Granada was yet another awesome Spanish city. It's the second stop I've made in Spain where I really felt my feet drag when it came time to leave; the first such stop was San Sebastian. I spent my time in Granada in the usual way; walking around aimlessly, finding interesting people to talk to in interesting places. I awoke one morning and 
walked out of my dorm room on the fourth floor of the hostel, and took the five lazy steps required to take me out onto the rooftop terrace. The sunrise was beautiful (alright you got me, it was 11 am; 7 o'clock doesn't exist in my world), and as I contemplated my day I heard an ice cream truck playing "My heart will go on" by Celine Dion, in a key so shrill that only prebupescents and dogs could hear the high notes. Obviously a good omen to start my day. Or something?
That first full day in the city I went out and bought some food for my stay, brought it home and forgot to put my lunch into my backpack as I set off for a good day's trudging ar
ound. When I discovered the lack of lunch in my bag I was "forced" to head into a local cafe and order a delicious roquefort, serrano and tomato sandwich. Wow. That little sandwich kept me going for hours on end, as I climbed the huge hill in town for a spectacular view of the Alhambra accross Granada's muddy river, which itself dissapeared into the mysterious underbelly of the town under a bridge far below, never to be seen again. I took pictures, soaked up the strong sun and watched a few hippies juggle and smoke hukkah in the corner, as groups of French schoolchildren arrived on buses, in droves, and quickly put and end to my meditative mood. I took my leave, vowing to return later that night to get some pictures in the high contrast of the angled evening light. And I did return that evening, with some friends from the hostel, and we took wonderful pictures and enjoyed the bustle of all the tourists and the c
harming Spanish guitar, which lulled us into a state of semiconsciousness that not even a busload of French schoolchildren could interrupt. I stayed on a couple of hours later than the rest to get proper night-time pictures on long exposure, and the results were excellent (above left).
ound. When I discovered the lack of lunch in my bag I was "forced" to head into a local cafe and order a delicious roquefort, serrano and tomato sandwich. Wow. That little sandwich kept me going for hours on end, as I climbed the huge hill in town for a spectacular view of the Alhambra accross Granada's muddy river, which itself dissapeared into the mysterious underbelly of the town under a bridge far below, never to be seen again. I took pictures, soaked up the strong sun and watched a few hippies juggle and smoke hukkah in the corner, as groups of French schoolchildren arrived on buses, in droves, and quickly put and end to my meditative mood. I took my leave, vowing to return later that night to get some pictures in the high contrast of the angled evening light. And I did return that evening, with some friends from the hostel, and we took wonderful pictures and enjoyed the bustle of all the tourists and the c
harming Spanish guitar, which lulled us into a state of semiconsciousness that not even a busload of French schoolchildren could interrupt. I stayed on a couple of hours later than the rest to get proper night-time pictures on long exposure, and the results were excellent (above left).I quickly made many friends (one would have to try very hard to be anti-social when there's a busy rooftop patio outside
one's bedroom door) and ended up cooking an impromptu dinner for 5 in the hostel kitchen; a simple, delicious pasta with six kinds of local vegetables and lots of tomatoes, flavoured with oil, sugar and salt. When asked how much they owed me, I told them that dinner cost 5 Euros, and they thought that 5 Euros was a pretty good price for a nice little pasta dinner, until I clarified that 5 Euros was the total cost, dividing neatly out to 1 Euro each (the vegetables cost just over 1 euro in total; mushrooms, zucchini, tomato, garlic, onion, red a
nd green pepper). Now that's a great deal. I'm always surprised when other people are surprised at how little raw ingredients cost. I suppose the trouble is you have to know how to cook to be able to use raw ingredients; I've also been amazed at how many young travelers don't really know how to cook anything more complicated than Kraft Dinner. I sort of thought that basic cooking was one of the essential skills of a good backpacker, but Spain's hostels (and I suspect this goes for all of Europe as well) are populated by a different kind of backpacker than I'm used to seeing, a more commercial, touristing-rather-than-traveling backpacker. If you know what I mean? Mmmm... Kraft Dinner....
