Air to London, where we’ll spend the night before flying on to San Francisco. With luck, Friday night we’ll be sleeping in Petaluma, California. The Last Blog now joins the list of lasts: the last dance, The Last of the Mohicans, the last hurrah, last gas for 35 miles, the last of the Red Hot Lovers, the last roundup, The Last Picture Show, last one home’s a rotten egg, The Last Waltz, the last laugh, the last drop, The Last time I saw Paris, the last chance and, last but not least, the last piece of cake.
Every successful trip offers a few surprises. Our April trip to Greece certainly did, the most pleasant being the warmth and hospitality of the Greek people. Other than reservations for three nights at Tony’s Hotel, we arrived in Athens without a fixed itinerary. We planned to visit the islands of Naxos and Santorini, but how long we’d stay, or whether we’d get to Crete or any mainland sites, would be decided on a day-to-day basis. Our studio at Tony’s was reasonably well equipped and had a balcony where we ate breakfast and dinner. We enjoyed Athens more than we had expected to, but the Acropolis was a bit of a disappointment; the Parthenon as well as other buildings was encased in scaffolding and bobbing on a sea of tourists. Unlike the Alhambra, admission seems unlimited. The ferry to Naxos, which took almost six hours, was met by a line of “hotel touts.” Among the dozen or so hotel signs being held aloft, was one for Hotel Argo, which, according to our guidebook, had studios with terraces. Apostolis, who owned the hotel, offered to drive us to the hotel just to take a look. On the drive over, we told him we’d planned to stay four days and would be leaving Saturday. “You should stay for Easter,” he said. The Greek Orthodox Easter was being celebrated a week later this year than the western Easter. “You’re invited to our Easter meal. We’ll be spit-roasting a lamb.” The hotel was perhaps a half-mile from Hora’s waterfront cafes and 100 yards from the beach. The apartment he showed us sat on top of a two-story building; we followed him up three flights of stairs, crossed the roof and a small top bridge to a terrace and the front door. There was a living room/kitchen with fireplace, a large bedroom and two terraces. The price: € 25. Incredible! We knew we were traveling off-season, but had no idea that rooms were going for half price. Experiencing a traditional Greek Easter meal of spit-roasted lamb sounded very tempting, but we weren’t sure we wanted to stay six days in Naxos. It took only one day to decide that we did. Although Naxos is the largest of the Cyclades Islands, only 18,000 people live on the island and only 7,000 in Hora, the port and capital. The café-lined waterfront is only a few blocks long; behind that, on incredibly narrow, twisted lanes, a handful of shops; from there to the top of the steep hill, a jumble of houses. And the walking, one of our chief attractions to the island, is terrific; we took a bus up to a small village and then walked a couple of hours to an even higher one, then walked back down. The Orthodox Easter celebration is very different from the one we’d experienced the week before in Spain. Rather than eight days of processions, the celebration lasts three. Friday evening services are followed by candle-lit processions through the streets. The Saturday night service ends at midnight, when worshipers spill from the churches with joyful shouts of “He is risen.” Church bells ring and fireworks explode. On Sunday everyone eats lamb. We joined the Friday night procession, but Saturday’s hike sent us to bed to early. On Sunday morning we looked down from our terrace onto the hotel courtyard where the lamb was slowly turning on a spit over charcoal. Around noon, Apostolis began a second grill and covered it with sausages. It was time to go down. We joined Apostolis, his wife Katerina, their daughter and her fiancée, another Greek couple and their daughter and two German couples, the only guests other than ourselves in Hotel Argo’s forty plus rooms. In addition to the lamb, which Katerina informed me was three months old and weighed 12 kilos, there were the delicious sausages, roast potatoes, three-day-old cheese, salad with a tzatziki dressing, bread and an endless supply of wine, made by Apostolis. The lamb, which had been turning for five hours, was practically falling off the bone. In Greece, it is considered impolite to drain your wine glass; when your glass is low, your host refills it. After an hour or so of feasting, everyone assumed the role of host, and the small glasses were filled again and again. And again. Katerina told Kay later that we weren’t the only ones to take siesta; apparently everyone in the hotel was asleep by four. We left Naxos Monday morning with no idea where we’d be staying in Santorini, but we hoped that we’d get lucky again at landing. Only moments after leaving the ferry, we had three brochures thrust towards us. While I was looking at one, Kay was conversing with an old man, at least 70. “I like this one,” she said. She showed me his brochure. It featured a large pool and attractive grounds. He has a studio, she said. How much? €30. Can’t beat that. Where is it? “By the black sand beach,” he said. “Very beautiful. Very peaceful.” My image of Santorini was hotels clinging to the side of the volcano cauldron; the black sand beach had me a bit confused. “Very beautiful,” he said again. “I want this one,” Kay said. And I like the old man, she whispered. Still confused about the black sand beach, I asked, “Is it up there?” I pointed to the top of the cliffs