No blog post about Granada can be complete without a fully documented account of the Alhambra (original in Arabic al-Hamrā, the red), a fortified city on al-Sabika hill, comprised of palaces, gardens, watchtowers and fountains.  For devoted readers of “pomegranate2015,” you know that the complex has been referenced repeatedly throughout this travelogue.  Yet never has a post been devoted exclusively to this subject.  The time has come.  100% Alhambra.   24 hours a day. 7 days a week.  Starting now.

↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔

A. The book.

B. The author.

C. The apartment.

D. The commemmorative plaque.

A.  Publication of this romantic travelogue in 1832 put the fortress Alhambra on the map for many a continental tourist in the 19th century.

B.  American writer, historian and diplomat.  Penned Rip Van Winkle, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Tales of the Alhambra.  Also made a mean Valencia-style paella.

C.  In this room, the Habitaciones de las Frutas, during the spring and summer of 1829, Irving (last name) composed The Alhambra:  A Series of Tales and Sketches of the Moors and Spaniards.

D.  Installed in 1914, this commemorative plaque attests to Washington Irving’s stay in the complex of the Palacio de Nazaríes of the fortress of the Alhambra of Andalusia, Spain of Europe in the Northern Hemisphere on the planet Earth.

↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔

E.  The archways, doorways and windows.

Gate of Justice.

Mashrabiyas above the Wine Gate.

Torre de los Infantes.

Long ago, these walls were polychrome and completely decorated.

Sala de las Dos Hermanas.

Poorly composed photograph of the facade of Palacio Comares.

Entry to Hall of the Ambassadors.

Hall of the Kings (Sala de los Reyes).

Hall of the Two Sisters.

Inside Salón de los Embajadores.

Lindaraja windows.

Inside “The Alhambra.”

↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔

F.  The tile work and arabesques and inscriptions.

Rosettes.

“There is no victor but Allah” (Nashkhid-Thuluth style).

Mudéjar tiles, also known as azulejos.

Carved plaster (Ataurique style).

Mocárabes with ataurique decoration.

Tessellation.

Wall patterns.

Borders.

Alicatado with arabesque.

Three-fold rotations.

False arch.

Very old glazed ceramic tiles known as Zellige.

False arch with Albayzin in distance.

El Mexuar Wall detail.

Plasterwork with Kufic and Nashkid-Thuluth engravings.

Carved plasterwork.

Wine gate (detail). Oy!

Quiz: What style is this?

↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔

G.  The wildlife.

↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔

H.  The ceilings, wooden and plaster.

Cedar wood ceiling of varying shades.

Stucco ceiling with muqarnes technique (honeycomb).

Stucco ceiling.

Stucco wall panel.

Wooden inlay ceiling.

Blue from long ago.

I.  The fountains and the ponds.  (Some of them.)

Court of the Myrtles (Patio de los Arrayanes) in the Comares Palace.

The fountain in the Court of the Lions (Patio de los Leones).

The central pool at the Portico (el Partal).

↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔↔

J.  Our house in the Albayzin from atop the Alcazaba.

K.  The extra photographs (partial collection).

Restoration.

Restoration up close.

Generalife (Hen-ara-LEE-fay) from afar.

L.  The alternative.

Better photos, better text, better.

From The Alhambra of Granada, text by Félix Bayón, photographs by Lluís Casals.

LA MÚSICA

Did you know that the oboe is a double reed instrument, requiring the player to blow air through two pieces of cane tied together that then vibrate against each other?  Do you know what the word embouchure means?  Were you aware that after spending two years learning how to play a double reed instrument in America, a novice oboist must adapt to a European double reed when in Spain, all the while taking two buses across town, past the Río Genil, into a neighborhood marked by streets named after noted Spanish journalists, artists and musicians?

Double the pleasure! Double the fun!

All this to say that once a week, A., along with one of her moms, travelled forty-five minutes to meet with Paloma Θ in an apartment located on Calle Pianista Pepita Bustamante ⊕ to continue her oboe studies, now with a European reed ⊗.

Has already walked to center of town, taken the LAC and gotten off at the Mercadona, crossed the Río Genil and is now boarding the S1.

Heading down the aforementioned calle.

Standing in front of the previously referenced apartment block.

Entering the place of study.

A. + Paloma = !!!

Θ Paloma:  Exceptional oboist who plays in orchestras in Málaga and throughout Germany.  Uses European reed.

⊕ Pepita Bustamante:  Played piano; used neither European nor American reed.

⊗ European reed:    “American scrape reeds are scraped further down towards the thread than European reeds. Also, gouge/shaper width is different (European reeds tend to be wider) . . .

“Other than the garble of these technical differences, the main difference is the way they function. The idea behind the American reed is to allow the player to play minimal strain/embouchure manipulation while maintaining pitch and tone quality. European reeds, on the other hand, require more embouchure/muscle manipulation/strain. They also sound different (compare John Ferillo, John Mack, Liang Wang, etc. to Albrecht Mayer, Francoix Leleux, etc.), which could make one style appeal over the other. “

 https://www.reddit.com/r/oboe/comments/7yotck/american_vs_european_scrape_reeds/

Oh, happy days!  Often, A. and one of her moms, would walk back to the Albayzin as dusk turned to dark.  Down Avenida de Cervantes, skirting the park along Paseo de los Basillos and up into the Realejo they walked, passing cafés, papelerías, bars, fruit stands, chocolate shops, art stores — everything open and people out and about after the long mid-day siesta.  In winter, they bought paper cones of chestnuts freshly roasted on an open brasier and in spring they settled for any number of dry and often tasteless Spanish pastries.  

LOS ANIMALES

You can help!

With a “Can Do!” attitude, three young Americans arranged a fundraising activity to support one of the local refugio de animales located on the outskirts of Granada.  As mentioned in a previous post, the Albayzin is home to a large and fascinatingly varied assortment of dog poop.  This poop is accompanied by a large and varied assortment of bedraggled and sad-seeming mutts.  These mutts evoke various feelings depending on how cute they are, if running sores are open or closed, and if any of them have pooped near your doorstep.

