but i've never seen anything quite like this

Granada is a beautiful city. The most beautiful I have seen on the trip so far – perhaps the most beautiful I have ever seen.

The drive in was breathtaking. The Sierra Nevada mountain range rippled from the earth like sets of large, muscular shoulders supporting weight – while the lesser hills curved sensuously below, dotted and draped as they were with orchards like thighs wrapped in fishnet stockings. And between the hills and mountains lay vast and sweeping plains – stretching for miles around – and from an elevation you might think the valley was paved, cobbled with the clay tile rooftops of the houses below.

And Granada itself – what a place of poetry and prose. It’s no wonder that Washington Irving found inspiration here – it’s no wonder that Lorca found within its gardens the ink for his pen. There are the more industrial, residential areas, but – having walked most of the city; having seen the stark difference between the Muslim, Christian, and Jewish quarters divided now by rivers of tire and metal – I was struck by how well these areas blended, and if they were less beautiful, how little I cared.

It may be the artistic contrast between the lush and vibrant foliage and the whitewashed walls and the earthen tile roofs. Or it may be the charming, narrow alleys and the winding roads that so appeal to me. Or it may just be the architecture – the mixture of Moorish and Muslim design – something that is, in my mind, so singular and unique.

And if Granada is where Beauty makes her annual pilgrimage, then the Alhambra is the temple in which she prays. The endlessly intricate wall carvings, the poetry inscribed in stunning layer upon layer, the amazing arches and beautifully designed and populated gardens and courtyards. And the views onto Granada from above – nothing quite compares.

These pictures hardly do any of it justice – but hopefully they are enough to inspire a trip, at some point, to Granada.

baby you can drive my car

Seeing how the Costa Brava is basically a string of small coastal towns, with Benidorm being one of the larger hubs, I thought it would be fun to rent a car in Alicante and drive around a bit, then knock out the 4 hours to Granada and get back into the whole train thing. And I knew going into it that I’d be driving a manual, seeing how there are NO affordable automatics in all of Europe, and though it had been about 5 years since I was last behind a stick, I practiced a good ten minutes before leaving (thanks, Mike).

And I assumed that it would be rough at first, but that I’d get the hang of it. And I assumed that a few people would stare as I peeled out and/or stalled. Fine. But these assumptions were also based on my impression that Benidorm and the surrounding coast was relatively flat: an assumption that turned out to be very wrong.

I soon discovered that Benidorm, and – in fact – many of the smaller coastal towns, are a good 75% of the “hills-leading-down-to-beach” variety. Sort of a milder San Francisco combined with the cramped, narrow streets of Taiwan. Terrain on which, I also soon discovered, is not good for someone with ten minutes of refresher after a five-year hiatus from driving a manual transmission (once) to get back into the swing of things. Hills are evil.

AND, as I mentioned previously, the population of said towns were a good 90 odd percent elderly – so not only was I trying to drive up hills, but I was also trying to drive up hills without breaking into an old lady with a tennis-ball walker. How could I, in good conscience, go into geriatrics after that?

But you know, I did ok. Yes there was this one insane hill (seriously, a right angle incline – I should know better than to drive up walls). Yes, I stalled (twice). Yes, it was a busy street (and fast). Yes, cars backed up (but they were nice). Yes, I burned a LOT of rubber going up (and scared a few of the elderly). But we made it to the top. And we made it around the coast. And we made it to Granada, all in one piece.

Nothing quite like a trial by fire. But it was kind of fun. And honestly, the hardest part was not the driving but the navigating in a foreign city. But there was no honking, and no gesturing. The Spanish, I think, are too laid back for all that.

There she is. Sexy, no? A two-door Citroën C2, with a 0-60 in about seven minutes under my foot. Kind of fun to drive I guess.

Would have preferred a smart car, though.

the times they are a-changin'

I’ve developed a number of things while on this trip. An appreciation for art. A love for Amsterdam, and Paris. A respect for different cultures, and a far more honest acknowledgement of my own comforts. And a pressing need, I’m told, to shave.

And, most recently and unexpectedly, a taste – it seems – for shellfish.

I used to eat the stuff all the time as a kid: shrimp, lobster, crab – I’d eat it all indiscriminately. But then, after my time in Japan, I went cold turkey – no one in the family really knows why (it has, in fact, been a subject of some debate and contention) – and these twenty years in between have been shellfish-free. And it never bothered me – I still think shrimp are strange, strange creatures. And I never thought I was missing out.

But then I figured – well, since I’m here seeing/doing/trying new things, why not re-examine the whole no-shellfish rule? So I did. And I suppose it didn’t hurt that I was on the coast of Spain, ten feet from the Mediterranean. Or that I was superfan starving. Or that I’d had more than a few glasses of sangria.