high above, “or down near the water?” He pointed upward. At least I thought he did. Perhaps he had pointed inland. He walked us to the hotel’s van and we waited while his son snagged another customer. Then off we went, up, up, up the road that switch backed along the sheer face of the cliff. At the top of the cliff the van did not turn left towards the hotel-hanging town of Fira, but to the right, then wound its way slowly to the backside of the island. As we approached the hotel, the son pointed out the supermarket, where, he said, we could get anything, and the bus stop. “Is there anywhere we can buy bread?” Kay asked. We’d brought dinner with us from our kitchen in Naxos - pasta and sauce, along with coffee, tea, honey and olive oil - so all we needed was bread. Unfortunately, he told us, it was Easter Monday and nothing was open. We got out of the van and looked around. We weren’t anywhere. We were nowhere. The black sand beach was at least a half-mile away and I hadn’t seen a road headed in that direction. The sheer cliffs of the cauldron, for which Santorini is famous, was miles away. The hotel consisted of six, garden-surrounded buildings. Our room was on the second floor of the two-story building at the rear of the property. The room was very large, had a small kitchen and a balcony, which overlooked olive trees and vineyards. I could see the sea in the distance. At least the price was right. It will be fine, Kay assured me. The old man walked me through a large garden up to the front office - which also houses a restaurant, which, like the pool, was not yet open for the season - to check in and to meet Mama Maria, his wife. I paid for three nights, and then the old man, remembering Kay’s request for bread, took me to the restaurant’s kitchen. He gave me a loaf of bread, paused, and added four eggs. On our way back to the room, he stopped by the garden. “Stay here,” he said. He wandered through the garden and pulled up two heads of lettuce, a cluster of green onions, a lemon and four small zucchinis. We proceeded to the room and he knocked on the door. When Kay opened the door, she found the two of us, with wide grins and an armload of food. “I told you I liked the old man,” Kay said. It turns out that we were about a 20-minute walk from a delightful little beach town. From there, a narrow blacktop road ran along the beach, black sand on one side, a row of open-air cafes and bars on the other. It was quite beautiful. The next day we took the 30-minute bus ride into town. The cauldron and the cliff-hanging hotels were spectacular. The town itself, however, was the most concentrated tourist-oriented place I’ve ever seen. Granting the probable existence of at least one pharmacy, the cliff side of the town was 99.9 percent devoted to tourists, shop after shop, restaurant after restaurant, hotel stacked upon hotel. We walked the pedestrian way along the cauldron, ate lunch and bused back. The next day we returned and began a long walk along the cliff to a nearby town. After 45 minutes of walking into a strong wind, we realized that the town wasn’t as close as it had appeared, so we found a bench out of the wind and ate our picnic. While we were eating, an old lady approached and asked how we liked Santorini and where we were from. She invited us to join her at her house across the way for coffee, then she left. Kay and I don’t take coffee after lunch. I find it interferes with my siesta. We hadn’t decided if we were going to accept her invitation or not, but just as we were finishing our meal, I felt her hand on my shoulder. “Do you want white coffee or black coffee?” she asked. “White,” Kay said. Black for me. She returned to her house. A few minutes later we followed. She showed us the downstairs – she was 70 and no longer climbed the stairs – than took us to the dining room where she served us coffee, along with cookies, hardboiled colored eggs and chocolate left over from Easter. She’d lived in Australia for several years and spoke English very well. As we ate, she showed us her son’s wedding album. When we left she wrapped cookies, eggs and chocolates for us to take. According to the schedule, the ferry back to Athens left at 7 a.m. The people at the hotel informed us that they would take us there at six. But when we bought our tickets in town the day before, we were informed that the 7 a.m. ferry didn’t operate on Thursdays. Our choice was between the 10 a.m. ferry, which took ten hours to reach Athens, and the jet ferry, which left at 9:30, took five hours and cost twice as much. We deliberated. Not wanting to arrive at the port at 8 p.m. and reach the hotel by nine. We bought tickets for the jet ferry. Back at the hotel we informed the son. No problem, he said, he’d meet us at eight. We rose at seven and Kay showered. At 7:15 there was a knock on the door. Seven-thirty, the son said through the door. Eight o’clock, Kay, who was drying off, shouted back. Seven-thirty, he said again. I must meet the earlier ferry. He walked away. Kay was dressed, groomed and packed in 13 minutes, establishing a new American record for time elapsed between shower and exit, and a new international record for women over 50. Back at Tony’s, we found that our previous room, which we’d asked them to save, was occupied, so we took one downstairs with no balcony. The vacant lot next door – the building had been demolished days before our previous stay – had become an excavation site, and an enormous backhoe was digging deeper and deeper and banging against the walls of our hotel as it attempted to separate the wall of the old building