The silence I found one late afternoon in Granada was layered with the arrhythmic sound of thinning crowds walking back to hotels, back to their homes, forward to tapas bars, atop the bubbly drone of the Darro as it ducked under the stone plaza in front of the Iglesia de Santa Ana. But overall, the sound was one of a collapsing quiet bearing down on me to suffocate the afternoon rush to see what more I could of the city before I left. Early evening, at least during my stay, as the sun crawled near the end of the sky, seemed to be the right time in the city. As I looked past the church, the hills of the Alhambra to the left, and the Sacromonte to the right, I spied a half formed moon hanging above them, set against one of those late afternoon Granada blue skies.
Lying contentedly in one of Spain’s numerous semi-independent regions, Andalucia, in the southern part of the Iberian Peninsula, Granada exists in its own world forged simultaneously with the memorable minarets of the east and the ubiquitous crosses of the west.
My interest in Granada found its seeds, a few years ago, when I read an article in The New York Times that suggested the Alhambra, Granada’s prized and treasured relic of Moorish brilliance, was basically more amazing than all of the other buildings you or I had seen in our lives combined.
The fortress has a long history beginning with its construction by a Jewish man, Samuel Ha-Nagid, under the direction of the Islamic rulers of Granada, in the 11th century. When the city was captured by the Christians in the 15th century, so went the Alhambra, at which point it started to edge closer and closer away from its past glories, with at least one part destroyed and others later allowed to rot. The French made at least one attempt at “structural change” during the Peninsular Wars, somehow missing destroying it. Perhaps most famously, American author Washington Irving camped out there for a while in the 19th century when it was basically Spain’s coolest homeless shelter.
Irving’s travelogue, Tales of the Alhambra, is as enchanting as the city in some ways, cataloguing whispery and fleetingly magical legends of old, alongside his personal adventures, centering around the grounds of the Alhambra and the city as a whole. Some of the most memorable prose involves former Muslim ruler Boapdil, who may be known, for one, as the leader under whom the city was lost to the Christian conquerors. Perhaps to some Boapdil is seen as the fall guy. Irving seems sympathetic, suggesting that Boapdil might be seen in a better light had he not been such a good guy. He trolls the grounds of the Alhambra for sights of the figure’s departure when the writing on the wall seemed most permanent:
From the summit of one of these the unfortunate Boapdil took his last look at Granada; it bears a name expressive of his sorrows, La Cuesta de las Lagrimas (the hill of tears). Beyond it, a sandy road winds across a rugged cheerless waste, doubly dismal to the unhappy monarch, as it led to exile…I spurred my horse to the summit of a rock, where Boapdil uttered his last sorrowful exclamation, as he turned his eyes from taking their farewell gaze: it is still denominated el ultimo suspiro del Moro (the last sigh of the Moor). Who can wonder at his anguish at being expelled from such a kingdom and such an abode? With the Alhambra he seemed to be yielding up all the honours of his line, and all the glories and delights of life.
When you visit the Alhambra you start to understand Boapdil’s sorrow and the utter lack of hyperbole in Irving’s lament.
The fortress sits perched atop a hill, opposite the Muslim quarter, above the central part of the city. Must see sites include the Palacios Nazaries, the Alcazaba and the Generalife gardens. That being said, an allotment of a few hours to visit the lesser known parts is rewarding.
A bus runs from Plaza Nueva in the center every ten minutes or so, but I choose to walk. Later on, on my last day in Granada, I venture up a less frequented street, Cuesta de los Chinos, to the edge of the palace, up a sometimes crumbling street, past old walls with foliage covered ruins, evoking visions of what came before. On my first visit, though, I choose the more frequented Cuesta de Gomerez.
As you approach the grounds the first thing you view is the Puerta de las Granada, a stone gate that brings you from the undeniably romantic world of Granada into the even more enchanted grounds of the Alhambra. Walking through, you immediately notice, on both sides of you, running water paths, bordered in winter with fallen orange leaves, both of which present you with an unforgettably minimal and powerful visual and auditory experience signaling the experience to come. Water is everywhere in the Alhambra, utilized brilliantly to signal successive stages and views, and to calm the senses visually and aurally.
