SPAIN: Malaga-Granada-Capileira

SPAIN: Malaga
Fortunately, getting to the city center from the airport was a no-brainer, since very few of my brain cells were functioning at this point. I took a train into town and left my big bag in a locker at the main station (baggage all goes through screening @ RENFE for anyone entering), then summoned the energy from some mystical place to see what I could of the city. Hungry, my first thought was to find some food. Upon turning the corner away from the station, I happened upon a “Chocolate y Churros” stand, which was exactly what I needed: fried, sugary comfort food! And since my first Spanish textbook in the 7th grade was titled “Churros y Chocolate,” I took it as a good omen!

As for those Spanish studies, they were clearly going to serve me well. Suddenly, I could read signs! Communicate in complete sentences! Even express the occasional complex thought! Really, it was the first time in seven months that I’d been in a country whose language I spoke. Oh, it was so good and easy—and then I thought: “wait ‘til I get home—it’ll feel like I’m cheating when everything happens in English!” I even blend in a little bit here, not only because there are so many tourists, but because Spaniards have all different haircolors, so I can even pass as a native if I don’t have to talk too much…

I made my way to the pretty and colorful city center, where I took in the excellent new Picasso Museum, which was first on my to-do list. I walked next to the Cathedral, which was standardly cathedral-y, and then on to the Alcazaba, an impressive Muslim palace-fortress with pretty views over the coast. By then I was hungry again, and the only nearby quickfix was a Subway, and while it’s pretty much against my traveling religion to eat at a western chain, I wanted something I could get fast and carry, so I got a sandwich and a Pepsi Light (Hooray! I must be back in the west, where diet sodas abound!). I hiked above the Alcazaba to the Castillo de Gibralfaro, of which not much remains but the ramparts. They are vast and walkable, however, and afford almost 360 degrees of city views. I tried to descend on more foresty and less touristy paths, but they kept dead-ending, so I turned around instead of opting for the steep, cactus-ridden hillside.

Determined to dip my toes in the Mediterranean Sea, I walked to la Playa de la Malagueta and strolled the shore with my shoes off. The beach was pretty if not stunning, but it was nice to have sand in my toes and salt air in my nose. Of greater interest was the topless factor. I realized that I’d never been to a topless beach, and let me tell you, it’s distracting! I can look at boobs anytime I want, nudity is all good with me, and yet I still had to work hard not to stare. I was surprised at how the unfamiliarity of the scene was such a shock. I’d see a guy and a woman talking, she was beautiful and tanned and had darned nice breasts, and I just didn’t know how he could be carrying on a conversation AND keeping his eyes up. I guess he’d had practice.

I headed back in the direction of the train station, and along the way got info as to bus departures to Granada. I took photos and window shopped en route to picking up my bags and schlepping them to the bus station, where I got a snack (basically a huge meatball and fries) for the ride on what was a very comfy bus. Surprisingly, I didn’t fall asleep, as I’d been in serious danger of doing so while walking at several points during the day.

SPAIN: Granada
From the main bus station, I caught a city bus to the center of the old city, then shopped around for what seemed like forever before I sucked it up and paid for a double room (shared bath), as no singles seemed to be available anywhere. I treated myself to a trip to the ice cream place I’d seen, then collapsed, exhausted, for a good, long sleep!

Finally rested, I began the next day with breakfast of a Spanish omelet and coffee in a nearby café, got then walked down Calle de Reyes Catolicos, the main drag. I did a little window shopping and bought some excellent spring-green shoes, then found a single room for the next two nights and moved my stuff there.

