The Alhambra

The moon comes to the forge,
in her creamy-white petticoat.
The child stares, stares.
The child is staring at her...
 ~ Federico García Lorca


The moon climbs over the summer Palace of the Generalife. It isn’t a full moon and it isn’t dark yet, but we had just walked through those very palatial arches and taken such delight in the delicate carvings and the sweeping views to the hills of Granada that it seems an added bonus to watch the moon now begin its sweeping arch just there, at the northern most tip of the Alhambra.

It is our day to visit this grand palatial fortress.

But not immediately. I’d reserved a late afternoon hour (3:30) to enter the Nasrid Palace of the Alhambra. That means that we can pick up our tickets anytime after 2 p.m. and spend the time before and the time after the Nasrid walking through the Alhambra grounds, poking into old baths and climbing ancient towers, idling our way through the enormous complex however we please – until 6 p.m., when the Alhambra closes its gates to visitors for the day.

[My apologies for a terribly long post; it could not be otherwise.]

Part I

And so we have a morning to still give over to Granada. After, we can refresh ourselves, rest a little maybe and proceed to the Alhambra.

That is the plan. And initially, the pieces fall into place: we walk down the now familiar alleys of the Arab Quarter, down to the interesting Calle de Elvira, pretty now in the morning light...



elvira


...and I do go to the Cathedral, though not for long (Ed waits outside). And it is dazzling, in an empty sort of way. Without many visitors, the vast ornate space seems remote and, to me, rather cold. Or maybe it's that the January air is not very forgiving here, in this cavernous interior.

I want us to walk then to Granada’s park and perhaps poke into the summer residence of Grenada’s celebrated poet, Federico García Lorca, but here I take a wrong turn. A completely 180 degree wrong turn. We walk through the commercial heart of Granada...







...and the streets became more and more crowded, as it is the day before the great Feast of the Three Kings – another holiday gift giving situation for children, I hear, and it seems that everyone is doing last minute errands because in the course of the hour, the streets fill with crowds of shoppers.

We poke into several bakeries, for the fun of it, settling finally on a few tidbits for later...



pastry


...and we have an errand too – a comb for me since I managed to break one earlier. Only after an hour or so of rambling around town does it strike me that we are not where we should be.

Eventually we do find the park – not hard, it’s Granada’s dominant green space after all – but by then the summer house of Lorca is closing...



Lorca summer house


... and indeed, the guard there tells us it wont be open again for several days as we are in the middle of the great Fete.

No matter. Ed takes to a bench...



Ed on bench


...and I stroll. The park has a grand rose garden, but the blooms are mostly faded and in fact, the maintenance crew is just now clipping back the spent roses. But they haven’t gotten to this patch yet, where an occasional flower still proudly displays her petals.



winter rose


There are the usual strollers and wanderers and children playing and parents hovering over their little guys...



family


...and it’s all very pleasant, except that it’s now getting late and here we are in the park of Lorca rather than in our guest house preparing for the afternoon at the Alhambra.

We pause at a bakery for a quick pick-me-up espresso and pastry (and my oh my, is the bakery part crowded now with a holiday cake buying public!)...



quick espresso


...though I notice that others prefer wine over coffee...



wine


And now it is time to hike up the hill to the Alhambra.

Part II

As if there wasn't enough of a build-up,  the walk up to the palatial compound is uphill, ceremonial almost. A slow approach, as if you should brace yourself for what's before you.

As we go through the first gates, I see that I got the images all wrong. From across the hills, the Alhambra looks stark and fortified. What you don't see is the vast natural setting -- the park outside the walls, the great gardens within.

We pass through a monstrous gate -- and it's the wrong gate for us. (Better prepared visitors know to head right up to the top where there is an efficient retrieval of prepaid tickets.) Up we climb even further... and now we are there.

You get a tremor when you enter the fortification, you really do. (Ed would dispute this.)  It's only 2:15 and we have time to visit the Palace of the Generalife first (no lines here and very few visitors -- it's a tad to the side and requires more of an uphill climb, so I suspect most pass on it, which is very pleasant for those who do take the detour).

I think you get the idea of how vast the Alhambra is as you look down toward the buildings at the lower end of the fortress, from the gardens of the Generalife.





For me, the delight here is the courtyard.


 

 
In these winter months, the Alhambra gardens look winter bare. Yes, there's stark beauty in them and many never shed their green leaves so that you can't really think of it as desolate. But at the summer palace, the garden explodes still with flowers that refuse to give in to the season. The entire effect is absolutely lovely.

We are where the sultans found their delights and recreation and here you get the first twinge of realization how much human toil and effort was expanded for the pleasure of just a few.






And just as from the hills of the Arab Quarter you can gaze at the Alhambra, so, too, from the Alhambra, you can gaze at the Albaicín.