Like a good album, the Alhambra is best experienced at least twice. The first time you go you are slave, inevitably, to that notion that you must see it, and see it all. You follow your own internal checklist. I try to slow down, but only to a small extent succeed, stopping in the Court of the Lions to lounge on a bench, enjoying a bocadillo on one of the overlooks, and wondering slowly around the hedges outside the Parador hotel. You don’t want to miss anything but, at the same time, you don’t want to be consumed by not missing anything.
It would take too long, and likely fall into tedium, to go into all of the noteworthy moments of my first trip to the Alhambra. I’ll keep my remembrances to a tasteful select: stunning views of the Albaizin from the lookouts (miradors) of the Palacio de Nazaries and the towers of the Alcazaba, sometimes reached through claustrophobic, medieval climbs; looking up, open-mouthed and drooling, in amazement at the ridiculous detail of the muquarnas vaulting of the ceiling of the Sala de los Abencerrajes; watching photo session after photo session in the virtual center of the fortress, the Court of the Myrtle Trees; and the sheer auditory impact of the sound of water as you enter the Court of the Water Channel in the Generalife, an experience that exceeds the first time you heard Back in Black, with water rather than guitars.
I schedule my return visit for a Friday night, a cold late December one in which I opt for the bus rather than the walk up the path. Arriving early I take a stroll around what I’ll call Alhambra village, a small collection of uninspiring shops and hotels just up the hill from the main ticketing office. Once inside the Alhambra, after banding with a group of French AARP tourists to horde off a rush of impatient ticket holders, I begin my walk, solo once again, in near total darkness, through the palisade of towering firs, over that narrow bridge that connects the Generalife to the palace grounds, past the thickly manicured hedges, and finally to the palace. I begin to think of Irving’s book, of lore describing nighttime walks into various chambers, of the many mysteries that inhabited its chambers and the then wild outer grounds.
At night there is a different ambiance, the crowds replaced with a select few, reminding me, as we walk in the dark, dimly lit receiving quarters of the Palacio of that classic scene in La Dolce Vita when Warhol starlet Nico leads a pack of late-nighters on a candlelit journey through an old Italian villa. The Palacio de Nazares is even more dreamlike at night, the view of the Albaizin and San Nicholas now stars puncturing black, the Court of the Lions even more entrancing in the silence. The section that holds me tightest, though, has to be the Patio of the Gilded Room, in some ways the simplest and most non-descript of spaces, a square court with 30 foot walls, an open ceiling and, in the center, a small circular fountain that bubbles as the moon looks down on it, and as I look up at the moon. In a way, it encapsulates everything great about the Alhambra and, indeed, Granada, and its marriage of the simple and the grand in the space of 300 cubic feet. On my way home, I take one final walk down Cuesta de Gomerez, watching the two creeks alongside and feel a fraction of Boapdil’s sentiment as I pass through the Puerta de las Granada and into the moonlit city below.
Wondering through the Albaizin, later on, is like a walk through the Alhambra in that it offers the visitor a circuitous and serpentine journey through varying temperatures, spaces and vistas, building a remarkable sense of anticipation from narrow alley to courtyard to square. The hill of the Albaizin was the site of Granada’s first inhabitants, in the 7th century BC, as well as the site where the Islamic rulers dwelt in their primary years of inhabitance. The planners may have figured on some sort of natural air conditioning that the narrow paths, ceilinged by overhanging flower beds provided. Varieties of flowers hang in the windows as you walk by, here and there peering past the occasionally grated gates guarding the ubiquitous courtyards. The best way to view the Albaizin, indeed, may be to simply pick one of the narrow ways that abuts the Darro at a perpendicular point and start ascending the hill. Bring a map, but don’t let it distract you. I end up spending hours stacked on hours wondering from alley into square into alley, sitting down for a beer or two, moving on to find the next church on my list, following wondering dogs for simple photographs, peering into tiny bars and teaterias, all the while keeping a constant glance on that Granada sky that must have been what Webster envisioned when he wrote about the word in his dictionary. The sky is an unchanging blue, light in hue, with long, white clouds that cut the sky like the trees at the Alhambra. Cast against the bearable whiteness of the Albaizin, the sky is even more profound and pure.