The idea was to offer baked goods for sale at the mirador at San Miguel Alto, a prime sunset spot for both locals and tourists.  Having people pay for a piece of cake, of which the proceeds would go to some organization, was an odd practice in Spain, where the government actually provides enough money for an array of social services.

La preparacíon.

Cositas dulces.

Waiting for customers at Hermitage de San Miguel Alto.

Customers arrive!

A discerning shopper.

What people actually came to look at…

…as the springtime sun descended.

Neither horse nor rider deemed to make a purchase.

In the end, these do-gooders made over 170 euros!

Full moon over snow-covered Sierra Nevada from mirador San Miguel Alto. Sigh.

LOS JUDÍOS

With the passage of the Alhambra Decree of 31 March 1492, the Jewish population of Spain was, for all intents and purposes, eliminated.  King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, honorifically titled Reyes Católicos, gave the Jews four months either to leave Spain, to convert to Catholicism, or to be executed.  This explains the powerful effect our family had upon the observant Jewish community of Granada in 2015, essentially doubling its numbers by our mere arrival.

The Alhambra Decree, also known as the Edict of Expulsion.  Decreto de Alhambra, también conocido como el Edicto de Expulsión.

Along with two of our ex-pat friends and the arrival of Tia S., the Jewish population, as far as we knew, burgeoned to twelve.  Six or seven joined together in ritual, repast, and red wine as the cycle of holidays turned round.

Home made latkes con las judías.

Hannukah with home made hannukiah and dreidel.

The festival of lights.

Singing and dancing.

A Passover seder.

Automatic timer works.

 “Granada’s only Jewish museum” (Trip Advisor), the aptly named Palacio de los Olvidados” — the Palace of the Forgotten — was a collection of items not to be missed.  The museum and cultural center is located in the Albayzin and funded by a Spanish gentile of some means who has collected artifacts of Jewish life that span the centuries.  We visited this quiet place at the beginning of our stay.  {For actual, worthwhile information about this attraction, please go to http://www.palaciodelosolvidados.es/.}

The Realejo, regarded as a vibrant and semi-hip area abutting the Alhambra, is marked on its west side by a statue of Yehuda Ibn Tibbon, noted Jewish translator and physician of 12th century Andalus.  (We mention this only to provide context for the photograph that follows.)   In this neighborhood we happened across a sandwich board chained to a lamppost (photograph accidentally deleted) advertising Centro de la Memoria Sefardí.  This small museum is housed in the home of a French woman, Beatriz Chevalier-Sola.  Beatriz had returned to Granada sometime after the year 2013 when the Spanish government began offering citizenship to any Sefardi Jew who could prove Iberian ancestry.   This kind woman invited us to return to her home to celebrate Rosh HaShana, hence our introduction to the five other observant Jewish people now living in Granada. 

Bathsheva Chevalier-Sola and Joseph ben Abraham Camerero.

Though a far cry from the estimated 50,000 Jews who lived in Granada at the end of the 15th century, the ten of us who gathered round as Beatriz’s husband Joseph ben Abraham Camerero read from the Five Books of Moses recalled a past that the reader must ponder in silence.

{Addendum:  By the time we left Granada, the Palacio de los Olvidados had rebranded itself as a museum of the Inquisition and torture.  Attendance is up!}

EL SENDERISMO

Surrounded as we were by mountain chains such as  the Sierra Nevada, the Alpujarras, Sierra de Huétor, Sierras de Alhama and Tijeda Y Almijara, it did not take long for A. and J. to appreciate a brisk hike, mountain air and lovely vistas.

We reach our destination.

The view is breathtaking.

The mood lifts!

It is always better on the way back.

Hiking became second nature, as simply getting from one place to another in the Albayzin required a vigorous up and down over winding and cobbled streets.  Outings were as fun as they were effortless, whether it was walking 2.1 kilometers to El Corte Inglés in search of maple syrup (63 meter elevation loss and gain), or 1.8 kilometers to the Generalife to inhabit a paradisal garden (87 meter loss and gain) or even 5.0 kilometers to the outlying district of El Fargue (272 meter loss and gain) for a menu diario at the Terraza El Caldero.  

We walked to Café Quatro Gatos, but it was closed in August when we arrived.

We walked to the center of town, the intersection of Calle Reyes Católicos and Gran Vía de Colón.

We walked up to the sports complex at Aynadamar.

We walked here, across from the Sierra Nevada.

We walked at night in the Albayzin.

We walked along al-Sabika, high above the Río Darro.

We walked past the old city walls to San Miguel Alto.

We walked to the mini-market Hay de Todo.

We arrived there.

We walked past plates.

We walked to the Río Genil….

… and met this silent, gilded woman.

We walked to Bar Aixa.

We walked up the steps to the mirador.

And we walked with our friends to the local mezquita.

We walked past flowers.

We walked until we got there.

The exciting part was the myriad ways you could fall, trip, stumble, crash, bash, or slide.  Each outing provided possibilities.  Unlike in America, where your ability to self-maim is limited by the amount that you can sue, here in Spain we had the opportunity to severely injure ourselves without any legal apparatus to interfere.  

AVENTURA AMAZONIA – VIZNAR, SPAIN

Aventura Amazonia is located in the Sierra de Huétor and consists of 22 zip lines, 4 adventure circuits, and 69 “games” — “games” being the term used to describe death-defying activities to be completed without a helmet because this is Spain, for crying out loud, not namby-pamby America.

After listening intently to a rapid fire explanation of important safety procedures that employed vocabulary rarely encountered in any Spanish language text book, D. had a vague idea of what we should do once the instructors left us on our own.

{Optional Quiz:  Please translate, in the next 7 seconds, the following words — la tirolina, sujetar, asir, sostenedor.  Next, use these words to help you safely jump off the roof of your garage or your neighbor’s garage.}  

A sample of games.

Note the carefree helmetless head.

If you yell loudly enough, someone from Aventura Amazonia will come by to help.