I got some basic information and a map (it turns out that the office of tourism in Spain really has its act together, and every office has good maps, all in the same style) from one of the tourist offices, then began my mission to see everything I could, aside from La Alhambra, which I’d have to get up early for the next day. In the Albayzin neighborhood of narrow and winding cobblestone streets lined with white buildings, I saw La Iglesia de Santa Ana, La Colegiata del Salvador, Arco de las Pesas, Alminar de San Jose, and Mirador San Nicolas, an excellent viewpoint overlooking the town to La Alhambra. Then I headed up to Sacramonte, the gypsy neighborhood, to investigate flamenco performance sites and wander around. Strangely, my book made almost no mention of this area, where there were more astounding views of La Alhambra and more white buildings scrambling up and caves burrowing into the hillsides, all bordered by a huge wall running to the west. I had been told that you could walk along the wall, but a gypsy I met when hiking toward it (“you’re in my home,” –as in on his property–oops!) advised me against it, as it was a poor area that had seen some recent conflicts. Oh. OH. But it was a happy accident that I’d trespassed, as I learned a lot about their lifestyle and artistry and history, and he was pleased that I could speak well (I was having a good language day…) and forgiving of my honest error.

I went back through the Albayzin and the main street of tourist shops (a lot of the handicrafts sold seem to be souvenirs of the world that I’d seen all over Asia. Other items are newer versions of things that mom already collected forty years ago!). I was starving, so I didn’t stop to browse, and made a beeline for a falafel restaurant in Plaza Nueva. I enjoyed a bursting sandwich outside, made a reservation for flamenco that night, then went to see La Catedral, which was gorgeous and white and sunlit inside, and La Capilla Real, an elaborate mausoleum for the Catholic monarchs—kindof ooky. El Monasterio de San Jeronimo was a ways west, but worth the walk for its stunning colors and lack of tourists.

Somehow I found my way to a student-populated area, complete with trendy thrift shops, so of course I spent time there and bought a bunch of fun clothes, including a light leather jacket. Having accumulated even more bulk, I got info at the post office (mailing the box was going to be MUCH easier here) about shipping overseas, then tried new ice cream flavors on the way back to my hostal, where I changed for the flamenco performance. Downstairs, I met up with four Seattle women (Kim, Amy, Shauna—vascular techs, and Kitty—events planner at a golf club) waiting for the same shuttle to the show in Sacramonte, and had a beer (from the vending machine!) with them (of course beverages weren’t allowed on the shuttle that showed up as soon as we’d cracked them open, so the American girls all chugged on the sidewalk).

It took us forever to get to Sacramonte, as we seemed to take the longest, least direct route possible to what would have been a twenty-minute slow walk from the hostal. We got to the cave and got the last seats (we were on the back of the bus) the farthest from the action, and it was completely touristy, but I still loved every minute of it. Art with balls! They had the fabulously loud dresses you’d expect, and sang and stomped up a storm. I was a little bummed that there weren’t any male dancers, and it was way too short—well under an hour. The bus wended its indirect way back to town, and I joined the girls for tapas, but at that point it was too late to get food at the bar (?!?!), so we had beers while the local college guys hit on us. The gals hadn’t eaten anything and were going to be out all night, so they got falafel sandwiches and I went home early at 2am.

The next morning, I was lucky to get a ticket for morning admission at La Alhambra, as I’d not gotten there as early as I would have liked, due to the previous evening’s outing. But they had a single ticket left, so I was able to go right in (after about an hour in line. There are TONS of tourists and big tour groups here, but I think that’s always the case). I got an audioguide and first went to see the Summer Palace and Generalife garden, which wasn’t as impressive as I’d expected. It seemed unkept, actually, although it was pretty. Following the audio tour, I walked through the Medina, Garden of San Francisco, Calle Real, and la Iglesia de Santa Maria.

The main attraction at La Alhambra is the Palacio Nazaries, which is huge and a stunning example of Islamic architecture. Tiles and carvings in amazing patterns and colors abound, and the sacredness and utility of water is incorporated throughout. The audio guide provided commentary on each room/area: Mexuar, Cuarto Dorado and its patio, Palacio de Comares, Patio de los Arrayanes, Sala de Barca, Salon de Comares, Palacio and Patio de los Leones, Sala de los Abencerrajes, Sala de los Reyes, Sala de Dos Hermanas, Estancias del Emperador, Patio de las Reja and Lindaraja, Jardines del Partal, Palacio de Portico. WHEW. That took a while, jockeying amongst all the camera-wielding tourists.