We leave the summer palace and walk down toward the Palace of the Nasrids (without question the most famous Spanish Islamic edifice in the world). It's a very well planned circuit: your map tells you where you are and where you should go next and there are agents who electronically check your ticket at entry points -- you may enter any of the listed sights only once. The crowd control here is exquisite. This just astonishes me: you never feel that there are many visitors here. Indeed, we pause more than once to sit on a bench and in the space of minutes, we see very few people. I read that in the summer months, some 6000 come up to the Alhambra each day. Now, there may be fewer, but still, most time slots for the Palace of the Nasrids were full. And yet, as you stroll through the Alhambra grounds, you never feel overwhelmed by the presence of others.


We come to the entrance of the great palace and this requires you to stay with your time slot. The line is forming already. Several hundred visitors, waiting for 3:30. We decide to take the tail end, to be the last ones in. The line is long enough that if you are last, you are just barely ahead of the next (4 pm) group. And still, it's a good plan. As we enter the palace, we feel unrushed. At times, we have a corner of it to ourselves.






Here's where I could overwhelm even the most patient Ocean reader with too much of everything. So let me hush down the words and let a few images give you a feeling of seeing it on your own. In the golden light of the late afternoon.






































(can't resist)


It is so beautiful, all of it, that I find myself tearing up more than once. Ed's amused with me, but I can tell that it's all rubbing off a little. He's been here before, as a high school student. And he tells me it feels different now. The things that stand out change over time. And they change with the seasons, so that I have to believe that on a hot summer afternoon, our pleasure would be entirely of a different kind.


We have the one photo request, because it seems so important to document our presence (to me at least)...






And then we pass through the baths...





...and we leave the Palace of the Nasrids.


You need a moment to recover. But not just yet, take in one more brilliant reflection (this is of the Partal Palace)...






...give a nod to the pomegranate (Grananda can be translated to mean that)...





...then find a space to sit down. We do. An empty bench, facing the quickly descending sun. It's 5:30, but that means we still have a good half hour at the Alhambra. We go to the southern most tip -- the Watch Tower -- the oldest part of the Alhambra complex.

As the brick walls change from yellow to orange, we look out at the moon climbing higher still, and at the hills beyond, distantly, where the crumbling abbey stands...





...and of course, onto our beloved Arab Quarter...





We watch the sun set over Granada from the top of the Tower, as if we haven't been moved enough yet and so there is this additional emotional layer, because setting suns, in their beauty and grandness are always that for me...






To the back, the mountains of the Sierra Nevada take on the red glow of a dazzling light. Yes, that's the moon -- creeping up on the photo so as not to be forgotten.





And now it's time to go.

We leave with one last look at the mountains, there, peeking through, between the trees...






Time to pass through the gate. We all are made mellow by the visit. A child holds a father's hand, a lover puts his arm around his sweet one...






And of course, I get a bit weepy. Happy stuff. It's the way I am.

And hungry -- I'm that too. We've done a lot of rambling and walking and, on my part, emoting. So the appetite surges. It's after six and I know there is a celebratory gathering of children, Three Kings, all that, in downtown Granada, but our moods are elsewhere and so we climb up toward the Arab Quarter (it's more commercial at the base of the hill)...


 


...and we find a tiny place where the owner serves us plates of cheese and olives...





...and because I'm hungry still, a bowl of Andalusian gazpacho.





The walk up to our guest house is now in darkness. We pass a small church (there are so many here!) and we peek inside to find nuns cloaked in white, almost ghostly from the back, chanting in prayer...





We retreat quietly and climb some more. Every now and then, there'll be an open doorway, maybe with a table outside...





...but mostly, the city is now in the deep shadow of the night.

We have time to rest before dinner. Our last big meal in Granada is one with a view and it has good food, great food even, but the setting is just a tad too formal and so we limit ourselves to just one dish -- calamari for me -- and it is pleasant enough, but we both admit that we should have just stayed with a local bar, perhaps for a tapas or two. Still, food here is inexpensive (at least as compared with Madison) and we leave happy, especially since the owner, noting my camera, takes me upstairs to the rooftop, from where I see the twinkling lights of our neighborhood...





...and on the hill before us, the magnificent Alhambra.

in the presence of the Alhambra

Alhambra. We are within a stone’s throw and everything around us reverberates its presence.

Alhambra, peeking through. Beyond the rooftops.





Alhambra souvenirs, Alhambra beer on nearly every menu in town.

People congregate in choice spots, where they can get a good view of it. Ah, yes, here to see the great Alhambra. You too? Yes...


We have a reservation to enter the Alhambra on Thursday, so today, we merely play the waiting game. It isn’t hard in Granada.

We start off with breakfast at the guest house...