from that of our hotel. Imagine the sound of this washing machine-sized shovel scrapping the walls of your room. And work had begun at 7:30. Around mid-morning we were shaken from our bed by a loud crash, followed by the sound of Tony shouting. We, along with other guests, rushed out into the entrance lobby. The shovel had knocked a basketball-size whole in the wall of the hotel, through which we could see out into the excavation. We set out on a last walk around Athens hoping that the hotel and our possessions would be there when we returned. An hour later, overcast turned to rain. Of course, we’d left our umbrellas behind. We returned by subway to our neighborhood and walked home in the rain. The demolition continued till after three. Our flight, we told Tony, left at 8:35. Tony, whose wife was Spanish, took the flight to Madrid often and had plenty of advice. “An hour is plenty of time to check in,” he told us. “And take the subway. It doesn’t take more than 45 minutes.” What Tony didn’t tell us was that at the end of the subway line, we had to transfer to a train, one that ran every 30 minutes and one we missed by five minutes. Although we’d caught the subway at 6:30, we were sitting by the track at 7:25. I was not happy. We reached the airport at quarter till eight, rushed to the check-in, quickly checked our bags, zipped through security and raced to the gate. The plane was boarding and the first bus out had already left. We looked at the sign. Departure time was 8:20, not 8:35. If I’d known that at 7:40 while still on the train, I would have drowned in perspiration. What are the chances of arriving at the airport 35 minutes before departure and making your flight? It was a great trip. And it was great to get home to Granada. Our next trip is back to California.
Today is Good Friday. Tomorrow we leave for Greece, where we’ll travel for two weeks, leaving just three weeks or so in Granada before moving back to the states. We’ve now entered into the period of “lasts,” as in “This is the last time we’ll buy olive oil,” or “This is the last time we’ll go to the cathedral or the Alhambra or to the Sierra Nevada.” Last night we viewed our last Semana Santa, or holy week, procession. During the eight days from Palm Sunday to Easter, four or five processions daily wind through the city streets. Almost all processions include two pasos, or floats, carried by 30 or so bearers, the first paso carrying Jesus and the second Mary; two marching bands; lines of hooded penitents and candle-bearing ladies in black; rows of church officials and costumed cross bearers. Some processions include kids. The procession from the nearby Iglesia San Cristóbal left the church at six yesterday, passed down our street and by our balconies at seven, then proceeded slowly down the hill from the Albaicín to Granada proper, past the viewing stands at city hall, through the cathedral, and back up the hill well after midnight. We’d invited friends over for dinner and to view the procession from our balconies. The day was warm and the sky clear blue, the street and small plaza were packed, and the café downstairs, which normally closes at three, remained open to serve the crowds. The procession took about half an hour to pass; the figures on the pasos were at eye-level and almost close enough to touch. After dinner, around ten-thirty, we walked our friends to the mirador de San Nicolás, the viewpoint that overlooks the Alhambra, said our goodbyes and headed back. “This is our last Semana Santa,” Kay said. “Why don’t we watch the procession come back?” Being early-to-bed Americans, we’d never watched one late at night. According to the guide, it would pass our house again at 3 a.m. I was game. It was agreed. Kay set the clock for 2:30 and we went to bed at 11:30. I awoke at two to the faint sound of drumming. Were they approaching? I got up, went to the front of the house and opened the shutters. Both cafés, the one downstairs and the one across the street, were filled to capacity and the crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk and into the street. I opened the balcony door and listened. I could just make out the band over the noise below — imagine a cocktail party with 300 people talking at once — but I could tell they weren’t that close. I went back to bed and lay there listening. When the clock went off, I got back up, told Kay I’d call her as soon as the procession was near, and headed back up to the balconies. I dressed and stepped out. The street was almost as crowded as it had been eight hours earlier when the procession had first passed by. When the leading penitents rounded the corner, I called Kay. Processions move slowly, as the paso must be lowered every block or so in order for the carriers to rest, so she had plenty of time to join me. We stood on the balcony and looked down on the sea of viewers and revelers below. There were hundreds, and it seemed that almost everyone had a drink. “Should we?” I asked. “Why not,” Kay said. It did seem like the Spanish thing to do. Kay returned with our drinks before the paso rounded the corner. And there we stood on our balcony, three o’clock in the morning, drinks and camera in hand, wide grins on our faces, as we watched the pasos, the marchers, the bands, the children and high-heeled ladies who had survived the nine-hour march, plus hundreds of “civilians” who had joined the procession to accompany it back to the church. We went back to bed around three-thirty, where I fell asleep to the fading sound of the band in the distance. It had been an amazing night, one we’ll never forget.