one's bedroom door) and ended up cooking an impromptu dinner for 5 in the hostel kitchen; a simple, delicious pasta with six kinds of local vegetables and lots of tomatoes, flavoured with oil, sugar and salt. When asked how much they owed me, I told them that dinner cost 5 Euros, and they thought that 5 Euros was a pretty good price for a nice little pasta dinner, until I clarified that 5 Euros was the total cost, dividing neatly out to 1 Euro each (the vegetables cost just over 1 euro in total; mushrooms, zucchini, tomato, garlic, onion, red a
nd green pepper). Now that's a great deal. I'm always surprised when other people are surprised at how little raw ingredients cost. I suppose the trouble is you have to know how to cook to be able to use raw ingredients; I've also been amazed at how many young travelers don't really know how to cook anything more complicated than Kraft Dinner. I sort of thought that basic cooking was one of the essential skills of a good backpacker, but Spain's hostels (and I suspect this goes for all of Europe as well) are populated by a different kind of backpacker than I'm used to seeing, a more commercial, touristing-rather-than-traveling backpacker. If you know what I mean? Mmmm... Kraft Dinner....
There were some excellent local Moroccan markets which were terribly overpriced but fun to look around on a hot afternoon, and I ended up buying absolutely nothing after having been in half the shops on the street. A good afternoon, in my books, although the shopkeepers might beg to differ. I walked up to the entrance of the cathedral one morning, only to turn right back around after seeing the 4 Euro entrance fee. I've decided that anything more than free is too rich for my blood, at least when it comes to churches, cathedrals, abbeys, basilicas, and anywhere else where a big cross with a little white guy on it is the main attraction, which of course you can't take pictures of. 
Having said that, I did shell out 16 Euros to go to the Alhambra on Friday, and that was money well spent. The place was absolutely gorgeous. Carved mosaics, ornate cielings shaped like miniature upside-down cities (photo right), archways leading to winding passageways leading to beautiful lush gardens full of hedge mazes, fountains and statues. I think my favourite part of the Alhambra was probably the water pieces, which came in varying forms and were strategically located throughout the labyrinth structure, which seemed more like a small city than a palace. I would have loved to see Alhambra in its day, fully functional and filled with gorgeous tapestries and inviting scents, Kings and their harems lounging around enjoying heaven on earth. It was certainly beautiful when I was there, but it imparted on me a sort of sterile and vacuous feeling, like wandering around an empty hospital, as if the soul of the place had been faded by centuries of touristing. 
While sitting in one of the plethora of beautiful gardens, i overheard an old couple speaking German, and the old lady said something that sounded just like "stop and smell the roses", though I'm sure my translation is entirely spurious. But I decided that it was good advice nonetheless, and literally stopped and smelled the many roses in the garden, each smell slightly different than the last, until I found one glorious pink rose which smelled like just like dessert (though I couldn't tell you what kind of dessert), and I stayed there smelling that rose until a family of birds stared at me for long enough to make me feel self conscious. I took a picture but I would much rather have captured the rich, sweet smell than the look of the thing... how has no one invented a smellera yet? I'll get to work immediately upon my return to Canada.I spent some of my time helping a young girl from Toronto who was looking for a flat in Granada for the month; Aysha was there to stud
y elementary Spanish and, as such, did not yet have the linguistic tools with which to search for the apartment she so desperately wanted. I made some calls for her and met up with a prospective apartment owner on a couple of occasions, working pro bono as a translator. After settling on a beautiful little flat overlooking the main plaza, my young Canadian friend got stuck at the cash machine trying to take money out of various accounts and cards (one of the things you learn on your first trip abroad - always tell your bank where you're going, and know that they will still block the first transaction anyways, every single time!) and I ran ahead to meet Antonio, the kind old fellow from whom she was renting the apartment. Antonio and I ended up heading up to the apartment and talking Spanish politics for an hour over a cold beer ("If I saw that politician on the street I'd push him under a bus!") before realizing that Aysha was terribly overdue and had likely gotten lost: I shuffled back to the hostel in my flip flops and found her there, talking with her bank to release the funds which she eventually procured and handed over to Antonio in exchange for the keys. I'll consider this my volunteer work for the trip :)