My afternoon walk in the Albaizin begins at its base, alongside the Calle del Darro, around the riverside square that sits under the Alhambra. I walk up a tiny, narrow cobblestone street that snakes around for awhile until I find a nice restaurant and patio and another view of the Alhambra. From there I continue to wander up the hill, eventually arriving at the Colegiata del Salvador, a 16th century church with views of the Sacromonte to its eastern side. Further up the hill I settle upon a nearby square for a very late lunch of pork bocadillo. The square is alive with entertainers, young travelers and perhaps residents as well. I dive deeper into Tales of the Alhambra, and scan the photos I’ve just taken on my camera. Moving on via Calle Panaderos, I walk past a number of vibrant restaurants and bars that, an hour later, as I walk home, seem deserted to shadowy figures throwing early firecrackers, premature for a few hours on this New Years’ Eve. I walk through an old Islamic gateway, the Arco de las Pesas, through the defensive wall of the Albaizin, and back onto another cobblestone street, leading up to the Plaza San Nicolás. The square is packed with tourists, gypsy minstrels, wanderers, and venders selling jewelry and cider, all seemingly inconsequential in front of the site across the valley: the Alhambra, on equal elevation, and the sun as its slowly but determinedly makes its way to the western side of the sky. The Albambra glows and pulsates in the sun. A thousand colors fill the sky. I sit completely transfixed as the sun lowers to the edge of the horizon and somehow fail to notice the fact that everyone else does the same. The civilized applause that erupts when the sun offers its final wink for the day reminds me I’m not alone.
Walking down Camino Nuevo de San Nicholas, I find more tiny bars, packed with twenty-somethings, hunkered over tiny plates and small glasses. I take one last gaze over the city, the Cathedral below now the star, rather than the Alhambra, and then begin my descent, sans map, turning down alleys and back again, passing a somber church tower, descending stairs that lay on top of each other, and finally wonder onto Calle Caldereria Nueva, into the commercial district that most echoes the North African heritage of so much of the city’s identity, past inviting fragrances, into cave-like stores selling textiles, Arabesque décor, teas, and down past the teateria’s and pita shops, and onto Calle Elvira, where I take another early dinner/second lunch at one of the ubiquitous tapas bars.
Ultimately, much of the memory of the trip will be tied to meals: sitting off Plaza Nueva watching the parade of people roll past, 30 minutes into my arrival, coffee and morning pastry in hand, with the natural mural formed by the Iglesia de Santa Ana and the towering Sacromonte in the distance; elbowing up to the counter at Bodega Casteneda around six or seven, before the crowds, for jamon Serrano, queso Manchego, olives, perfectly crusty bread, salmon topped with cream cheese and caviar and a civilized portion of gold-toned beer; Arabic soup, babbagonoush, eggplant cous cous, and Arabic tea at a low-ceilinged, almost cave-like nook, found at the top of a narrow strip of steps in the Albaizin; my breakfasts and late lunches on the Darro, in the Paseo del Padre Manjón ; and the joys of stopping for a beer in the squares of the highlands or lowlands of Granada as public space becomes grounds for the tables and chairs of restaurants for those who would rather sit by a fountain and watch the parade of stray cats, dogs and people.
In the end, though, the greatest pleasure in Granada may lie in the bocadillo: a simple mix of perfectly dense bread, jamon Iberico or jamon Serrano, an occasional drizzle of olive oil and, for those with elaborate tastes, a slice of cheese. On the way out of Spain, at the Madrid airport, the bocadillo becomes the best meal, hands down, I’ve ever had at an airport. Whereas the tendency in America might be to flood the sandwich with all sorts of condiments and accessories to enhance the experience, the Spanish realize and practice the idea of letting the primary ingredients speak for themselves. Here is another metaphor for the city as a whole; Granada, aside from the grandeur and beauty of the Alhambra as well as the Cathedral, feels like a simple city. Sophisticated, aware of its place in history, cultured, but simple.
On a quiet Sunday morning I make my way up to the Sacromonte, a hilly settlement known for its gypsy population, to the east of the Albaizin. An overwhelming amount of the residents live in cave-houses, hollowed out and naturally cool abodes that only add to the mystery of the subculture. It’s very quiet, eerily so even in full daylight. Flamenco clubs compete for space with homes that seem in complete symbiosis with the earth. Frank Lloyd Wright would smile. At a lookout point, high up on the hill, on the grounds of a fairly interesting cave dwelling museum, I find two perspectives, one of the somewhat known angles and curves of the city below, another more mysterious one of the deep valley to the east.