M.’s favorite game, as executed by J.

The tirolina is not a problem, as long as you remember to properly attach both carabiners to the metal line, make sure the device is placed in its correct position, and hold on desperately.  

Easy as…

Uno….

Dos….

Tres…..

Even older people….

can complete the zip line….

with style.

The following demonstration video illustrates the ease of the whole process.

_____________________________________________________________________________

LOS CAHORROS – MONACHIL, SPAIN

Hanging bridges, towering peaks, rushing waters, narrow tunnels, swift flowing acequias:  what’s not to fear?  The most dangerous part of the adventure:  a bumpy bus ride on the way to Monachil and sitting too close to a gaggle of smokers at the café as we waited for a ride back home.  In between, a chance to get wet, a chance to fall down, and a chance to be bit.

To hike the Los Cahorros loop is to find yourself suspended in a gorge 50 feet over Río Monachil crossing a 180-foot long bridge.  It is to crawl through dark, narrow fissures, and for the special few, it is to wonder how many more kilometers you have to go before reaching total meltdown phase.

Towering peaks!

Narrow spaces!

Rushing waters!

Imminent meltdown!

As usual, we started out strong, adding an extra two kilometers to the overall length of the hike by getting off the bus in the center of Monachil and refusing to pay for a taxi to take us directly to the trail head.  Mistake?  Only in retrospect.  Following another tradition, once at the start, someone in our party led us confidently in the wrong direction for a good half kilometer.  Problem?  Only if you don’t like to walk.  With time, we settled into a rhythm, one that would only end on a discordant note if blood sugar levels got too low.

We do not yet know that we are on the wrong trail.

Crossing to safety safely.

Bridge with children and graffiti.

Teeth bared, but friendly.

Onward!

They flipped to see who would go first.

It is not that far down.

Searching for food.

Fighting over the last galleta.

This dog refused to bite.

SENDERISMO CON GÓMEZ MORENO – OLIVARES-MOCLÍN-OLIVARES

Though Henry David Thoreau declaimed, “I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion” (Walden, Chapter 1), it was Lionel Messi who stated:  “What I do is play soccer.  That is what I like.”  The upshot of the analogy is clear:  If you want to be alone, don’t come to Spain.  In general, the Spanish people enjoy hanging out with lots of other people, Spanish or otherwise.  That is what they like.

On this outing, the only danger was walking on narrow or wide paths and bumping into students and parents from Gómez Moreno.  The other constant threat was the many children running recklessly with sticks.  The hike began in Olivares, crossed the Río Velillos, and wound upward to Castillo de Moclín.

Boys with sticks.

Source of sticks.

Castillo de Moclín from below.

Pushing past fellow travelers.

A. with children holding sticks in background.

We made it to the top!

Amigas.

Río Velillos.

Boy with stick running in middle of pathway.

P.S. —  We made it through the day without mishap.

Hiking up to Llano de la Perdiz; taking a bus to Beas de Granada to walk the 20 kilometers back to town; crossing through Huétor Santillán or along Cruz de Viznar; driving south to walk the twin-peaked Boca de la Pesca:  these were the places that adults would escape to while their children were at school.  Known to the cognoscenti as Humans who Walk, this group of parents made sure to be back at Gómez Moreno in time to pick up the kids by four.  So what if we had had a beer or two by hike’s end.  Truth is, we had started out in the morning with café con leche, so it all evened out.

FROM BEAS DE GRANADA TO GRANADA:

We thought this sign would help us get from Beas back to Granada.

It was hard not to take too many pictures.

A Spanish idyll.

Eventually, the signs became irritating.

Desperate for attention.

No caption necessary.

Included for our personal sense of nostaglia.

Still crazy…..

At this point, we had only 3 more kilometers to go.

BOCA DE LA PESCA VIA LA ZUBIA:

Usted está aquí.

Experienced hikers.

Rate this photograph.

Cactus florecientes.

The fire ranger agreed to take our picture.

This is the picture he took.

A portion of Boca de la Pesca (the fish’s mouth).

The descent.

The valley.

The descent with valley and hay bales.

Finish line.

When we last left off, J.’s coach had nutmegged the FIFA bureaucracy and J. was playing with his club Rayo Eneas under the nombre de jugar of a Spanish national who had dropped off the team, Emberto (not his real name).  Now, on the occasional chance that J. scored a goal, Emberto’s name showed up in the stats.  

These kids were just seven and eight years old but they played like pros.  The coaches and parents took the games seriously and our family poured over the team standings each week.  For away match ups, we travelled to outlying pueblos where each field featured the requisite café/bar:  a frazzled fan could order café con leche, cerveza or vino tinto like a civilized person and try to enjoy the agony of the game.

Pulianas, Albolote, Santa Fe, Atarfe and Armilla all offer beer and other beverages at the field.

  Play was rough.  Occasional scrapes were inevitable, especially since most matches were held on Astroturf which resulted in a faster ball and some mean road rash when players fell.   But the tenor was positive.  Teams shook the hands of the referee and opposition, then turned to the stands to applaud the parents before kick off. 

Diagnosis: Astroturf burn.

Diagnosis: Cleated.

Happy to play.

Happy to win!

  With that in mind, we approached our second season match up with Armilla de Arenas, Rayo’s arch nemesis.  This rivalry had a history beyond our ken.  The coaches played on adult club teams and so had their own reputations to maintain; people remembered who beat whom and by what score from games gone past.  Already Armilla was ahead by a game in the season’s earlier match up.  Their goalie had a tendency to delay play by holding on to the ball and flopping to the turf.

  For this rematch — one that would determine the season’s champion — a photographer from the local paper was present, some moms had created a fanciful banner, each coach brought his entourage, and because it was a home game, the stands were filled with parents, fans, relatives and kids from the local escuela pública Gómez Moreno. 

Advance notice in the Albayzin.

Serious business.

Last minute strategy session.

Good sportsmanship on display.

Luchar para ganar!

