By bus to Granada

Out the bus window, stripes and plaids of olive trees are draped over the hills to the horizon. They give the hills shape, like the lines in a 3D computer drawing. Closeup, they have gnarled, often multiple trunks, branches with spouts of leaves that show silver in a breeze. Sometimes there is actually a distant castle perched on a rocky crag; usually ancient villages or modern windmills on the crests of hills, olive trees marching up to meet them. In places, there were small alternating fields of asparagus, sunflowers, corn, favas.

I arrived in Granada, got the key, and crashed for a few hours, and when I rose hungry, it was

at Plaza Real, a wedding and an art show

siesta time, everything closed; so I got the red tourist bus and cruised around the city. Surely one of the world's best parking lots is at the Alhambra. The entire area is entirely shaded with lemon trees. (Another, in Cordoba, is beneath the city walls, and is entered through a dramatic stone arch.) The bus rolled around the city proper; most of the older sections were inaccessible by bus, but it was interesting to see a wider view of the living city.

I had promised Peter I would find and eat at Casa Salvador. It was a tiny place that seemed attached to a hostel but in fact, everyone else eating there seemed to be local. Just perfect! I had an amuse bouche  of fish, olives, and pickled cabbage; salad casera with roast peppers, grated beets, tomatoes, eggs; pile of chuletas de cabrito clinically significant levels of fried garlic, with green pimientos, asparagus, tomatoes, and potatoes. And a digestif on the house. Fantastic! -- all served with the same formal but friendly reticence Peter remembered from his visit some 40 years ago.

Naturally, I got thoroughly lost in Albaizin trying to get home. It was after midnight and I heard snatches of flamenco floating from lighted windows and bouncing off the high stone walls, clusters of what looked like young tourists in pools of light sharing joints, though I didn't smell anything, various pseudo-gypsy and 'Arabian' stuff shops, ice cream shops, bars and cafes, and long stretches of dark alleys bounded by tall blank walls that didn't give any clues about the courtyards within. Eventually I got to a place with a driveable street and took a cab back to my bed-- of course, only a few blocks!

This place has its own sound palette that moves through the day. Pigeons coax the sun up-- unless I hear a spirited argument first-- water whooshing down ancient pipes, then the little birds, doors and gates creaking, maybe a cat, and the traffic sounds begin. Another occasion of luck: I rose and put on a dirty shirt and grabbed a towel, headed for the shower, heard the door of my room click closed and locked with keys inside, and simultaneously remembered that the hostess and her friend both were away all day. I couldn't go out, and my computer, drawing stuff, clothes, cash . . . everything was behind the door. There was a couple next door, and the woman somehow divined were a spare key was, behind a door that was clearly marked off limits to guests . . . whew!

I think that when travelling, one can to some extent make luck happen: not in the details but in the general framework of things. If you travel alone, and chat/smalltalk with others; try using the language; ask questions and ask for help; you will get the help and goodwill you need. If you interpret unexpected events as possibly interesting adventures and stay in the moment rather than catastrophizing (oh no, missed the last bus, I will surely die), that is what they are. If you look for interesting things in the quotidian life of the city you visit, you will find it-- in how people interact at the cafe, kids and parents, little differences in the way everyday things are accomplished-- all interesting and clues to the different perspective you want, as a traveller/visitor to absorb. Some of the best things are the unexpected ones, even particularly the problematic ones. Not to denigrate the big things-- Prado, Alhambra, etc. Sometimes picking a place to get to that is not convenient or nearby, figuring out how to get there, getting lost and confused, can be rewarding; or just getting on a city bus with a window seat. You can look out the window or talk with other passengers-- see how things work. All benefits of travelling solo.

Parque Garcia Lorca, Granada

Out the door, down the hill, and established in one of about 6 cafes in the nearby plaza with a dense cafe latte and sweet breeze, things were once again in that delicious state of enough and anticipation of unknown more in the day ahead.
Granada means pomegranate, and representations of pomegranates are all over in Granada. There is a statue of the patron saint standing on a pile of them. A pomegranate icon appears on the street signs. On many of the dishes hanging on the walls. Just don't seem many actual pomegranate trees.

In Granada

Stopped by Parque Garcia Lorca. Tedious, but: everything seemed to come at me in an intense and delightful way on this trip, maybe the opposite of the way some of my students experience their worlds. from the ournal:  "my senses are open. This is the MOST WONDERFUL ice dream bar in history. The pavement smells like . . . roasting pavement. Birds tweeting furiously. Traffic humming in the background. A couple my age earing and talking in the background. A young family relaxing the the 4-year-old running around. Camereros desultorily rearranging chairs. Three weeks later, I'm not so euphoric but still things feel pretty good here in Charlottesville.
One novel custom I noticed was the 50's cars parked in front of cathedrals. They were used for weddings-- as limos.