Granada: Tierra Soñada Por Mi

Back in 2006, I watched the Three Tenors’ Rome concert on video and I vividly recall that besides Pavarotti’s ‘Nessun Dorma’, I was enthralled by Carreras’s rendition of ‘Granada’, a traditional Spanish song about the titular location. The song paints a picture of a place filled with a romantic exuberance springing up from seeds of passion as numerous as those found in a pomegranate. I knew then that I had to visit the Andalucían city one day and having made the decision to visit Southern Spain this July, Granada had to be included on the itinerary (we also visited Sevilla and Cordόba). For my final trip in Europe, having graduated and preparing to move back after three fruitful years at university, I had the privilege of having Robbie, who studied (it’s strange putting this in the past tense) both History and Spanish, as my travel companion.

@ the Mirador de San Nicolas with the Alhambra in the background

Inside the Alhambra

Granada was the last Muslim stronghold in Spain to fall into Christian hands, and its capitulation occurred in the same year (1492) as Columbus’s discovery of America. The Moorish heritage however, remains palpable in this final remnant of Al-Andalus. There is no more conspicuous embodiment of such an influence than in the Alhambra, a fortress dating back to the 9^th century but converted by Nasrid emirs into a fortress-palace some 400 years later. Although we visited Granada’s most renowned attraction during a period not considered to be a peak season for tourists, the main palace, Palacio Nazaríes, was relatively packed with visitors when we visited at half nine in the morning. In the relative coolness of the palace interior, one observed the variety of ways in which tourists expressed their appreciation of the place, some attentively listening to their audioguides as they surveyed the architecture and interior design while others monopolised the more picturesque spots to pose for photos. The palace’s exterior is relatively simplistic, not unexpected considering its status as a fortress-palace, but its interior design, lined with geometric patterns and the impressive stuccowork with Arabic inscriptions, gives the palace, in contrast to the usual grandiosity of royal residences, a more subdued yet sophisticated character.

We descended the hill on which the Alhambra stood and headed for Albayzin, the old Muslim quarter. Walking uphill along cobblestone streets to get to the area around Plaza Salvador, we settled for lunch at Plaza Aliatar at a restaurant which offered a reasonably-priced menu del día. Our hopes for tranquillity were all but brutally dashed when some five minutes after we sat down, a procession of ladies entered the square to the sound of trumpets and drums. There was lively dancing and singing from the ladies who wore phallic whistles around their necks before the participants took their seats in the restaurant (it had to be) next to ours. It looked like the Spanish equivalent of a hen party although there was also the singing of ‘Feliz Cumpleaños’. Curiously, among the group of about twenty-five ladies, there was a little girl of about six and a boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve years’ of age. I’m sure that at some point, the kids would have raised innocent questions about those whistles. The number of locals who stood outside the restaurants in keen observation of the activity signaled that such happenings were not as commonplace as one may have expected. Most of our lunch (somehow, we were seated for about an hour and a half) was spent observing the group burst into song and dance and their collective chatter and laughter drowned the words we directed toward one another. The livelier they became, the more fatigued I felt. It’s like being with one of those hyperactive friends whose perpetual exuberance never fails to drain the energy from those around them.

I’m not sure about Robbie but my most memorable part of our Andalucían sojourn was not being in the famous attractions but rather, the moment we spent at the Mirador de San Cristobal. After enjoying a cup of lemonade each, freshly made in what appeared to be an Islamic tearoom close to the Plaza Salvador, we made our way up to San Cristobal after a short stint at the Mirador de San Nicolas which had afforded us a spectacular view of the Alhambra. The walk to San Cristobal took about fifteen minutes as we traipsed uphill, dodging countless heaps of dog poo on the way up while discussing politics which, in retrospect, appears to be a scene of sheer poetry. The climb was less tiring than I had expected and moreover, it was necessary to walk off our three-course lunch. The view we got was simply soul-stirring as we surveyed the ‘land of dreams’ from a great vantage point. At the top of San Cristobal stood a church whose wall at the entrance had been spray-painted with the words ‘gracias dios soy atea’ (‘thank God I’m an atheist’). Seated on the parapet, we spent what must have been more than an hour discussing a range of topics with our eyes fixed on the gorgeous landscape below us. It was a pity that we could not enjoy the sunset from that wonderful position. Before embarking on this final trip of mine, I pledged to savour every moment of it (which explained a reluctance to go on Facebook during the trip and the relative paucity of photos taken) and even as the actual image that had been registered in my mind then fades with time, I’ll always vividly remember the emotions experienced in that very moment.

View from the Mirador de San Cristobal

Perhaps ironic for a place with a reputation for political conservatism, Granada’s most famous man of letters, Federico Garcia Lorca, was an important liberal voice during the political turmoil which characterised Spain in the 1930s. Both Robbie and I possess an interest in the Spanish Civil War (Robbie did his dissertation on the conflict) and we decided to spend our last morning visiting the house (Huerta de San Vicente) Lorca resided in while he wrote his famous works like Blood Wedding. The house was tiny and the tour, conducted entirely in Spanish, lasted barely half an hour. Thankfully, Robs was able to translate all the important details for me (must have felt like another Spanish exam to him) or it would have been a similar experience to that which I had in Aachen attending a German tour (I understood zilch) of the Cathedral just to see Charlemagne’s throne.

Huerta San Vicente

Sadly, our tight schedule meant that we could not spend as much time in Granada as we would have liked to but we agreed that, from what we saw, the city is, in its own unique way, as romantic as the song depicts it to be. It was quite an emotional experience for me, being in Granada, as when I first endeavoured to visit the place, I didn’t think that it would have been this soon and remembering what I felt then ensured that I did not take (as I admittedly have done on a few occasions) trip for granted. As I told Robs, it is probably my favourite Spanish city (as of July 2013) and I can see why the songwriter wrote that Granada was his tierra soñada. I would not rule out a return to the area to climb the majestic Sierra Nevada someday.