– a lovely affair. Ed eats six oranges. He’s quite smitten with the ones that are like clementines only twice the size. Breakfast done with, we set out for a Granada ramble.

This means that we head downhill, toward the downtown and center of the city.






Down, all the way down from our Albaicín hill.











And now it feels like we’re in a city. No more narrow alleys with white houses. Granada bustles.

We turn toward the cathedral and it is supposed to be a magnificent cathedral – commissioned by the ever commissioning Queen Isabella of the fifteenth century and I know you’ll find this to be a bit odd on my part (I’m generally avoid taking a principled position on how things should be done) but I was taken aback by the not insignificant entrance fee. Shouldn’t cathedrals be free? On the other hand, I’m not here to pray. But what if I was? In any case, I hesitate. Ed is indifferent to cathedrals, regardless of their great artistic merit and so in the end, we postpone a visit until the next day.

We do go to the side chapel – the Royal Chapel, and there, too, you have to pay a separate fee and I think that this is understandable as it isn’t really a house of prayer – more like a house of burial. Both Queen Isabella and Ferdinand are encrypted here and, among other things, you get the pleasure of looking at their tombs.

It is an ornate and interesting place, made more so by the descriptive brochure that you can pick up with your ticket (10 cents extra; we splurged). We read that this chapel should be of special interest to (among others) Americans (us!) as it memorializes the king and queen who were so 'adept' at 'spreading Spanish culture to the Americas.' (No photos allowed. Too bad.)


Outside again, we walk through the Plaza de Bibarrambla, where, as in Madrid, you cannot really get a sense of the vast and pretty square, as the Christmas booths still have a presence. (No photos taken. Too commercially cluttered at the moment.)

More shops, including ones that are sort of pseudo Moroccan (in that they are like those in Morocco except not fully so)...


 


...more gazing this way and that until I think that we have our fill of downtown for now and so we turn around and head back up to the Arab Quarter. Our Arab Quarter.





It’s early afternoon. Like the mother that I am, I know what would be good for us: a hike. A climb. A walk without an obvious end. Motion, in the quiet of vast open spaces.

If you take the road that runs at the summit of the Albaicín and you follow it to the Sacromonte – where many of the homes are built right into the contours of the rocky hills – then you can have yourself a very pleasant hike.






And at all points, you can look over your shoulder and see the Alhambra.






Here, Granada is no longer a city. There are houses along the road, but if you stray from it, you find yourself in the dry and desolate hills that go on forever to the north, to the east and west.





This is the place where Flamenco is studied and practiced. We hear bits of music coming from one café and there are signs advertising night performances.

As we turn away from the main road and follow the more quiet alleys, we find that this is, too, the place for cats.
















Skittish cats who will have none of Ed’s friendly advances.






We take the dirt road up a hill just outside of Granada – toward the somber and somewhat crumbling abbey (Abadia de Sacromonte), closed now, even as we see a boy ride his horse through the gates, then practice some sidesteps in the dusty garden of the Abadia.






We’re not done hiking yet. There is a path that goes up the next mountain and we take that, up, up all the way up for magnificent views of the snowcapped Sierra, the gentle mist (Ed tells me it's likely to be, at least in part, smoke from wood burning stoves) forming in the low lying areas...






...and, of course, the Alhambra, now regarded from above.






We sit on a rock, a bench of sorts I guess and I lean on Ed and let myself go limp in the warm sunshine. (And I think, this would make for a nice photo... so I perch the camera on a rock and set the timer...)






Granada is a good five degrees chillier than Seville (the afternoon highs have been around 55 degrees and at night it gets down to the mid thirties), but here, on the summit, I feel as warm as if I were there on a summer day.

The views are stunning and we spend some time there, enjoying the quiet, the solitude.


It’s a steep descent and we take our time with it, but eventually we are back on the road and then back in the Albaicín, on the square next to our hotel, where I’m ready for an early evening lunch of an asparagus and shrimp scrambled egg dish, delivered by the ever friendly café owner and his wife – who proudly converted an old house into what appears to be a successful business. Ah, location!





And now the sun is down. This is when I take out my computer at the guest house and sit by their fireplace and review the day behind us and the day in front of us (while Ed plays with his circuit board in the little room with the big fluffy pillows on the bed).

By 9:30 we’re ready for dinner. On our morning walk, we had passed a restaurant tucked into the thicket of the alleys of the Arab Quarter and subsequently, I read that the Basque food there is quite respectable and so we weave through the dark alleys now to find the place again and we’re greeted by a very friendly waiter who is, I guess, happy to see us as we are the only diners that night. (Sigh... location.)

We hesitate in ordering, but the waiter definitely has his favorites and so we end up with a warmed spinach salad and some cheese leek concoction and rice with clams and artichokes and it’s all very delicious and we linger, but only a short while since we know that once we’re gone, everyone gets to go home.