Kay and I recently did a mini-tour of western Andalucía. Our first stop was Sevilla. Although more often than not, we do not make reservations ahead, we did so for Sevilla because we weren’t sure just when high season began. Ignoring our longtime and trusted travel advisor Rick Steves, we chose a hotel listed in both Let’s Go Spain and the Knopf City Map Guide. About the Hotel Zaida, Knoph said, “Experience the pleasures of living in a 18th-century Mudéjar palace with all the mod cons. Truly delightful.” The location was good and the price €50 ($60) was right; Kay called and booked a room. Our train left a little after eight in the morning and we were in Sevilla well before noon. The hotel was located on a narrow street, with two stories of rooms surrounding a two-story, domed courtyard. There was even an elevator. The room was large, though totally lacking in character, and the bathroom was modern and clean. Unfortunately, on the other side of the wall, the staircase up to the roof was being renovated. And, because the workers did not take siesta, we did not take siesta, as the pounding and grinding continued only inches from our pillows. When there was a pause, we could hear a bulldozer working in the lot behind the hotel, just below our window. This would not do. That afternoon, Kay led me to a hotel recommended by Rick. The Pensión Alcázar was little more than 100 meters from the Cathedral and the top rooms had private terraces. It was not easy to find, as it was located on a street so short we couldn’t find it on the map. We got directions at the tourist office, passed through an arch, up a narrow cobblestone street, and there it was. We could see the terraces as we approached. Kay was beside herself. Yes, the woman informed us, a room with a terrace was available for the following two nights for only €54 a night. “Eureka!” said Kay, or words to that effect. We informed the people at the Hotel Zaida that we were leaving the next day. They offered us a room in another “muy bonita” hotel. We told them thanks but no thanks. We checked out at noon, and having an hour before checking in, walked along the river with our bags, stopping to refresh ourselves in a sidewalk café. We reached the hotel at one to find that our room was ready. The man who worked there took Kay’s bag and started up the steps. I carried my bag and wore the backpack. On the second floor, we turned down a short hallway, then climbed again. The stairs from the third floor were very narrow; about halfway up the man warned me to duck. At the top of this stairway there were two doors, one to a hotel room and one that opened onto a large terrace, off of which there was another room. To reach our room from that terrace, we climbed narrow, steep metal steps with a pipe handrail - more like a fire escape than a stairway - to a small terrace. If the steps had been any steeper, Kay would have come down backwards. The door to our room was at the top. From all appearances, the room had simply been built on top of the hotel. It seemed relatively new and well made. Although small, it contained a kitchen sink and countertop with a small refrigerator beneath. A door led out to a private terrace, where there was a table, four chairs, a large umbrella and a view of the cathedral and the gardens of the Alcázar. The bathroom, however, was the smallest I’ve ever experienced. How small? Drying off required standing with one foot in the bathroom and one out. Our “penthouse” room was delightful. It was unique. It was on the fifth floor. After settling in — where does one put two suitcases in an 8x10 room? — we went down to explore the neighborhood and pick up supplies for the room. I counted the steps on the way down. There were 59 steps, plus one down to the sidewalk. Sixty steps. We returned, had lunch on the terrace, then took siesta. Later that afternoon, we went to the Alcázar only to discover that winter hours were still in effect and that it would close in 45 minute. We decided to walk the town instead. The next morning I went down for breakfast, then climbed back up to fetch Kay. We toured the Alcázar, which is actually three palaces, walked its extensive gardens, then climbed back up to the room for lunch. After lunch we explored the cathedral, the world’s third largest church, and climbed the bell tower, formerly a Moorish minaret. The tower is 330 high, but I couldn’t count the steps because there weren’t any. You make the climb up on a spiraling ramp built by the Moors to allow a horseman to ride up five times a day to give the call to prayer. By my reckoning, 330 feet at 8” a step equals 495 steps. But, because walking a ramp is easier than climbing steps, I’ll round it down to 450. I dawned on me as we stood there under the huge bells, that a record of some kind was possible. We were now pretty tired and returned to our room for a nap. I counted the steps again. There were still 60. We’d decided to eat at a restaurant on the other side of the river, about a mile away, and we left around eight. The restaurant was located in a three-story tower on the far end of the bridge high above the river. Although the weather had turned and the night was cool, we chose to eat on the rooftop terrace. I wanted the additional 15 steps. It was a beautiful evening. Across the river, the well-lit cathedral, palaces, church towers and the Torre del Oro, tower of gold, sparkled under a full moon. Headlights flickered over nearby bridges, while down below on the water sculls raced in and out of the shadows. We dined on a platter of fried fish, breast of pork with a bottle of white wine. As we ate, the sound of laughter and the tinkle of wine glasses floated up from the cafés along the river. It was one of those nights. As I climbed the 60 steps for the forth time that day, I realized that the handrails could be used to pull myself up. Once in the room, sprawled across the bed, I counted the day’s steps: four climbs of 60 steps equals 240; another 450 at the cathedral; at least 20 at the Alcázar, which, although it is only two stories tall, has very high ceilings;, plus 15 at the restaurant; a total of 725 steps. I needed to get my hands on the Guinness Book of Records. Or, at the very least, a pint of Guinness. From Sevilla we bused to Arcos de la Frontera, one of the most beautiful of the white villages, where the plaza/mirador is 330 sheer feet above the river. There were no steps, just a long, steady hill. We then bused to Cádiz, where we stayed in the Hostal San Francisco, located on Calle San Francisco, and lunched at San Francisco Uno on Plaza San Francisco. From there we bused on to Algeciras, which we used as a base to explore Gibraltar, and then trained back to Granada. I’ve yet to find a Guinness Book of Records. If anyone knows the record for most steps in one day by a man over sixty, please inform.