      On the field, the boys shouted pasa, sigue, falta and saque de mano like professionals.  J. on defense for Rayo and Migué on offense for Armilla battled for possession.  True to expectation, the Armilla de Arenas goalie hogged the ball.  Then, with the score 1:0 Armilla, and before anyone could order another café con leche, two grown men from the opposing teams — who had been coaching on the sidelines — started slugging it out and throwing chairs.  The referee blew his whistle.  Players raced off the field, scrambled up the cement wall and into the arms of their parents, tears running down their faces.  ¡¿Qué está pasando aqui?!

A fair fight.

A fight interrupted.

La policía.

 In the end, Rayo Eneas lost the game, coming in second place in the season’s standings — still worthy of a  crowd-pleasing trophy.  For Rayo, the assistant coach had to leave his position in disgrace and the team brought in a psychologist for the boys to have a full-on session of counseling to deal with the adult display of violencia.  Ultimately, Rayo invited Armilla de Arenas back for a friendly.  Apologies were made, pictures of unity were taken, though every Rayo fan confirmed that it was the coach from Armilla who started the whole thing.  For objective reportage, please scour the sport’s section of Ideal for full details.

“What Can We Learn from the Violence?”

Head coach with trophy.

Mother with trophy and child.

¡Los (sub)campeones!

The fine print.

Feeling good!

After months of matches, the season ended some time in May.  J. had survived the aggressive European club style of soccer, travelled to the pueblos of Atarfe, Abolote and Pulianos — to name just a few — developed a following of fans, made good friends and learned some choice Spanish swear words.  For the final celebration, the coaches arranged for a fiesta at a local café in the Albayzin and each boy on the team got his turn to take the trophy cup home for some days of glory.

The spoils!

Everyone a winner.

J. and two of his fans.

¡Los campeónes!

A trophy at home.

Of the 55 internationally recognized countries on the continent of Africa, we chose to visit Morocco.  Why did we do this?  First, because it was only a one-hour ferry ride from Tarifa, in Spain, to Tangier, in Morocco:  17.37 nautical miles. Second, because we had heard of a magical town from Aladín, the barber in the Albayzin who cuts J.’s hair, and who is from Morocco. He recommended we avoid his hometown of Casablanca and instead visit Chefchaouen, located in the Rif Mountains.  And third, because throughout our stay in Granada we had been eating at La Mancha Chica Chaoen on Camino Nuevo de San Nicolás and the Moroccan owner had posters of Chefchaouen on the blue-painted walls of his cafe.  He said his mother still lived there, and he recommended we try Restaurant Granada during our visit.  All these reasons compelled us to go.

Embarking.

From the deck: Ancient Spanish city walls; modern Spanish windmills.

Yes and No.

Green five pointed star on red background.

We heard that this camp, located off the coast of Tarifa, is for refugees from north Africa.

Tug boats guide us from the port.

Next stop…Tangier!

A driver met us at the port in Tangier.  We rode for two hours along narrow well-paved roads, past fields and farms, animals and rebar to the edge of the medina in the center of Chefchaouen {“Look to the Horns” in English, due to two hornish-shaped mountains that nestle against the outskirts of town}.  We wandered through squiggly alleys until we found our habitation, Riad Rifandalus, where pictures of the Alhambra adorned the walls.  

As we learned before our journey, and as confirmed by the owner of Riad Rifandalus, Chefchaouen had long been home to both Muslims and Jews, expelled from Granada centuries before.  The town is famous for its blue-washed walls.  One theory submits that the painted walls date back to the arrival of yehudim in the 1490s, who used the color blue to remind them of יחוח, who presumably resides – even to this day – in the blue empyrean above.

Blue staircase.

Blue wall.

Blue courtyard.

Blue alleyway.

Blue door.

Blue boy.

D. had located a trekking company in Chefchaouen, so the next day we rode an hour through the Rif mountains with a driver and our guide, Lotfi, to hike a couple of trails in Talassemtane National Park.  We first trekked upstream to a secluded watering hole.  Lotfi was a knowledgable guide who spoke Arabic, Berber, French, Spanish, English and German.  He possessed a discrete sense of timing, absenting himself when it was time for us to change our clothes or eat a meal.  He kept J. from floating down the river.   

Arabic and French.

J. finds an idyllic spot.

Who took this photograph?

D. and A. dare each other.

A.’s turn.

Delivery service.

Water comes from Akchour Falls.

M. joins in.

3 out of 4 with eyes open.

After descending from the waterfall walk, we were eager to continue hiking to Pont de Dieu, a favored rock formation along a semi-treacherous route.  Although Lotfi had never taken on kids as young as ours, J. & A. had proved their mettle.  We persisted!    As we made our way up river, we began to pass seasonal cafes:  wood fires, charcoal-blackened tea kettles, and tables for four.  If you place your tagine order on the way up, your meal will be ready by the time you come back down.  We opted for glasses of steaming, hot mint tea, sweetened with enough sugar to induce hyperglycemia after a single sip.

Hitchhiking.

The Akchour river.

The next season’s rains will destroy this lovely resting spot.

Tea and tagine.

A closer view.

Lotfi got us all across.

Approaching “God’s Bridge.”

J. gets hold of camera.

He goes for the close up.

Lotfi takes our picture.

Mint tea anyone?

Heading back.

Tagine time!

Aladín and the owner of La Mancha Chica Chouen in the Albayzin deserve credit for directing us to the town of Chefchaouen.  The people were friendly and polyglot; the food was delicious — tasty tagines, warm breads, fresh cheeses and olives and jam.  Along a pathway in the medina, Abdoul spent over forty minutes earnestly trying to sell us a rug.  We heard the calls to prayer throughout the day, starting very early in the morning with the Fajr, then the Zuhr at midday, the Asr in the afternoon, the Maghrib at sunset and the Isha at night.  We climbed the hill to the Spanish mosque that looked surprisingly like a Spanish church from afar, we wandered the lanes of the medina, and then we left.  Muy túristico y muy divertido, or, for our Arabic speaking friends:  جدا توريستي وممتعة جدا.

