Travel Feature - Granada, Spain
The city of Granada has a number of fascinating historic districts, among them the Jewish Realejo, the gypsy caves of Sacromonte and the monastery quarter of La Cartuja. However, the most captivating neighbourhood is, without doubt, the ancient Moorish Albaicín. This centuries-old barrio sprawls across the hill directly opposite the Alhambra, enveloping the topography like a blanket of living coral upon the ocean floor. As with the coral reef, it appears beautiful, yet inanimate, when viewed from afar - the tapestry of a thousand salmon-pink-roofs is spectacular when contemplated, across the valley, from the royal balconies of the Palacios Nazaríes. However, step into the Albaicín and you will discover how alive it is, how it lives and breathes; an anthropological marvel which has distilled and developed over countless generations of inhabitants.
It’s
time to dive in and explore, but first, some nourishment...
On the lower periphery of the Albaicín, the name of one bar – The Minotauro – hints at monsters lurking within the winding, labyrinthine streets. To ready myself for the hike up the strength-sapping slopes, I stop off for an Alhambra 1925, the city’s signature local beer. A little Dutch courage, if you will. You might have a few problems getting your tongue around ordering one – “Oiga! Una mil-novecientos-veinte-cinco, por favor!” – but take it from me, never will you have consumed beer so tasty from a bottle so sexy. As in all of Granada’s taverns, my refreshment comes accompanied by a complimentary snack. “Un primero”, hollers the camarero to the kitchen, before a toasted ham and cheese bagel, and a side of green olives, rapidly emerges. If you’ve only sampled tapas in the UK, you will be happy to discover that Andalucía is a region where “tapa” does not translate as “meagre portion of food with astronomical price”. This, amigos, is the real deal, where you can gorge gratis on substantial snackage with every drink you order out. ¡Olé!
I enter the Albaicín from the Calle de Elvira, a long backstreet lined with small bars, shawarma joints and internet cafés. I give a wave as I pass Hatem in the Halal butcher, then get momentarily distracted by the window display in the Sex Shop Patxi. Further up, the “man on the corner” is there as usual. “¡Hashish, hashish!” he whispers through his yellowed teeth. I breeze past him, moving from the flat onto the up-slope and then immediately into the crowd. It’s suddenly
busy. Market stalls abound, their owners lazily leaning against door-frames as tourists fumble through their wares. Qué buscas? jewellery, leather satchels, Arabic lamps, blue-glazed ceramics, castanets, pointy slippers, carpet-ware, hippie clothing? “¡Tu nombre en Árabe!” a tatty cardboard sign entices. With no choice but to move at the sleepy pace of the tourist crowd, I take a moment to admire the countless
teterías - tea cafés. A young couple sit opposite each, cross-legged on leather cushions, sipping their steaming, mint-filled glasses and gazing into
each other’s eyes. Arabic words and unidentifiable medicinal aromas fill the air. Masa al-Khair. Masa al-nur. I pass further familiar scenes as I walk onwards and upwards; fresh-faced study-abroad students from the US sit proudly on a terrace with a giant hookah pipe, eyes transfixed on it in awe, like kids around Santa
Claus. There’s Nacho, in his usual spot, offering photos with his companion - a large green-feathered parrot, well-versed in obscenity - in exchange for a Euro. Further on, at the crossroads, I give wide berth to an
ancient leather-faced gypsy lady who chases passing tourists around like a randy pigeon, muttering incomprehensibly and imploringly waving a sprig of dried rosemary in her outstretched hand.
But here’s my turn! Left into a nondescript, darkened alley, and quickly I’m away from the bustle of the shops, pacing upwards over cobbled stones. I pass open doorways
and windows, through which families can be heard talking in lilting Andalucían rhythms. The chattering of a football commentator emanates from a front room. ¡Regate increíble de Mendieta! The rich aroma of estofado de cordero (lamb stew) tantalises my nostrils. I march purposefully, my heart beating fast, sweat gathering on my brow even
in the cool of the evening. ¡ANDALUCíA EH UNAH NACIÓN! I wonder why I always notice that one among the countless stencils and graffiti artwork on
the whitened walls. That and the cat with the love-heart tail... Another sharp turn and now I’m among the cármenes, the mansion houses of the Albaicín. I can’t see these luxurious homes but behind mighty walls topped with broken glass are garden patios and pergolas and water fountains. A glance to my right confirms my elevation. Here and there, as I
walk, I catch a titillating glimpse of the Alhambra on the opposite side of the valley, seemingly ablaze as its red towers reflect the evening sun. Repeatedly it flashes
into view and is again obscured, a teasing premonition of the view which awaits me. Onwards I press, through the metaphorical arteries of the Albaicín and closer to its beating heart.
I’m getting there. A la derecha again into yet another inconspicuous passageway. I skip over a small pile of dog turd. Is this the right way? It seems different to how I remember it. But one more left and there it is, the Calle Santa Isabel la Real – the road that sweeps along the crest of the butte. As I climb the final step, a one-eyed cat meows - in Spanish, of course - on the wall above me, as if in mock congratulation. ¡Miau! My lungs work like bellows and my lips are dry from the exertions of the climb. Tienes que dejar de fumar, tío. I think to myself, before pulling out a pack of Fortuna and lighting one up. There’s no more uphill now, just a couple of hundred metres flat stroll to my journey’s end. Just enough time to smoke my cigarette…
Arriving at the Mirador de San Nicolas, I’m forced to stop momentarily as I encounter a red barrio minibus rattling along towards me. I press my back against the rough-clad stone, watching carefully as the tourist cattle truck squeezes past my toes and rumbles on towards San Miguel Bajo. My victory may be delayed but it wont be denied. I climb the final thirty steps up into the plaza like the winning captain in a Wembley cup final, savouring the anticipation of the prize that awaits.
Turning
at the summit, my eyes drink in a panorama of sublime perfection, as if designed by The Creator to humble those to whom He blessed with the gift of sight. The Alhambra, resplendent in the setting sun, with the vast, snowy expanse of the Sierra Nevada mountains behind, is truly of beauty unequalled. A picture postcard with a celestial postage stamp. Bill Clinton once remarked that this was the most stunning vista
he’d ever set eyes upon and, regardless of what you thought of Monica Lewinsky, you’d have to suspect that the 42nd President of The United States has leaned back and observed a few stunning vistas in his time. Come to think of it, it’d be great place to smoke a quality cigar, I ponder. ...although going by the sweet smell in the air up here, it seems that tobacco may not be the plante de riguer.
Photographs provided under Creative Commons License 2.0
Credit: Charlie Jackson - Roberto Venturini - Canduela
Painting: Cruz de Mayo en el Albaicín by Placido Frances y Pascual (original stored at the Biblioteca Provincial de Granada)