Or that the paella looked like this.

It was pretty amazing.

Shrimp, I think, is still low low low down on the list of things I’d order in a restaurant – and if it comes whole, I don’t think it’s worth the effort of de-shelling.

But I guess it’s just one more way I’ve changed - since way back when.

in this issue

Benidorm is a nice change from the hectic, gatling gun check lists of Paris and Barcelona. There’s really nothing to do here but eat. And lay out on the beach. And eat. Which, at this point, is a welcome evolution in our travel.

Forty minutes outside of Alicante on La Costa Brava, Benidorm is – for all intents and purposes – the Key West of Spain. It is Shell Beach realized. People from all over the EU flock here (but mostly from the UK), walking the boardwalk, packing the beaches and the bars. And like many parts of Florida, the population here is 90 odd percent advanced in years. But unlike many parts of Florida, the beaches here are topless. And I’ll speak no more of that.

But it’s generally pleasant.

And I’m starting to wish I hadn’t charged my way through Moby Dick – I would have liked to have read some of it on the beach, so I could dive into the water when my eyes grow tired and taste the salt and think and float.

Now all I have is Nina’s Vogue. With its special on wedding dresses…

move along

I think the one thing I will take away from Barcelona is how much I love a well played trumpet. I love how the notes float and hang in the air like winter clouds, heavy with but holding onto snow. I love how the melody echoes through the city, like some sad song played on an weary gramophone in the halls of an abandoned prison.

And it’s not so much that I think of Barcelona as a prison, but that I’m a little travel worn, and about ready to return to the things I know best. It’s a good thing – I feel like I’ve completely satisfied the need in me to travel, and can spend these next few years doing what I need to do.

But then again, maybe all I need is a couple of days on the coast, driving around, baking on the beaches.

Maybe I’ll let these city legs float for a bit in the sea, and see then if I’m ready to move on.

closed, from 2 - 4

It’s funny – you can walk onto the same street in Barcelona at three different times during the same day and see three different stores open, and never open simultaneously. I’d walk by in the afternoon, and what I thought was a one shop street was actually a three – and at night, what I thought were walls in passing were really cafes and tea houses.

Is there some kind of rotation in place? Is the schedule posted somewhere?

And I also don’t know what to think about the siesta. Not so much that it is a minor inconvenience to the foreign traveler, but that I’ve never been one for naps or midday breaks. I don’t really understand it. It seems a little lazy. But then again, the relaxed and paced atmosphere of the Mediterranean is one of the things I’ve developed a taste for – so maybe, with more time here, I too would close up shop in the afternoon and go wherever the Catalans go, and do whatever the Catalans do – in those few hours after two.

(And I’ve also seen no fewer than five women here who look like Jenny Lewis. And that I could also get used to)

take it all, it comes cheap

Food. Without it we cannot live. For some, eating is an indispensable part of life – and if, somehow in the future, it is made obsolete, life for these people of principle may no longer seem worth the living. It is a necessity for some, a burden for others – a captivation for a few. But it is a thing we all must do.

Food. Some hop from meal to meal as if from stone to stone in a pond, with everything between a vast and drenching mess. But there are good meals, and there are bad meals. The bad leave us with regret, and dissatisfaction – and often pain. The good leave us with memories. So what, then, is it about a really good meal that – even years later – brings a smile to our faces?

The wine, perhaps. The lighting. The music playing softly, softly seeping from the walls. The flavors, the colors, the presentation. The service. I have had several really good meals so far on this trip: the duck in Prague, pasta night in Cinque Terre, that café in Montmarte. I will remember each for years with fondness.

But at the same time I have to wonder if these same meals would have been as memorable experienced alone. I have to think not. I have to think that there is no good meal not bettered by good company. In my opinion, sharing a good meal with good company is the third most intimate thing we, as humans, do. It is a great and beautiful thing.

Barcelona is a lyrical place for food. The streets sing with a vibrant energy, and after eight everything takes on an air of carnival. But eating here is not so much idolized – not so much an art, as it is in France, or a sanctuary, as it is in Italy: it is more of an extension of the human body, and as such it is as necessary and natural as breathing. Tapas bars are lively, and good social fun, but the food is fast and cheap, greasy and filling. And you eat, and move on – eat, and move on. And though each night may be in good company, and each meal satisfying – I think this method, in some way, detracts from the beauty and intimacy of the meal.

But I don’t know – who am I to judge, half the time I’ll eat if you put something in front of me. It’s a reflex.

And I do like tapas – it’s a fun way to do it – but if I had my choice, I’d take the duck or the pasta or the café in Montmarte over that bar any day.