Spanish mosque-church.

Resident goat.

The view.

Afterwards.

Can’t complain.

Plaza Uta el-Hammam.

A river ran through it — the Ras Elma.

How it’s done.

Bright colors everywhere!

We almost bought it.

After Chefchaouen, our plan was to hire another car to take us to Asilah, a seaside town about 45 kilometers south of Tangier.  We were hoping to get a different driver from the one who drove us to Chefchaouen, a nice enough man, but one with a predilection for heavy metal and shouting nonstop into his mobile.  

 Three hours later, as we entered Asilah, the driver turned off the pelting sounds from the radio, ended his cell phone call and deposited us at our small, fancy hotel, a couple of blocks from the beach.  We were visiting during the off season.  Wide streets leading to the medina were almost empty, but the seaside promenade featured cotton candy, men selling bags of roasted peanuts, and tables set up where you could buy cones of shrimp or snails (to eat).

 We wandered around from the new part of the city to the ramparts.  M. got annoyed at a group of older boys who were kicking a soccer ball in the vicinity of our personal space.   We passed the souk, shops, mosques, and restaurants.  We were trying to find a way up to the ramparts; the sun was beginning to set and lots of people were out and about.  We ran into the boys again and through hand gestures and broken Spanish we all apologized.  

Fresh white wash.

A beautiful door.

Another one.

Murals adorn the walls of the medina.

A. and J. agree to pose.

We make it to the ramparts.

View minus tourists.

Kittens are universal signs of tenderness.

Quiet streets of Asilah.

Like almost all tourists who travel to Asilah, we learned of Paradise Beach, accessible by foot, taxi or horse and cart.  The next day we chose taxi, which let us off a good kilometer from the beach due to the almost non-existent road it traveled upon which eventually petered out to nothing.  Goats, emptiness, a few men sitting around willing to grill up shrimp or kalamari — that was it for the day, hence the name of the beach:  Paradise.

Onward!

A near-empty beach.

Optional method of transport in background.

Momentary happiness at Paradise Beach.

Months later, back in Granada, we learned of an ancient Jewish cemetery near Paradise Beach.  Surrounded by three walls, facing the sea, studded with grave stones, it was a place we passed without knowing.  In it are reminders of the once-extensive Jewish community of Morocco.  If you visit Asilah, please head south of town, somewhere around 35°46’46″N and 6°03’09″W and let us know what you discover.

We missed this.

Our travels ended with a sit-down meal at an outdoor table, 297 kilometers from Casablanca, or 30.48 centimeters, depending on your definition.

The next day, we took a ferry from Tangier back to Tarifa.  It felt like coming home.

A few parents at Colegio Gómez Moreno had arranged a weekend outing in May: on a Friday, families would meet at a guest house on the outskirts of the pueblo blanco Prado del Rey [in English, the King’s Meadow] about 220 kilometers west of Granada.  The next day, we would rent bicycles in Olvera, then ride 38 kilometers along the Vía Verde de la Sierra over viaducts, past meadows, and through tunnels, arriving in Puerto Serrano before the bar closed.  Happily, we signed up for the trip.  We headed out a day early, by way of rental car, along highway A-92 with a short detour to the town of Ronda.

Say the name Ronda and what pops into your head?  An overplayed song by the Beach Boys dating back to 1965?  A fixed form of lyrical French verse based on two rhyme sounds, fourteen lines and three stanzas? Or a pueblo blanco in Málaga province famous for la Plaza de Toros and the enormous gorge, El Tajo?

Romantic travelers.

Looking out on the Río Guadalevín.

Familial travelers.

El matador.

Another view.

118.872 meters.

For us, Ronda means narrow, winding, medieval streets; an enormous, American-sized SUV — a rolling behemoth which terrorized us every time we had to park, turn, or back up (Thank you, Jose Luís at Hertz Granada for the “upgrade” from the efficient, compact Toyota Auris which we had reserved 4 weeks prior!); and multiple chances to fall 390 feet into the Río Guadalevín.

Sometime in the 4th century, Saint Ambrose was said to have declared:  “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”  In truth, he proclaimed:  “When I am here [in Milan], I do not fast on Saturday; when I am in Rome I do fast on Saturday.”  Had he stated, “When I am here [in Pasadena] I do not walk back and forth across Puente Nuevo; when I am in Ronda I do visit Casa Don Bosco, and I attend the Ronda Guitar House, located at Calle Pedro Mariano Soubiron, and therefore I do hear Paco Seco play classical and flamenco guitar” then perhaps we would not have had to rely so heavily on our Lonely Planet guidebook.

Thumbs up from St.Ambrose!

Even this public works professional is stunned….

….by what his co-worker is doing atop Puente Nuevo….

….far above El Tajon.

El Tajon.

Ring the side buzzer to get in.

Here is what you will find there.

Google Don Bosco to learn about this amazing man.

These people are amazing as well, in their own ways.

Behavior that Don Bosco would not condone.

After descending and ascending the gorge, crossing the bridges Puente Arabe and Puerto Viejo and sorting through the many bull-themed items at the gift shop of the Plaza del Toro, we stumbled upon a fascinating map of El Cerdo which answered some questions that had been plaguing us as we navigated the restaurants of Andalucía.

Majestic.

Natural.

Close up.

Active.

Open.

Flowing.

Still.

Flowery.

Ornate.

Towering.

Symmetrical.

Porcine.

BONUS TRAVEL BLOG QUIZ:  Indicate the country of origin of each of the passersby that D. roped into taking our picture during our 24 hour stay in Ronda.

After leaving Ronda, we continued to Cádiz province and joined our friends outside of Prado del Rey at Cortijo Huerta Dorotea, a rural farmhouse featuring a lodge and casitas overlooking the Sierra de Grazalema.  The next morning, we caravanned to Olvera where we began our cycling adventure across thirty-eight kilometers, through twenty-four tunnels, completing one lunch break, and quaffing zero to three beers, depending on endurance, body weight and legal age for alcohol consumption.  (For historical side note about the Olvera-Puerto Serrano Vía Verde, please scroll down.)