Kay and I recently took a short trip north to Jaén, the province north of Granada and the olive capital of the universe. We were specifically interested in seeing Úbeda and Baeza, two small cities known as outstanding examples of the Spanish Renaissance architecture. Both have been designated World Heritage Sites. Because the cities are only fifteen minutes apart by bus, we decided to spend two nights in Úbeda, the larger of the two cities, with approximately 40,000 people, and make Baeza a day trip. We arrived in Úbeda in the early afternoon, checked into a hotel and spent the remainder of the day exploring the city, The next morning, we headed to the bus station. A dozen or more buses make the short trip between the two cities each day, so I wasn’t worried about departure times. We reached the station at 10:25. The next bus was at 10:30, the one after that at 1:30. We hastily bought tickets and raced outside. There were two buses, both of which could stop in Baeza in route to further destinations, and the drivers were trying to get all the Baeza passengers on one bus so that the other could drive straight through. At 10:32, it was determined that there were too many Baeza passengers, so everyone was allowed to board either bus. Kay and I were the last of ten or so passengers boarding bus number two. As I boarded the driver touched me on the shoulder and indicated the pull-down seat over the steps. Yes, I was going to ride shotgun. I nodded resolutely, found the lever that unlocked the seat, lowered it, and settled in. I looked over at the driver. He buckled his seatbelt. I buckled my seatbelt. He backed the bus away from the platform, then drove slowly and carefully through the narrow streets. His back was straight, his eyes focused on the road ahead. So were mine. I tried to assume a posture signifying quiet confidence and composure. No big, triumph, silly grin. After all, what if the driver had a heart attack? Or an overpowering sneezing attack? It would be my job to take the controls and bring the bus to a safe stop. Fifteen minutes later, we were in Baeza. But what a fifteen minutes! It was an eternity; it was the blinking of an eye; it was the next best thing to riding on the hook and ladder truck. Baeza, with only 17,000 people, is a very small city and it didn’t take long to see the sights, so we decided to take the two o’clock bus back. Kay had packed a picnic and around one o’clock we found an empty bench in the Paseo de la Constitution, the long, tree-lined park and promenade in the center of town. Our curved, cement bench was near the bandstand and across the wide promenade from a small playground. Kay had packed Mortadella, cheese, bread, apples and tangerines. We’d bought a bottle of the local white nearby. We had, of course, also packed our acrylic wineglasses, there being no reason to sacrifice style when eating al fresco. The sun was warm and the wine tasty. As we ate we watched small groups of four or five older men as they walked back and forth in animated conversation. I don’t think they were exercising as such, as not one group – and there were several – ever walked from one end to the other without stopping at least once as one of the men, hands flying, make his point. Just as we were finishing our meal, a tour group entered the paseo from behind us. The tour leader, a short, middle-aged woman, stepped up on our bench right beside me. The group, there were at least forty, fanned out in a semi-circle, standing no more than two steps away. We, along with the leader, were at the center of focus. She began lecturing the group in German. We looked up at her, then out at her group, and shrugged. Several returned our shrug. Suddenly she became aware of us and turned to me. “Alemán? Español? Inglés?” “English,” I said. “There will be only two minutes. Maybe three. Here is where I always stand.” Which clearly meant not on the empty bench across the path. Two-thirds of the group was listening to her and one third observing us as we finished our picnic. Several smiled, as if acknowledging the awkwardness of it. What were we to do? It felt strange, even rude, to continue our conversation while the woman, who could have reached over and patted me on the head, continued her lecture. I resisted the temptation to mug it up. So we settled back, I crossed my legs, and we continued to enjoy our wine. This brought even wider smiles to our portion of the audience. After three minutes, the tour leader stepped down and off she went, her entourage following along like new ducklings. No thank you. No apologies. Just gone. Now, this little scene pushed us, even as we kicked and screamed to resist, down the slippery slope to the world of PIC, Political InCorrectness. Kay and I were reminded of the many times we’ve had this thought: American travelers should be grateful for the existence of German ones, for without them, we would be known as the biggest, most impatient, most oblivious tourists. Thank you German travelers. And my apologies to those who don’t fit that description. The walk back to the bus station was shorter than we’d remembered, and we were there at 1:30 to buy our tickets. The ticket office was closed, meaning that we would buy our tickets on board. But what does one do for a half an hour in an empty, boring bus station? Why go to the café for a farewell-to-Baeza glass of wine. We took our places at the end of the bar away from the smoke. The bartender, an older and very jolly fellow, poured the wine. We sipped and continued our wallow in the depths of PIC. Soon our jolly fellow was back with our tapas, a small dish of tiny clams, perhaps a dozen or so. This is not Kay’s cup of tea, so she demurred and I profited, as usual, by her reluctance. I shook out a