Home. Right now it’s Granada. A little room in the old Arab Quarter. If we scaled the roof, we’d be in the presence of the Alhambra.

Granada

There’s a dispute taking place in Spain as we speak: which treasure gets more visitors per year – the Prado in Madrid, or the Alhambra in Granada? I think it’s a silly squabble since the Prado, as we well know, opens its doors to anyone and everyone five evenings out of the week, whereas you can’t even buy your way into the Alhambra if you haven’t prereserved your slot in advance. I knew it was hard to visit in the tourist filled summer months, but the other day, while idling on the computer, I decided to check out the reservation system for the Alhambra and found, to my horror, that on two of the three days we are to be in Granada, all tickets to this castle-palace-fortress are already sold out. In January. So, in my opinion, the Alhambra wins, at least the desirability pagent. And, too, I read some ten years back that the monument is so fragile right now, that future generations may not be able to see it in the way that we can admire it today. We are the tail end, the last bulldozers who know how to take a good thing and wear it down for our great-grandchildren. Sigh...


Granada is smaller than Seville. One third the size, but you couldn’t tell. It feels big. And here’s another statistic – it’s only 150 miles from Seville, but the train ride takes a full three hours. It’s a local train, a lovely little thing, with big windows and pleasant views onto...you guessed it, olive groves.





At the Granada train station, I push for getting tickets for our remaining train rides. We have a wonderfully helpful agent who gives Ed a senior discount and jovially walks us through our various connections. Okay, we’re done. And then I notice that my small satchel – where I carry my computer and a few papers and books is missing. Damn! What idiot these days leaves her bag at the side of the room (never mind that the room is empty) for anyone to grab? I fly out looking in all directions, but of course, anyone taking a bag is not going to linger so that I may catch up with them. Stupid, stupid me.

The commotion causes the police officer to emerge. He looks at me pityingly and thinks ‘dumb tourist’ thoughts I’m sure, especially since he had been in the room, noticed the abandoned bag and removed it promptly.

I am very happy to get my computer back. Ed refrains from commenting on the entire episode and my role in it, which is a good thing.


As we walk from the train station to the Albayzín – the old Arab quarter – I think how different the vibe is here, in Granada. Seville is orange. Or at least it seems that way, possibly because there are orange trees everywhere. Granada is white in the old quarter and not any one color elsewhere. And here’s the big difference. I notice it right away when we walk the grand boulevard cutting through the city:





Granada is at the edge of the Sierra Nevada range. Granada is hilly.

Anyone who has traveled here will tell you that really, there are two hills to take note of: the one of the Albayzín and the other of the great Alhambra.

So naturally we get lost. We move like the dazed travelers that we are, looking at street names, wondering why none of them are what they ought to be.

We are with our backpacks of course and I note another interesting small detail: Granada draws backpackers, ones who seem to be of another era – the sixties maybe? – much more so than Seville did. In a square several blocks from our tiny hotel (we do find it eventually, of course we do, getting lost in this world for long is not so easy anymore), they congregate and bring out guitars and drums and in my mind they are stuck here in Granada, probably to escape the dreary wetness of Amsterdam, or pausing for the one last breath of a familiar continent on the way to Marrakech. It feels almost nostalgic to see them here, with their matted hair and young smiles, wrapped in layers of wool, but with bare feet. Just because.


A word on our small guest house, the Santa Isabel la Real: it’s beautiful. It may well be the gem of our travels through Andalucía. On the outside – plain and white. On the inside – a terrific little open courtyard...





...and rooms filled with antiques and art, collected by the family who owns and operates the place.





The line I’ve used – it’s cheaper than the Econolodge in Escanaba – applies here as well, even though Granada is known to be pricey. We booked the most basic room and it’s 105 E, including full breakfast, WiFi, taxes, and swigs of a delicious homemade orange liquor, made by the matriarch behind the place.

We didn’t do much this first afternoon in Granada. Oh, well, I take that back. We idled on the square around the corner from the hotel.





And then we walked up toward the back, from where we saw the first real glimpse of the reason why we’re here. There, in the distance, the Alhambra.





Oh, and, too, we strolled (nostalgically) around the hippie square and watched the great hippie bust, as a van of police officers pulled up and made a sweep of the place – not really throwing anyone out, but, making sure that any musician ws properly registered to play outdoors (a new law in Granada requires this, to keep the free music down to a dull roar, especially in the summer) and that all cigarettes of dubious legality were snuffed out.

Finally, let me end this post as we ended the day – at the tiny eatery just a few paces from us – El Ají. We come late and leave even later (last ones out at midnight) and I think we’ve succumbed to the mysticism of this strangely romantic and eerily beautiful place where nothing is ordinary, nothing is quite like you had imagined it to be.