y elementary Spanish and, as such, did not yet have the linguistic tools with which to search for the apartment she so desperately wanted. I made some calls for her and met up with a prospective apartment owner on a couple of occasions, working pro bono as a translator. After settling on a beautiful little flat overlooking the main plaza, my young Canadian friend got stuck at the cash machine trying to take money out of various accounts and cards (one of the things you learn on your first trip abroad - always tell your bank where you're going, and know that they will still block the first transaction anyways, every single time!) and I ran ahead to meet Antonio, the kind old fellow from whom she was renting the apartment. Antonio and I ended up heading up to the apartment and talking Spanish politics for an hour over a cold beer ("If I saw that politician on the street I'd push him under a bus!") before realizing that Aysha was terribly overdue and had likely gotten lost: I shuffled back to the hostel in my flip flops and found her there, talking with her bank to release the funds which she eventually procured and handed over to Antonio in exchange for the keys. I'll consider this my volunteer work for the trip :)I got up very early yesterday morning, unable to sleep due to tremendous snoring (it was either get up or commit homocide, and homocide nearly won); the sound of rain had a nice calming effect as I watched a French girl accidentally put pancake batt
er into her Coffee, only to taste it twice and add more pancake batter, shortly before realizing that her coffee creamer was, in fact, pancake batter. She took a quick look around and hid her blush as I pretended to be lost in my book. I boarded a plane yesterday afternoon and flew quickly over to Barcelona, where I find myself now (see my favourite picture from Alhambra, left). It's always wonderful to return to a city you're familiar with; it feels just a little bit like home. You kind of know where you're going, and you sort of know where some things are, and you think you remember a great little Irish bar where you watched a good soccer match one time, and all in all it's just familiar enough to be comforting. I played high-stakes poker in the kitchen throughout the evening last night, using penne pasta for chips, finally losing all of my hard-earned noodles to a bad beat (I had a pair of aces, he won with a 7-5 offsuit...). The funny thing about playing poker in Spain with penne pasta is that the word "pene" means "penis", and so the poor Argentinian receptionist around the corner was probably contemplating suicide after two hours of loudly spoken phrases such as "I'll see your penis and I'll raise you six penises" or "How many penises did he put in the pot? Count your penises please". Of course, I only thought of this after we'd finished playing with our penises. I mean penne.
Tonight my good friend Lana gets into town on a very long flight, so I'm going to meet her at the airport and usher her to the hostel, where she will get her first (and perhaps last, depending on how it goes) taste of backpacking. Barcelona is a damned good place to start. So I guess this is the end of my solo travels for this trip; from now on I will be accompanied by either Lana, or Kelly, or Jason. It's been a great time traveling by myself, with no responsibilities and free to blow where the wind might take me, but in honesty I'm excited to have some traveling companions to share these awesome experiences with. See you tonight Lana!
er into her Coffee, only to taste it twice and add more pancake batter, shortly before realizing that her coffee creamer was, in fact, pancake batter. She took a quick look around and hid her blush as I pretended to be lost in my book. I boarded a plane yesterday afternoon and flew quickly over to Barcelona, where I find myself now (see my favourite picture from Alhambra, left). It's always wonderful to return to a city you're familiar with; it feels just a little bit like home. You kind of know where you're going, and you sort of know where some things are, and you think you remember a great little Irish bar where you watched a good soccer match one time, and all in all it's just familiar enough to be comforting. I played high-stakes poker in the kitchen throughout the evening last night, using penne pasta for chips, finally losing all of my hard-earned noodles to a bad beat (I had a pair of aces, he won with a 7-5 offsuit...). The funny thing about playing poker in Spain with penne pasta is that the word "pene" means "penis", and so the poor Argentinian receptionist around the corner was probably contemplating suicide after two hours of loudly spoken phrases such as "I'll see your penis and I'll raise you six penises" or "How many penises did he put in the pot? Count your penises please". Of course, I only thought of this after we'd finished playing with our penises. I mean penne.
Tonight my good friend Lana gets into town on a very long flight, so I'm going to meet her at the airport and usher her to the hostel, where she will get her first (and perhaps last, depending on how it goes) taste of backpacking. Barcelona is a damned good place to start. So I guess this is the end of my solo travels for this trip; from now on I will be accompanied by either Lana, or Kelly, or Jason. It's been a great time traveling by myself, with no responsibilities and free to blow where the wind might take me, but in honesty I'm excited to have some traveling companions to share these awesome experiences with. See you tonight Lana!
C
Hello and best wishes to Lana! Have fun!
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