toothpick and began the work at hand. Mr. Jolly appeared immediately and shook his finger. No toothpicks. He pantomimed tipping the clam up to the lips and sucking it out. I did so. They were delicious. He indicated to Kay that she should try it, too. She indicated that she didn’t like clams. His face fell. He left. Two minutes later he returned with a separate tapa for Kay, a delicious piece of chorizo and a slice of bread. He returned once more to banter and then it was time for our bus and we left. That night we had a most difficult time finding a place to eat dinner. In Granada, it is almost impossible to walk more than a block without passing a restaurant or café. Not so in Úbeda. Perhaps the city fathers have decided that the historic zone would not become a nighttime tourist attraction. We combed the streets of the historic area and the only places we found were on the edge near our hotel where we’d eaten lunch and breakfast; neither was particularly attractive for a last meal in the Renaissance. We’d almost given up; it was around nine, when Kay saw a sandwich board at the entrance to a narrow lane. Café this way, it said. In desperation, we headed that way. The café was located in the courtyard of an old building. The covered courtyard was two stories high with columns supporting the passageways above. The kitchen and small bar were in other rooms. The tables and chairs were the plastic ones found in sidewalk cafes and they were empty. But we were hungry, and plastic tables did not indicate an expensive place. We sat. Our waiter was another guy with a big smile. He brought menus, two very nice glasses of wine, and then a gas-powered heater, which he placed by our table. We each ordered a large mixed salad, €2 each, and the plato combinado, only €5. Kay had grilled chicken breast, Spanish omelet and fried potatoes; I slices of cured ham, fried egg and fries. Both plates were delicious and substantial. We left around ten, just as diners were beginning to trickle in. Ah, those Spanish.
A couple of weeks ago our friend Alex called to ask if we’d like to join her, Manual and Pablo for the festival of San Cecilio. The festival, she told me, took place in the Sacromonte, about a 20-minute walk from their house. Not being busy that particular Sunday, and not wanting to add San Cecilio Day to the list of celebrations, festivals, parades and holidays we’d already missed, we accepted. We left their house at noon. The day was mild, and although rain had been predicted, there were only a few clouds. The Sacromonte barrio is located on one side of the Rio Darro. Once the home of Granada’s gypsy community, its population is now considerably more diverse. The only road runs down by the river; the hillside itself is honeycombed with cave houses and crisscrossed with stone walkways and stairways. After walking for ten minutes or so, we went down a stairway to the road below. Foot traffic was unusually heavy and vehicle traffic non-existent, as the road had been closed for the festival. Manuel told us that we were ahead of the crowd and that within an hour or so, the street would be packed. The festival took place on a large, dirt-packed field located below the huge, very old and long-abandoned abbey. A short, paved drive led from the street up to the field. At the foot to the drive, there was the inevitable beer and tapa booth. The beer booths, which also offer wine and spirits, are operated by fundraising organizations, so one is always drinking to a good cause. The festivities had already begun when we arrived. Along one side of the field there was a large stage, where a 12-piece Spanish-Flamenco orchestra and a constantly changing cast of costumed and very accomplished dancers performed. Most of the dances were of the folk variety, couples swinging and passing back and forth with lots of fancy footwork. I don’t know if the dances were influenced by flamenco dance or visa-versa, but you could see the connection. There were also large beer and tapa booths on both sides of the entrance to the field and another on the other end. Across from the stage was the festival’s official food-and-drink booth dispensing the traditional — and free — San Cecilio repast: a plate with bread, huge green beans from which you extracted the pods, along with a glass of red wine. Standing in line for the traditional offering was part of the tradition, Alex told us, and we walked over, eager, as always, to participate. Kay has long dreamed of free wine. There was, of course, a catch, that being that the line ran the length of the field two and a half times. This did not seem to bother the Spanish; perhaps waiting in line was also part of the tradition, but it’s not part of ours, even for free wine. So we opted to pay €1.50 for a drink. After a while, Kay and I decided to check out the action up the hill, which, by that time was blanketed with people. Some were picnicking and others just taking in the show from above. We climbed the narrow service road up to the top, where we found – yes, you guessed it – another large beer booth, hundreds of people and the municipal band playing bullfight music. From the abbey (the views were fantastic), we could see a river of people heading towards the already packed field. San Cecilio, we were informed, is the patron saint of Granada, though Manuel thought that he was yet another of those saints whose existence was in doubt and who were no longer listed on the official saint’s roster. I don’t think that it matters to the Spanish; you could declare the festival in celebration of San Somebody and the people would come, the music would play, beer and tapas would be consumed, and everyone would have a fine time. In Spain, the requirements for holding a festival are minimal.