Olvera, our point of departure.

We depart.

Photo op.

One of twenty-four tunnels.

Over bridges.

Past gorges.

A quick prayer stop.

We find Ferdinand.

Danger! Fierce Livestock!

30 kilometers to go!

The past.

The present.

Amapolas rojas y margaritas amarillas.

2 kilometer (round trip) detour to see large oak tree.

Photo op.

Los olivos.

Close.

Closer.

Closest.

Estación de Puerto Serrano: our point of arrival.

El fin.

A short walk the next day along the Sendero Rio Majaceite followed by a lazy stop at the hillside town of Zahara de la Sierra, and our trip to a beautiful region in Cádiz province was complete.

There are dozens of Vías Verdes throughout Spain.  They are former light rail lines, now converted to biking and hiking trails.  For a condensed version of our entire Vía Verde de la Sierra experience, please check out this YouTube link created by our friend J.v.H.:

Historical Side Note:  West of Algodonales on the Ronda-Seville road between Puerto Serrano and Olvera lies a light rail line, now converted into the vía verde so described in this blog post.  The military regime led by General Rivera, between 1923 and 1929, decided to build a light railway to carry agricultural products from Almargen to Jerez de la Frontera (General Rivera’s home town).   Thirty-eight kilometers of the 123 kilometer route were completed before the project went bust.  (Please submit any emendations, corrections, or addenda to the Response tag at the close of this post.)

The Alpujarras is a mountainous region located on the southern slopes of the Sierra Nevada, an hour’s drive from Granada.  This area was the last hiding place of the Moors, once Boabdil surrendered the city of Granada to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella a long, long time ago (January 2, 1492, to be exact).  It was here we brought Tia S. who had come to visit us for a couple of weeks.

Tia S. with Sobrina A.

Steep mountain slopes, hairpin turns, a narrow river valley, farms, villages and small towns, Spaniards and ex-pat Brits, the smell of weed, the shimmer of olive groves, and the gurgle of acequias:  these were a few of our favorite things in the Alpujarras.  

On a clear day, you can see the Mediterranean Sea.

We found a great place to stay at an organic olive orchard!

The towns of Bubión, Pampaneira, and Capileira stack the hillside.

One day we hiked the wooded trails that led to the summit of Mulhacén, the highest peak of the Sierra Nevada at 11,413 feet.  We stuck to the lower elevations, passing fruit orchards and farms, stone houses, and meandering acequias.  These irrigation channels, first introduced by the Arabs of northern Africa during their heyday in the Iberian peninsula, are a communal form of water distribution still in use over a thousand years later.  At this point, we are undetermined whether you are bored or interested in this topic.  You can always use the “Reply” button to let us know. 

Water from the top flows toward the bottom.

Over 1300 years old!

Combined age qualifies for AARP membership.

This acequia led to….

this holding pool, which led to….

this gathering for a picnic.

From friends in the Albayzin, we heard of a walk to an ancient Roman bridge from the village of Ferreirola.  The town is easy enough to get to if you have a car, but you will most likely get lost along the way, no matter what.

Old pomegranate trees.

Old as the hills…..

Young and old.

Old Roman bridge in the distance.

Tia S. con sus sobrinos.

We stayed in a stone house that featured a swimming pool, three large and lazy dogs, thirty-four chickens, lots of olive trees and an acequia outside our door.  The nearest town was Órgiva, population 6,500.  Besides brownies, tofu burgers and a road race that shut down all access into and out of the town for over an hour, we noted poetry on the city walls as well.

All roads lead to other roads.

Ayuntamiento.

Heading toward Main Street.

Tourists.

Day of the Book.

What follows are all the photos from the Alpujarras that we wanted to include, but that did not fit in the above narrative.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

A week later, we headed to the Costa de Almería.  All year we had heard of the wonders of Cabo de Gata from our neighbors Laura and Antonio.  Now a national park, this area escaped the bull dozers of the Costa del Sol and remains, for all intents and purposes, an almost unspoiled slice of the Mediterranean Coast.  We traveled there with Tia. S. to spoil it just a little bit.  We drove a polluting vehicle, drank water from plastic bottles, and contributed to coastal erosion by hiking the lava promontories, but we did so with a tone of remorse, thereby neutralizing our guilty consciences.  A. and J., unencumbered by adult concerns like finding a place to stay, arranging a rental car, and making sure the pizza did not include ham, simply enjoyed the experience.

Unspoiled.

This could have been….

this: Costa del Sol.

Boy, are they spoiled!

The biggest town in Cabo de Gata is San José.   From there we began a hike that skirted cliffs and dropped down into secluded coves.  Destination: Playa de Mónsul.

We walked along the ledge to Cala de Los Amarrillos, crossed the beach at Playa de Los Genoveses, climbed up the cliffs and back down to Cala Chica del Barronal, and made our way along the narrow strip past Cala Grande to Playa de Barronal.

Heading out to Fondeadero del Morrón (Anchorage of the Sweet Red Pepper).

View of Cala de Los Amarillos.

Agaves in bloom.

More of same.

No one was ready to go in just yet,…

but we did take our shoes off.

Down to Cala de Los Amarillos. It seems almost every cove has this name.

This was scarier than it looks.

D. agrees to have her picture taken by a stranger.

Last one in….!

Good timing: tide is out.

This particular mujer followed us the whole way.

Approaching Cala Chica.

Una chica con el pelo gris y marrón.

Las flores en piedra.

Playa del Barronal.

Freedom.

They went in with their bathing suits on.

Ola petrificada de Mónsul.

We made it!

They made it!

Hitchhiking back to San José was not a problem.

