Granada: A Second Time Around the Alhambra

At the tender age of 20, I fell in love with Granada. Young and unworldly, I was easily enchanted by its Arabic teahouses, flamenco, and its red fortress, the Alhambra. 

So returning, better traveled, older and hopefully wiser, I’m a little worried that the city will have lost its appeal for me.
After a short flight from Barcelona (as opposed to my day long train ride from Madrid as a student), I arrive in a tiny airport and catch a comparatively big bus into the city center. 

First stop, my hotel. The Hotel Abadia, a beautifully renovated casa patio, or a house built around an interior patio, sets the mood for my (triumphant?) return to Granada. With its beautifully mosaicked patio and authentic furnishings, the Hotel Abadia practically oozes essence of old Andalusia. Also, it is a clean, attractive, and convenient place to leave my bags and change into warmer clothes as Granada in November is a bit nippier than Barcelona. 

Next stop, un bar de tapas. One of my favorite things about Granada specifically, and Andalusia in general is the custom of tapas. It goes like this: You enter a bar and order a beverage, I recommend manzanilla, a regional specialty (beware, this wine is sweet but has a very high alcohol content) and when the bartender brings out your drink, he also brings you a tapa (a little snack), in most locations on the house. Tapa, which actually literally means “cover” in Spanish, comes from the idea that back in the day, the bartender placed your little treat on a little plate on top of your drink. The best part is tapas are almost never beer nuts or popcorn. They are usually quality bar food like little chorizos (spicy paprika sausages) flambéed right in front of you, tasty stuffed olives, little dishes of rice, or callos (intestine and vegetable stew), slices of potato omelet, pinchos moruños (Moorish shish-kabobs, ironically usually made with pork), meatballs, and the list goes on. 

In my experience, the more drinks you order, the more the size and quality of the tapa improves. Of course, a true blue Andalusian doesn’t stay in one bar for more a couple of drinks. Part of the fun of tapas is strolling from bar to bar, to work off those calories and gossip with your friends in the relatively quieter street, where you can actually hear them. 

After snacking on olives, some potato omelet and chorizo washed down with a few glasses of manzanilla, I am ready to face the steep hill up to the Albayzin, Granada’s Arabic quarter, now a world heritage site. Besides providing great views of the Alhambra, Granada’s most famous monument, this is a great place to sit down and have a tea and some sweets, or if you enjoy smoking flavored tobacco, to rent a spot at a hookah table and pass some time making smoke rings that taste like berries and tropical fruits. 

From the high point of the Mirador de San Nicolás, the Alhambra shines like a second moon above Granada, softly illuminating the city that spreads below it. So I snap a few shots and try to hold my camera steady since as usual I’m without a tripod. Then I backtrack and sit down to minty Moroccan tea served in Arabic tea cups. Shaped like large shot glasses, the tea cups are jewel-toned and adorned with fanciful designs in glitter and gold leaf. Admiring the glassware and the patrons using hookahs is part of the fun. The hookahs are hilarious, as they resemble a cross between Scottish bagpipes and a strange squid in the teahouse’s candle-lit mirror-tiled walls. 

With my batteries recharged after downing my mint tea and some super sweet North African confection, I’m ready to return to what was one of my favorite parts of Granada, Sacromonte. Historically a gitano or gypsy neighborhood, here many gitanos made their homes in caves they burrowed into the soft rock that makes up the hill of Sacromonte. After serious flooding and subsequent evacuation in the 1960s, the neighborhood is currently home to many bars and theaters known for gypsy culture and flamenco dancing. 

The flamenco I saw in La Cueva Los Tarantos so many eons ago had little to do with the formal dance companies I had seen on other occasions in Madrid. Then it had been 8 euros for a drink and a flamenco show in this cozy, if somewhat claustrophobic cave bar. In the crowded space, a mother and daughter stomped and kicked, turning and twisting through jumps and complicated steps, their faded skirts flying as their hands and feet moved like small animals with minds of their own as their men watched and accompanied with answering claps and stomps while playing their instruments. By the end of the show, I was half in love with the guitarist, a beautiful man with a long black ponytail and even longer skinny fingers that never stopped dancing across the strings in their path, frantically bending and flexing and gripping… 

Unfortunately for me, it appears between my university days and tonight, my favorite hole in the hill has become quite a success and now charges 25 euros per person for a drink and the show, which is far cheaper than Broadway, but not an expense I worked into my budget. Tonight I’ll have to look elsewhere for a show. So, making my way back to a less scenic part of town, I find a bar offering a free flamenco show for patrons. The two-piece ensemble is made up of a young girl, who’s enthusiastic, but comically awkward, and her goofy looking boyfriend, a reasonably skilled, if rather mediocre guitarist. Thankfully, the show is short, and I can find it in my heart to leave them a little tip, as I’m ready to get back to home sweet hotel and go to bed. Tomorrow’s a big day, as I have tickets and a time limit to see the Alhambra, Granada’s most important monument. 

After nearly a full night’s sleep, I am up before the crack of 10, which in Spanish culture is what they call madrugarse, or getting up really early…and I am psyched to explore the Alhambra this second time around, although less than excited about the walk across town and up the steep hill to get to the Alhambra and its grounds. There are mini-buses that go up and down the slope, but the tourists are usually packed into them like foam peanuts, and walking is so much healthier and free besides. 

So up I go, trying to pretend I’m not out of breath or shape, when upon arrival at the ticket office I’m pink and panting. As I’m ushered through the gate, any embarrassment concerning my flushing or breathing habits becomes unimportant, as I am transported into the world of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. 

Red-hued towers rise from the dusty red clay that somehow supports lush green palms, flowering plants and shrubs. After shaking my head a little to get it back to the task at hand, I look at my ticket for the time I’ve been allotted to see the Palacios Nazaríes, in order to better organize my time. As a result of modern building regulations, only 300 people at a time are allowed to visit the two palaces that make up the Palacios Nazaríes. So visitors are assigned a time to see el Palacio de los Comares and el Palacio de los Leones. 

With only 30 minutes to visit both, I try to wander less aimlessly than usual and absorb as much as possible with my eyes and camera. Both palaces have ornately carved ceilings, walls and archways. Among prevailing designs of flowers, shells and stars there are poetry and verses from the Koran praising Allah…or at least that’s what my guidebook says, I can’t be sure; I don’t read Arabic. 

When my 30 minutes in the Palacios Nazaríes are up, it’s off to wander aimlessly in the lush gardens of the Generalife and climb endless stairs up the Alcazaba, a military tower that strangely spurs fairy-tale fantasies in my eccentric imagination and look out at the Spanish city that still holds a special place in my heart.