Part Two: There Will Always Be An England
Ten days after the Festival of San Cecilio, Kay and I took a few days off (from what, I know you’re asking) and returned once again to Nerja, a small, relatively unspoiled town located on the cliffs above the Mediterranean. Nerja has a large population of English, both residents and visitors, and there are a number of pubs and restaurants offering English food. There being no shortage of Spanish food in Granada, we went once again to Big Al’s Pub where we ate on the terrace under a sign declaring “A Little Bit of England in Spain.” Kay had the steak and ale pie and I the liver and onions, which comes with bacon, mashed potatoes, boiled cabbage, carrots and peas. The portions are so large that I don’t need to eat again until the next day. While walking around town, we saw flyers advertising An Evening of Noel Coward, presented by The Nerja Players. The theater was nearby and the price was right, so we went. The theater was almost full, probably four or five hundred people. We saw perhaps five younger than ourselves. Not one of the cast, four men and five women, were younger than 70. What, I thought to myself, have we gotten ourselves into? The show, which was written and directed by one of the actors, was an overview of Coward’s life interspersed with music numbers and skits. The setting was a large salon where an after-theater party was taking place. The guests had just seen a Coward play and were talking about it. Two of the men – all the men wore tuxedos and the women party gowns and feather hairpieces of the era – stood on either side of the stage and read about Coward’s life and work. The readings were informative and enjoyable. Songs were introduced, about 15 in all, their context explained, and then they performed by the cast members. Among the songs were “The Stately Homes of England,” Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” and “Mad About the Boy.” Although their voices were not as strong as they’d once been, there wasn’t a dud in the cast. Several of the cast were, in fact, quite good and obviously had some singing experience. The highlight came at the end of the production, when I had an out-of-time experience. On the back of our programs were the lyrics to “I’ll See You Again,” which was performed about three songs from the end. It also closed the show; the cast stood across the front of the stage and led the audience in singing it. Suddenly I was in a WW II movie; the bombing has stopped and we’ve come from the bomb shelter to gather in this miraculously undamaged theater, where we’re singing to keep our spirits up, knowing that someday it will all end and we’ll see our loved ones again and that there would always be an England. We emerged from WW II England onto a narrow, cobblestone, Spanish street. One week later, I was still suffered disorienting moments of dislocation.
Kay and I met Pablo’s mother back in September 2004, when we came across her putting up flyers with instructions on how to vote absentee in the upcoming American presidential election. We introduced ourselves. Her name was Alex. She was, as we’d guessed, an American. She was also, as they say, great with child. Alex, Manuel and Pablo, who is now fourteen months old, live only minutes away from us. Both Alex and Manuel work as translators, and Alex, a freelancer, works at home. When Alex’s workload was heavy and her babysitter wasn’t available, Kay was more than happy to help out for a couple of hours or so in the afternoon. That, unfortunately, ended last summer when Kay suffered a major back problem, and it became increasingly painful to pick up anything, particularly a fast growing Pablo, from the floor. Pablo goes to childcare now, so Alex’s need for help is not as pressing. But there are still days when an extra hour or two of childfree concentration is good. And we still like to help out. And we certainly like to hang out with Pablo. If there were a contest for the most beautiful, Spanish child, Pablo would definitely be in the running. And that’s high praise, as Spanish children are quite beautiful. He has curly, light brown hair; dark brown eyes with impossibly long eyelashes; checks as round and rosy as apples; full, red lips; and a sly, almost coy, smile. When we go walking with Pablo, we, of course, do the walking, while Pablo lounges in his jogging stroller taking in the world through half-closed eyes. Because the streets and sidewalks of the Albaicín are cobblestone, paving stone or simply small stones set on edge in cement, strollers with bicycle-type wheels are absolutely necessary. Even so, the ride is very bouncy. If Pablo had milk before leaving, he would be a living, breathing milkshake. Perhaps that is why I never see Spanish mothers “burping” their babies; it’s much easier to simply put them in a stroller and bump down the street. On this particular afternoon, we picked Pablo up at four. It was January and chilly, so he was wearing his red parka and gloves, which, of course, he immediately took off. He was nibbling on a rice cake. Our first destination was the Sacromonte, and we pushed the stroller down Calle San Luis, one of the few streets in the Albaicín where traffic is allowed. At one point the street is just wide enough for a car. But there was little traffic at four in the