The much less crowded Palacio de Carlos V felt almost like a bullring, and included a Museum of La Alhambra, but the Fine Arts Museum upstairs was under renovation. I passed through the Puerta del Vino to La Alcazaba, another important site, which is mostly impressive walls and towers, including the big (watchtower) Torre de la Vela, which had great views.

I had to go all the way back to the entrance to return my audioguide, so I passed through Puerta de la Justicia and walked along one of the outer walls, then turned around for the (downhill—hooray!) walk back to town. Happily, I spotted some newly discarded and unscathed cardboard boxes, and I grabbed one for mailing my formalwear and souvenirs, which I packed up at the hostal, where I also washed most of my clothes and hung them on my little balcony. I mailed the box (YIPPEE!) for a mere 50 Euros, checked my email, unsuccessfully shopped for walking sandals, then stopped back at the hostal to see if the girls from the night before were still going out for tapas. I missed them, though, and foolishly went out to dinner instead of going straight to bed. Oh well…the chick peas and spinach and sausage plate was good.

I slept hard and got up in time to pick up some fruit (I had to get a pomegranate!) and a traditional pastry for breakfast before packing up and leaving for the bus to the bus station, where I had to wait forever in line to buy my ticket. Walking to the departure area, I realized that my ticket didn’t list which bus platform I needed to be on, and none of the postings had my destination, and no one could tell me which one to go to. I’m no mass-transit novice, and I can speak and read this language, and in ten minutes I couldn’t get anyone to point me in the right direction, so I missed it. It took me another 15 minutes afterwards to find out where it had left from, which is ridiculous. At any rate, this meant that I’d lose half a day in Las Alpujarras, and that I had five hours to kill during siesta, which meant that all stores were closed. Grrrr.

So I walked. A lot. I found one big department/grocery store that was open and explored that (no sandals), and basically made my way back to the old city. I did find a pension that would be a good place to stay between my next two destinations, as the bus and train schedules all had huge gaps that would leave me with over three hours between, but I could arrive late and leave early… I had some pizza for lunch, but couldn’t taste it, as I’d developed a cold and my sinuses were a mess, although I felt okay otherwise.

Other observations after a few days in Spain:
These people SMOKE. A LOT. I think ALL OF THEM. EVERYWHERE. It’s killing me! Whenever given the option, I’ll pay the extra money to sit outside; otherwise, I try to choose my seat carefully. There are a few places where it’s supposedly prohibited, but the rules aren’t exactly abided by. Blech.

It’s great to hear Spanish music, especially the solo guitar guys sitting along castle walls or in Arabic gardens, IN Spain. Talk about atmosphere! In the plazas, however, they have a tendency to play Spanishized versions of western standard songs: Autumn Leaves, My Way, Blue Moon, Strangers in the Night, and lots of 1970-1990’s American pop music.

I’m enjoying the return to beverages to go in cups, vs. the plastic bags of Asia, and am surprised by traffic that stops for pedestrians and pedestrians who wait at intersections.

I hadn’t stopped to realize how pervasive the Arab/Muslim influence would be here in Andalusia, and of course it is. Nor had I expected the scruffy brown desert-like landscape that far outweighs the greenery. It all makes sense, but I hadn’t considered it all beforehand.

There is a lot of graffiti art here, and much of it is quite beautiful. I even saw some people at work, looking like they’d probably been hired to do it, possibly for a good fee. Huh.

SPAIN:
Capileira (Las Alpujarras)

I caught the later bus and arrived in Capileira in Las Alplujarras, at the base of the Sierra Nevada, via insanely curvy (those guardrails would not keep a bus from a serious plunge) and narrow (pull in your mirror!) roads before sunset. I was DYING for some cardiovascular exercise, but it was too late at that point, so I left my stuff at the hostal I’d reserved a room in and then walked at dusk through the little white town--twisting and skinny cobblestone streets dappled with colorful floral windowboxes--that somehow wasn’t sliding into the valley below. Many of the craft stores were still open, and some were quite nice and actually unique. I’m still regretting not buying a pair of earrings and a candle holder… I watched a man and two dogs bring their goats in from a distant pasture to the stable area, at one point standing at the downstream center of an SUV as the herd divided around it and me and merged again, inches in front of me.