In the afternoon, I make my way back towards my hotel, past Plaza Nueva, towards the famed Cathedral of Granada. A friend of mine, who’s actually much smarter than me, wrote a thesis in examination of a complex chicken and egg question. He made a vain attempt to decide if the deep faith and devotion of Medieval Christians led to the beauty of Cathedrals, and all the toil, blood, and struggle that it took to build them, or vice versa. A visit to the Cathedral suggests the strong possibility of the latter, but perhaps the former as well when you account for the fact that it took nearly 200 years to build it. You’ve seen plenty of European cathedrals in photo books whether you’ve been to the continent or not. Photo books, though, simply can never prepare you for the sheer sense of space and magnificence and reverence for something, that the interior of one of this stature exudes and demands, through breathlessly soaring arches, multiple naves, immense white columns like legs of giants, gold that makes you feel guilty, and numerous Flemish paintings and expertly cut statues. Like Fenway Park, I have to ignorantly assume, you have to have been there.
Following my visit to the Cathedral, walking around the narrow streets of Plaza Bib Rambla, on the edges of the Albaizin and the Realejo, I find a collection of smartly dressed, thinly manicured Andalucians, kids often in toe. Small bars, no bigger than an American bedroom, seem intimidating in their expected exclusivity. Chalkboards on the sidewalk, or perhaps in the window, casually list the tapas, wine and entrée offerings: jamon iberico, paella, oxtail stew among the most ubiquitous. It’s one of those places where a good portion of those walking seem to be walking to walk, without an intended destination, as if they themselves are travelers. At night the streets glow with Christmas lights and wandering families, many on their way to the numerous BELEN sites, miniature models of the birth city of Jesus.
My hotel, the Hotel Navas sits on Calle Navas, a noisy, pedestrian-only, street that runs perpendicular to Calle Reyes Catolicos, itself one of the biggest streets in Granada. For the two weeks I spend there the street is intermittently crowded from the mid-afternoon hours, in which parents fill the bars while their children play on the streets, to late in the evening, when the “dinner” crowd arrives. I wake up several nights around four A.M. as the last stragglers leave their marks.
The hotel is more than adequate, though lacking in romance. I do, though, enjoy the ambience as I sit in the lobby one afternoon, next to a family of three, and hear the ringtones of the father’s cell phone: the eerie, sinister grooves of the main song (penned by Germany’s Goblin) from Dario Argento’s Suspiria. I knew I was in Europe at that point.
It was also fairly amusing to watch the looks of amusement, or perhaps disgust, from the families enjoying dinner in the dining room across the alley from my second story room, when I opened my patio window and propped my bare feet on the rail, in the cold of December, with the idea of watching the people below. They, however, were enjoying a civilized and, I suspect, proper Andalucian meal, among family, on a week in which all concern for work seemed to disappear across the city in deference to the holiday. I was interrupting the meal.
Later that evening I wandered into neighboring Realejo, just as the sun had set, not really expecting anything marvelous. I grab a schwarma from one of the popular Middle Eastern fast food spots that seem to exist on every corner and, just when I’m starting to feel like heading back, happen upon the small square that abuts the Church of Santo Domingo, grey and possibly crumbling but captivating for this very reason. The church, and the square, is deserted at this hour. Alone with an ancient statue and the face of the church, I’m confronted with many of the reasons I came here, in complete solace, in an otherwise bustling mid sized city, looking at my latest trophy and, selfishly, refusing to take a picture of it.
Stay
Hotel Navas
958 22 59 59
Calle Navas 22
Hotel Zaugan del Darro
958 21 57 30
Carrera del Darro 23
Casa del Capitel Nazari
958 21 52 60
Cuesta Aceituneros
See
Alhambra
902 44 12 21
Cathedral
(off Gran Via de Colon)
Eat
Restaurante Arrayanes
958 22 84 01
Cuesta Maranas 4
Bodegas Castenada
Calle Almireceros
Antigua Bodega Castenada
Calle de Elvira
Al Andalus
958 22 67 30
Calle de Elvira
Mirador de Morayma
958 228 290
Pianista García Carrillo 2
(Sadly, I lost the list I kept during my visit in which I listed every meal I had and sketched a very rough map of the city with the locations and restaurant names as well. Trust me when I say that I ate well.)
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