afternoon, just a motorcycle or two, and we reached the pedestrian walkways of the Sacromonte without having had to press ourselves against a house or seek shelter behind a parked car. At one point, high on the hillside, there is a small café, really little more than a widening of the walkway. The café consists of three tables and two umbrellas placed under two trees that grow there. The couple that runs the cafe lives across the walkway, where a “bar,” possibly 30 inches long, has been placed across their front door. They serve bottles of beer, sodas and juices, along with a tapa, and sandwiches. From the café, there is a view of the river valley below, the Alhambra and the city. We stopped there with Pablo to take in the view. We sighed with pleasure. Pablo sighed, too, but did not seem impressed. I think it is difficult to impress a native Albaicínero with a view. We soon headed back along San Luis, took a shortcut along narrow alleys, one no more than four-feet wide, through Plaza Aliatar to Calle Panaderos, normally lined with busy shops but, because it was siesta, quiet and closed. We crossed Plaza Larga, passed through the ancient Moorish walls at Puerta Nueva and on to a new park built on an underground parking garage. Except for the entrance down the hill, the garage cannot be seen. The park, which is on a hillside, is a series of terraces – three steps down, a terrace, and so on – dissected by large, mostly empty planter boxes, and a fountain that runs almost the length of the park. The fountain, which is made of marble, begins on the second terrace and drops down to the fourth along a deep, narrow trough. We’ve never seen water in it. Near the top of the park, two young women are juggling — or rather attempting to juggle — Indian clubs. We parked Pablo so that he could watch. Back and forth the clubs went, sometimes for as long as ten seconds before being dropped. “They’re not very good,” I said to him. He looked up with a patient smile. “I think they’re just learning.” He looked at them and then back at me. Watching people trying to juggle, and failing, did not seem to interest him. Inside the large, marble basin at the head of the fountain, four young women and a young male guitarist were rehearsing a flamenco dance. They were good dancers but hadn’t perfected the routines yet. As the guitarist played, they practiced one dance number after another, their dance shoes pounding out the rhythm on the marble floor of the fountain, which, because it was one of the few smooth, flat surfaces in the area, was probably the reason they were using it. Over and over, the four dancers began a number, dancing beautifully and perfectly synchronized, until one failed to make a turn, or took it too late. Then they stopped, conferred, and began again. Pablo gave me that look again, one that seemed to say: this will be far more enjoyable when they get it right. He is a tough critic. There is a spot in the park with just enough incline for the stroller to roll on its own. I sat along the fountain, count to three, and push the stroller away, perhaps ten or twelve feet. The stroller stopped, then rolled back down towards my outstretched arms. Pablo liked this game. He liked it the first time, the thirtieth time and the sixty-eighth time. As he rolled back and forth, he munched on another rice cake. I taught him another English word: tasteless. This made him smile. After the seventieth trip back and forth, we left the park and headed towards Mirador San Nicolás. From the mirador, you looked out over the tiled roofs and across the narrow river valley to the opposite hillside where the Alhambra stretched along the ridge. Beyond the Alhambra lay the snow-capped Sierra Nevada. Below and to the right stretched the city of Granada. We pushed Pablo to the wall and took it in. Although we’ve seen it hundreds of times, it is a view we never tire of. Being a chilly January day, there were no more than a hundred or so people in the small square. But there was, as always, a guitarist. A young couple sat near the guitarist. The man had a cajon flamenco, a rectangular, wooden percussion box. The player sits on the cajon and plays it with open hands between his legs. After a brief discussion, the man withdrew the cajon from its cloth case and began playing along. The young woman accompanied them by clapping. Suddenly she jumped to her feet and began dancing. There was little if any sound from her stomping feet on the stone surface, but she more than compensated with swirls and claps and shouts. She was pretty good. Soon she paused to take off her coat, then continued, her hands dancing over her head. Every eye, including Pablo’s, followed her as she swirled back and forth. When she finished, the crowd broke into applause and a number of people stepped forward to drop a coin or two into the open guitar case. Pablo smiled broadly. It appears that he is much more receptive to a finished performance. It was time to go home. We passed back through Puerta Nueva, crossed Plaza Larga and walked up Calle Agua. It was not yet six, and all the shops were still closed and shuttered. As we neared his house, Pablo began to babble and hum. Alex greeted him with open arms. As we said goodbye, Pablo rewarded us with a sly, almost flirtatious smile. We promised to do it again soon.
