Otherwise I had a lovely introduction to Granada. Upon leaving the train, two of the women from my sleeping cabin invited me for coffee. Both Granada locals, the niece spoke very little English and the aunt none, so I tried my weak Espanol on them. Theresa and Fina bought breakfast, refusing to let me pay for mine. Then they took me downtown, buying my bus ticket using their discount card and directing me toward la officina de turista. I'd struck gold with this connection in a strange city, as I had forgotten the name of my hostel and directions, so I had to go to la officina de turista for assistance. Fortunately, I remembered my password to the hostel website and the office allowed me to look up my reservation on the internet. They would not allow me to check my personal e-mail account, so thankfully my memory did not completely fail me.
I called them my "transitions", moving from one city to the next. I always found transitions challenging while hefting my backpack and my cumbersome bag of paperback books, Lonely Planet Guide to Spain and laptop, but especially after a weird night sleep on a train and not knowing even the name of my hostel.
I hiked through the old quarter, el Albaicin, up and down hills to my hostel, luckily finding it in the maze of narrow cobbled passageways and buildings. The hostel staff at Makuto Guesthouse were the most welcoming and friendly group in all my travels. Syrmo greeted me and refused to discuss payment or paperwork until I'd set down my baggage and drank a cup of tea. The hostel itself is spacious inside and out. I have a 4-person room with its own bathroom and private kitchen shared by just one other room, so mucho peace and quiet compared with the awful hostel in Barcelona. My roommates were gone a lot, staying out until 6:30 a.m. one morning, so it felt almost private and muy tranquilo.
I joined the walking tour with a group from the hostel that was led by a British guy who works at the hostel. He took us on this incredible tour that included an area on the hillside looking down on Granada peppered with inhabited caves. Manmade over 1000 years ago for the workers who helped build the Alhambra, las cuevas are now home to squatters including gypsies, Senegalese Muslims, Spaniards and hippies. We stopped at one cave and drank tea with the people living there. Then we hiked to an overlook featuring a beautiful view of the Alhambra lit up at night. Afterward wine and tapas in the hostel patio.
The next morning I rose around 7 a.m., the stars still twinkling, then walked to the Alhambra. Just amazing! Even in its faded state I could imagine how beautiful it once was with all the intricately designed plaster walls, ceilings, latticework and archways. Still fantastic in its current state, I imagined how much more beautiful it was centuries ago: originally painted in vivid reds, blues, golds and greens; the royalty with their guests and dignitaries wandering through the palaces and the gardens; the soldiers on horseback galloping over the mosaic stone passageways or pacing the towers on guard. WOW! I was not expecting to enjoy my visit to Alhambra so much and appreciate the experience. I was ready for just another tourist "must see." The crowds are controlled through a reservation system and except for the occasional group tour passing through, I found private corners and alcoves in some of the Nasrid Palace complex with only a few other visitors, sometimes I had an area to myself for several minutes. The gardens were gorgeous. Fantastic city panoramas from the towers of the Alcazaba. I took almost 1,000 pictures that day! I've had a hankering for middle eastern food since arriving, so I finished my tour at an Arabic restaurant downtown with hummus, falafel and of course, dulces.
Walking around the Albaicin was a trip. The place is a maze. Leaving the hostel for Gran Via or Alhambra or finding a place to eat never posed a problem. You just had to head downhill. But finding the hostel on my return trip was always interesting. I don't think I ever took the same route back, sometimes wandering in circles until I would chance across the right street or one close to it. At night after sangria it was a tad frustrating. The only time I found it easily was the first time as I followed the map exactly. The streets turn and twist and it's hard to find the lower entrance of Calle Balbole: it almost looks like a private doorway. Some of the widest streets dead end suddenly into a garage door or walled space, then others narrow into almost nothing and you think, "this is another dead end" but no, you'd found an alleyway or another thoroughfare that provides enough room for a tiny car or two people to walk abreast. I had a great workout during my visit to Granada hiking around Albaicin, up to las cuevas and two roundtrips to the Alhambra.