The surrounding valleys and mountains were vast and extreme and dramatic, rugged and beautiful. Capileira is the northernmost of three (Capileira, Bubion, Pampaneira) white towns of Barranco del Poqueira (total population of 1270), at an elevation of 1440m. The highest peak in the Sierra Nevada is 3479m. I met some people at the tourist booth who had just climbed it and said that it was absolutely frigid, and they were wearing serious gear, so I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to do that hike—which was fine, because that isn’t one to do solo, anyway. It was already much cooler here than in Granada, and I actually wore my fleece.

I woke up feeling much better, enjoyed the included breakfast (cocoa, juice, bread with butter and jam) in the sweet kitchen, then went on a much-needed run. Basically, I ran uphill for 35 minutes on the main road in the area where the Natural and National Parks overlap, then for about 10 minutes on a foresty trail, then downhill for about 25 minutes. I even saw a few mountain goat-type creatures.

I stretched, showered, packed, checked out, and grabbed some snacks before a 3 ½-hour hike to Cebadilla, along the sides of a big valley. It turned out to only take 2:20, and I had stopped to take a zillion photos. I ordered a traditional plato Alpujarrano at a little restaurant with patio seating, and enjoyed the meal of a fried egg, potatoes and onions, jamon Serrano, chorizo, black-pudding sausage and bread. Meat o’clock! Hearty, rich, and fortifying for the rest of my hiking day.

The second hike I chose was one that linked the three towns of Barranco del Poqueira. I made it easily to Bubion, not totally via the route on my map, through town to the trail to Pampaneira, which was far less straightforward and equally poorly marked. The towns are close enough together that you always have one in sight, and often two, but the paths dead end or split off or turn into impossible-to-follow goat trails. I made it to Pampaneira, but with enough difficulty that I wanted to leave plenty of time to get back to catch my bus, so I didn’t explore the village.

I got back to Bubion, then found what I figured to be the main path that I’d missed leaving from the southern part of town—and two men confirmed that it was the path to Capileira. Well…not so much. It went in that direction, more or less, but then ran into fences or veered off well below town. I dead-ended several times, used all fours climbing up the critter paths (after all, they have to get back to town, too) in hopes of being able to see where I was supposed to be, but kept running into fences. Any paths that seemed to head for the main road also disappeared or ended at impasses. At this point I was exhausted from the tough morning run plus all the hiking, and out of water and THIRSTY, not having refilled at the third town and not getting back in three times the amount of time it should have taken, and facing the likelihood of missing the bus—which would seriously screw up my plans, as not so many buses pass through these parts. I decided that my best bet was to run back to Bubion the way I came and to try to catch the bus on its way to Capileira, where I could pick up my bag and get back on.

I made it to the village, saw three people in a car leaving the tiny lot by the path, and asked if they were by any chance going my way, and then where the bus stopped. I had clearly been physically exerting myself in the effort to get there and was obviously flustered, and the woman in the back convinced them to take me to Capileira (a 5-10 minute drive, during which she offered her phone number for the next time I visited). I thanked them profusely (in Spanish—mis angeles!) and told them what had happened in greater detail than the original panicked version. They acknowledged that a lot of the paths did dead end, and that none from that starting point would have gotten me there. ARGH! Thank goodness for nice people doing their good deed for the day, though, and I promised to do nice things for future strangers in return.

I made it in time for the bus, which was late anyway, but didn’t have time to return for the souvenirs I’d wanted to buy (the stores had been closed at lunchtime), and which I should have had at least an hour to get. Alas. So much for maps… I marveled that I was actually on the bus after the day’s adventures during the hair-raising ride back to Granada, where I slept (after the owner got the singing drunk to shut up and turn down his TV next door) at the pension near the train station.