Many hours and naked people later, we arrived.  It was then we realized that the car was 10 kilometers away as el cuervo flies, in a parking lot in the center of San José.  While M. hitchhiked back to town, friends from Granada — who had made the trip to San José for the weekend — drove along the rutted road to meet us at Playa de Mónsul where our kids gamboled on the beautiful beach.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The next day we visited Las Negras, a small fishing village that now caters to many a tourist, Spanish, German, and British.   From Las Negras we walked the 6+ miles to Cale San Pedro, a beach accessible only on foot or by boat.  This has not prevented many a free spirit from making it his or her home.  In other words, even though it was the middle of April, the beach was packed.

Having walked 6 miles in one direction, and again without a car to take us back, we made our way to the end of the beach and hired a skiff piloted by a young man, intent on inhaling a joint, to take us back to Las Negras.  With the gas gauge on empty, and the four of us hanging on for dear life as we cruised at lightening speeds, we were unable to snap any photos.

Far be it from us to tell you how to live your life.  Base your decision to visit Cabo de Gata on your own desires, circumstances and proclivities.  

(We had rented an apartment in Hortichuelas, but recommend, instead, the village of Rodalquilar.)

TRAVELOGUE:  If you’ve been following our blog, you will be aware of many of the great things the city of Granada has to offer.  Two in particular are the neighborhood of Sacromonte and the preponderance of sugar packets. 

Sacromonte abuts the Albayzin, its main thoroughfare marked by a statue of Chorrohumo, a Roma from Granada who guided visitors through the city in the 1950s.  When you visit, just make your way to Camino del Sacromonte, locate the statue and then follow the burro up the street.

Chorrohumo.

Street sign.

Burro.

Many of the Roma of Granada continue to live in Sacromonte.  Troglodytes are common due to the many cave dwellings.  Free-spirited Western Europeans, young and broke, live there as well, locally known as pies negros, because they wear no shoes and take no showers.  And of course, folk going about their daily lives can be spotted regularly.

Regular folk.

Hanging out in Sacromonte.

 The name “Sacromonte” comes from an impressive attempt to convince the ruling Catholics at the time (late 16th century) of the legitimacy of the morisco  population by linking Islam with Christianity through the manufacture of lead plates that were placed in a broken down minaret and that were discovered in —-  [Sorry about that.  Apologies.  If you are actually interested in the story of the lead plates you can find relevant information in the book Contemporary Archaeology in Theory:  The New Pragmatism, 2nd Edition, by Robert W. Preucel and Stephen A. Mrozowski.]

Eventually, the Abbey of Sacromonte was built in the 17th century on top of Valparaíso hill, providing excellent views of the Valley of Sacromonte and the ever-present Alhambra.

Making our way to the Abbey.

No one complained about the walk.

Scooters are able to navigate the narrow streets.

Generally, you walk down until you have to walk up.

The hexagram is known as the Star of Creation in one of the world’s most popular religions.

Abadía del Sacromonte.

Six-pointed star replaces pomegranate as dominant symbol at the Abbey.

The Valley of Sacromonte.

A beautiful day.

The ever-present Alhambra.

 ANECDOTE: One weekend day after we had made our way to the Abadía, we avoided the paved road and instead ventured home via sheep and goat paths that meandered over the hills and gullies north of the Rio Darro.  As so happened, we ran into some Spanish friends as we crested a hill.  They had just been celebrating Julia’s birthday at a secret pizza cafe hidden in the caves of Sacromonte.  We followed their directions:  go down and up two ravines, take the right fork toward San Miguel Alto, and head straight on for the blue tarp.

Esther y Julia con paella.

Done.  The owner of the café was an ex-pat Neapolitan pizza maker, who was living in a cave and making pizza in an open-air oven on a hillside overlooking — (You are allowed one guess as to what the secret pizza café hidden in a cave is facing.) the Alhambra.  The café was clandestine because it was illegal, lacking any of the numerous permits required to operate an eating establishment in Granada.  Still, you could purchase cold beer, hot pizza and then go home and tell everyone you knew about the secret pizza cafe.

CULTURAL OBSERVATION:  Though we saw the Starbuck’s coffee chain in big cities such as Sevilla, Barcelona and Madrid, these establishments just didn’t exist anywhere else in Spain.  Fortunately, every town, bus station, beach-side cafe, village, hiking lodge, sports center, movie theater, and gas station appeared to possess a fully-charged espresso machine and the opportunity to purchase a café con leche at a moment’s notice.  This we did.  These coffees usually cost no more than the equivalent of a dollar, and often less.  You could choose to have your coffee served in either un vaso or una taza.   You could order normal, grande, or con hielo.  And once ordered, you could sit at your table for 5 minutes or 5 hours and no one would ask you to leave.  

Terrazas de Albayzin (Calle Pages)

Bar Aixa (Plaza Larga)

Fuente del Hervidero (turn off at La Zubia) Café con leche consumed before hike; cerveza afterward.

Carmen de la Victoria (Cuesta del Chapiz)

El Higo (Calle Horno del Hoyo)

Cafeteria Alhambra (Plaza de bib-Rambla)

Random cafe (Puerto Serrano)

    Every coffee came with a sugar packet.  Actually,  you were given a sugar packet with your fresh-squeezed orange juice, your hot chocolate, your cold chocolate, your tea, and your mint lemonade.  Here is a selection of some of our favorite sugar packets.

 CONCLUSION:   Sacromonte, the Albayzin, Granada and Spain: sweet, with or without sugar.  

> B is for Barçelona:  Here, the people spoke Catalan, the chamfered boulevards allowed easy transit, and friends from Canada – who speak Canadian – joined us for a week of intercambio.  We communicated through gesture, sign language, and facial tics.

> A is for Artistic License: Joan Miró, Salvador Dalí, Marià Fortuny…the list of Catalan artists is as long as the wait in the check out line at the official Fútbol Club Barçelona store at Camp Nou.  FC Barçelona isn’t simply 11 guys running around a field in knee socks; it’s “Més que un club,” as evident on our tour of the stadium, the accompanying museum, the press box, the locker room, the official chapel and the invitation to pay 90 euros for the photos we were forced to pose for three times during our visit.                                                           

Waiting for Messi.

See Footnote below.

Deciding on starting line up.