Back at the hostel, the French guys played flamenco guitar while I lounged in my little cave, an alcove under the stairs that opened onto a jungle of plants and hammocks next to the patio tables and chairs. I developed a friendly rapport with all the travelers and hostel workers. Many are in their twenties, some in their 30s, but mostly college-age. Some are looking for places to live in Granada, they love it so much. Most are from Australia, France and Germany. I met a couple from Spain, Switzerland and Belgium. Two women staying here came from the US, but other than my olive tour group consisting of all Americans, that's a first for me on this trip to Spain. I call the two Dutch girls "the Queens of Denmark" because I always find them lounging in the two large, throne-like wooden chairs draped with bedspreads pushed up against the patio wall. It seemed like every time I returned to the hostel or walked through the patio, they were sitting there as if holding court. So I dubbed them "The Queens of Denmark" although they are constantly reminding me with a laugh that they are actually from Holland. I tell them I like the sound of Denmark rather than Holland, and since I'm just an ignorant American, that's how it is.
For karaoke night one of the Australian girls challenged me to sing. A guy with a shaved head, his arms and torso plastered with tattoos, joined me for Madonna's Holiday. Then the Aussie and her friend along with Tomoko, sat around and indulged me as I shared pictures on my computer of my "gorgeous" son; of course they all seconded my opinion. They viewed my pictures of my summer's journey prior to arriving in Spain and listened to my stories about traveling. The Aussies were both so cute, just 18 and ready to spin the globe. They are on a three-month tour and announced "We're already planning our next trip." Girls after my own heart. Meeting these young women who are taking on the world sent me soaring. They left the next day for Morocco.
Even the silly young kid Tom turned into sort of a gem. I was sitting in the cave working on my computer, and he's walking around in his dirty t-shirt and multi-hued harem pants popular in the Arab bodegas of the Albaicin, calling for someone to hang out with. Although I was probably three decades his senior, he invited me to join him and three Australian guys, including the two Chrises, on the top of the treehouse. The next day he woke up feeling sick to his stomach with diarrhea and the mother in me told him to drink water and eat some good yogurt.
The hostel staff cooked an international buffet with dishes representing their countries and it was TO DIE FOR! After dinner, I joined the two sisters from Baltimore for a flamenco show, reservations courtesy of the lovely Syrmo. The show was presented in a small, cavelike tavern right off the River Darro, seating only about 40 people. Guitarra, cantor y bailor in the traditional gypsy flamenco style. I returned to the hostel and headed to my room, but the Queens of Denmark waylaid me and began buying me more sangria. Then Richard started serving everyone shots of schnapps. Queen Marlouse and I taught everyone how to play charades; they immediately got my Michael Jackson impression. My laughter left me gasping. Tomoko said she went to bed around 2:30 and I was up much later than that. I finally made it to my room, slept sort of and woke around 9:30 for coffee. The Dutch girls left; I almost missed them. When I heard them holler my name, I ran down the cobblestone street after them for hugs and kisses goodbye. They tried to talk me into following them to Malaga, but I had reservations in Seville and stuck to my plan.
Another plus with this hostel is that when you are out and about, especially in the Albaicin, you always run into other Makuteros and a smiling greeting, so it's almost like you live here with friends and family. On my way back from buying my bus ticket (ALSA sucks, you can't buy a ticket online with a credit card or even hold a ticket with a credit card), in a small plaza I found the two French guys playing guitar with the two European blondes as their audience. One of the women told me how she had just found un piso to rent; she planned to stay in Granada to improve her Spanish. I sat on the steps with them enjoying the flamenco music with happy tears as I reflected on my magical Granada experience, trying to smile because it happened, not sad that it was over. Hugging Syrmo goodbye made my eyes mist. I may never see these wonderful souls again. Espero que todo MAKUTEROS tienen buen viajes todo sus vidas.