Levy insists on playing sweeper.

J. demands a substitution.

M. scores!

Footnote: Please scroll past if irrelevant.

“Top Left: The Saint George Cross, or Creu de Sant Jordi in Catalan, refers to the Patron Saint of Catalonia.

Top Right: Four red bars on a gold background are La Senyera, the Catalan National flag, which legend has it is the Quatre Dits de Sang (Four Fingers of Blood) made by 9th century King Wilfred the Hairy to place on a shield before going into battle against the Moors.

Middle: FCB – Futbol Club Barcelona.

Bottom: The blue and claret blaugrana colours are those sported on the first team shirt and were introduced in 1900. There is some dispute as to whether they refer to founder Joan Gamper’s FC Zurich colours or the the Merchant Taylors School colours, which was attended by early stars Arthur and Ernest Witty.

However, the message the FC Barçelona Logo transmits is of a crest that honours the sporting dimension of the football club as well as its connection to its home city and native country.”  (Google Search)  

R is for Real Madrid: FC Barçelona’s arch rival.   (No information available on origin of logo.)                                                  

> C is for Ciutedella Park:  Built in the late 1800s, Parc de la Ciutadella is a perfect place to navigate a bicycle, row a boat, or marvel at the number of people who want to enjoy the park at the exact same time that you do.

Though it looks as if I am alone, I am not.

> E is for Entertaining:  That’s what it is to ride on top of the double decker tourist bus, keeping eyes open for hidden gems.

For now we were dry; later on we got soaked.

A hidden gem.

> L is for Lounging:  Having traveled a combined 5,893 miles (9,484 kilometers) to meet in Barçelona, we were all pretty wiped out, so we spent quite a bit of time in our flat in the Eixample district.  Here we plotted our day’s adventures and figured out ways to keep the shower from overflowing on to the bathroom floor.

> O is for Over-the-Top:  Though every other English-speaking tourist tries to connect gaudy with Gaudí, etymologically gaudy [showy, bright, full of trickery] precedes Gaudí [a surname of unknown origin that neither Google nor Wikipedia can explicate] by about three or four centuries.  That did not stop us from visiting Parc Güell and marveling at the gay, playful, and fantastical creations that Gaudí bestowed on what was supposed to be an exclusive housing development created in the early 1900s and that subsequently became a world-famous celebration of the wacky and whimsical.

Wacky tile.

Only two of the proposed 60+ structures were actually built.

Whimsical house.

Wacky tourists.

A gay note of sobriety.

Whimsical tile.

> N is for noodling around the city:  Every day in Barçelona offered delights, which we sampled greedily (sin jamon).  For some of us that meant bicycling along the waterfront or walking the length of Las Ramblas.  For others, it meant pretending to go out for coffee and croissants and instead hiding in the stairwell for a few minutes of peace.  One thing we all agreed on was that nobody had to do anything he or she didn’t want to do, unless we made her or him do it.  

Riding the cable car to the top of Mountjuïc.

Old friends, Part I.

Flag of Catalonia flies from the castle at Montjuïc.

Sagrada Família: After 134 years, still not completed.

N. says “Yes” to biking along La Barcoleneta.

Frank Gehry’s giant golden fish, El Peix, at Port Olimpic, completed in 1992 within six months.

Still not done.

Old friends, Part II.

Ride this funicular to Tibidabo.

Still on speaking terms.

> A is for Addenda:  Our friends returned to Vancouver and we drove northeast through Catalonia to La Garrotxa, the land of slumbering volcanoes.  Here it was easy enough to rent bicycles and ride the Carrilet Via Verde, hike from one dormant volcano to another through beech woods, and generally be appreciative of most things on most days.

Wakeful horses under a hibernating volcano.

Riding towards Girona.

We make it to the top of Coll d’en Bas.

Directions provided solely in Catalan.

Last eruption: 11,000 years ago.

Olot to Amer = 30 kilometers.

Yellow flowers with light green calyx.

This religious edifice was closed at the time of our arrival.

Last eruption: 17 minutes ago.

After climbing Volcán de Santa Margarida, A. chooses to climb a tree.

Fagus sylvatica.

Six-branched homo sapien.

> BARCELONA: 

A nice place to visit.

As many of you know, the word for pomegranate in Latin is Punica granatum, but it may come as a surprise to learn that in Spanish the word for pomegranate is granada.   In Granada the symbol of the pomegranate can be found almost anywhere.  The origin of the city’s current name comes from a Jewish settlement originally located on the right bank of the Rio Darro, situated under the hill of the Alhambra, called in Arabic Garnata-al-Yahud, Granada of the Jews.

 It appears that when the Jews were forced to leave Spain during the Middle Ages, they were also compelled to take the name al-Yahud with them, leaving the simple title Granada in its place. 

Coat of Arms of Granada: Just one of many pomegranates featured in a city called Pomegranate.

We have yet to grow tired of pomegranates, though they have been placed in public view as if they were traffic cameras recording our every move.  It is true they feel like guardians, in this case benevolently watching over us as we ramble through the city.

Ripe and ready.

John of God, Granada will be your Cross.

Carved into fountains.

Welcoming tourists.

Adorning the Puerta de las Granadas.

Sitting there and getting wet.

But they also give us confidence in the Ayuntamiento of Granada, since the city has deemed it good and well that the pomegranate be molded into almost every public utility.

On drainpipes.

On hydrants used by bomberos.

On electrical covers.

Fancied up on drainpipes.

Covering water valves.

Adorning water mains.

Serving as road barriers.

Dotting the cobbled streets for a purpose unknown to us.

 The locals have learned the value of the pomegranate and have chosen to place it where ever they can and as often as possible.

The hybrid granada y cruz.

The hybrid granada-no parking sign.

The hybrid granada-and-burglar-bars.

Only 10 of the over-70 pomegranates that adorn this door.

Thus, in Granada, all roads lead to pomegranates.

Tart, sweet, juicy, and fun. Stains your fingers if you eat a lot of them. (Please do not eat the rind.)