Although you may have gathered it from what I’ve written, I don’t think I have explicitly stated that, aside from the Czech Republic, Spain is my favourite European country. For me, Barcelona is hard to beat, but Granada is definitely knocking on its door. There are so many things to love about Granada, from the alleys of Albayzín to the quirky bars, it is a mesmerizing synthesis resplendent with multicultural history. However, for me, my love can be attributed to just one thing: the Alhambra. My dad fell in love with the Alhambra years and years ago, introducing me to its splendour and now I share his passion wholeheartedly.
We had already booked our accommodation with the girls in Barcelona, so we followed the directions we had, taking the bus from the train station. When we boarded, we checked with the driver just to make sure we were on the right bus. His response was that, yes, we were on the right bus. As we travelled further and further in the opposite direction to the city, I went back up and checked with him again. This time, his response was that no, we were on the wrong bus and needed to be travelling in the opposite direction. Exactly what had changed from the first time we asked him, I am not sure. So off we hopped, and crossed the road and waited for a bus going in the opposite direction. We waited quite some time when, eventually, the same bus pulled up at our stop. Despite the fact the tickets we had purchased some half an hour before were two hour tickets, and the fact that this was the man who sold them to us, the freaking driver made us buy another ticket for our journey back in the right direction. I had absolutely no idea what his problem was, but I made sure my death stare was at maximum lethality as I stared him down for the remainder of the ride. Eventually, we reached our stop, Gran vía de Colón and hopped off. According to their information, it was a “short walk” from there to the hostel. This may have been the case had I been able to astrally project myself from the bus stop to the front door. The following are the directions as copied from the booking instructions:
Cross the street (Gran Vía de Colón) and go right until you get to the corner where Gran Vía meets Reyes Católicos street. Turn left and after about 50 metres you´ll reach Plaza Nueva. Once there, head straight (passing by the round fountain on your left). Once at end of the square take Carrera del Darro street. Follow it until you see a church on your right. You´ll find Calle Santísimo about 20 metres further up the road, on your left. (Note that there is another street called Nuevo de Santisimo and it is not the right one).
Now, these seem quite clear and succinct, yes? Upon reading, we thought so too. Unfortunately, once put into practice, it appeared they were written by someone who had never even been to Granada…and were, most likely, blind. Also, their estimations of distance were rubbish. “50 metres” suggests 1/20th of a kilometre, so imagine our surprise when, after walking at least twenty times this, we still hadn’t reached Plaza Nueva; Calle Santísimo wasn’t “20 metres further up the road”, but 20 minutes. “Short walk” my derrière - it would have taken us at least an hour to get to the place. I’ve read drunken text messages with more coherence than those directions.
The girls were already there when we arrived, having experienced similar troubles with the idiotic directions. But it didn’t matter because we had all made it, and we had a room to ourselves. It was extraordinarily great to have our own room and bathroom, especially after the Kerobokan Prison-like facilities of Kabul. We spent the remainder of the afternoon chilling in the room, showering at our own leisure, spreading out and listening to Beyoncé while we got ready.
That night we decided to do the hostel’s tapas tour. Jacob (who, with dark hair down to his shoulders, looked just like Jacob the werewolf guy from Twilight) was our tour leader, and he herded us down to the first bar. Much like in La Línea, you ordered a drink and received free tapas. While we were allowed to choose our own drinks, Jacob was adamant that he was going to pick our tapas for us. His controlling nature would have been okay if it ended there, but he wouldn’t let us order anything else because we were supposedly leaving in a few minutes. This turned out to be completely specious and forty five minutes later we were still sitting there, hungry and thirsty. An hour later we were still sitting there, hungry and thirsty. Eventually, he started herding us onto another bar, but we were done. We hung at the back of the group and, when he wasn’t looking, snuck-off around the corner. We looked around for somewhere to go and eat and, a few minutes later, saw Jacob’s head pop around the corner. We threw ourselves into the nearest shop front, which turned out to be Kebab King No 1. It may not have been the most authentically-Spanish dinner we could have had, but it was tasty and we were allowed to order for ourselves.
The next day, we hit-up the city, attempting to sight-see. I say “attempting” because it was hard to see any sights thanks to the torrential rain and the countless Roma women shoving sprigs of rosemary in our faces and trying to make us “tip” them for the pleasure. What’s that, dirty gypsy lady? €5.00 for a tiny twiglet of aromatic plant? Yes please! I’ll take ten. The rain became so bad that we spent a lot of our morning huddled under awnings until, eventually, we starting taking refuge in shops, which eventually turned into shopping. Ultimately, we decided to cut our losses and head back to the hostel to dry-off and thaw-out. For reasons that I will never understand, I always end up twice as wet as everyone else. You’d think that, as the pressure of the rain lessens closer to the ground, I would be the driest. Not the case at all.
The next day was Alhambra Day. If we thought the weather was bad the day before, it was absolutely ghastly that morning. Unfortunately, you have to book to visit the Alhambra, and that was the only day we could get tickets. So, with no choice but to Gore-Tex-up and brave the virtual monsoon, we headed up there for our 9.00am admission. The Alhambra is, unquestionably, Granada’s dominant attraction. Sitting atop the city in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, it’s a Nasrid palace city and, in my opinion, the most brilliant example of Moorish magnificence you will ever see. I don’t just mean magnificence in an aesthetic-sense; athough the Moorish culture was visually exquisite, with its intricate carved wooden ceilings, vivid ceramic tiles and scalloped rendering, the ingenious practicality of its design is equally awe-inspiring. In case you missed it, I am in love with the Alhambra.
With a ticket, each person is allotted only half an hour in the jewel of the Alhambra’s crown, the Palacios Nazaries. Our thirty minutes was from 9.30, so we had to rush through the rain to get there and take full advantage of our time. Unlike a lot of the complex, the Palacios Nazaries is indoors, or at least under-cover. When we had finished there, the rain was even worse and we were starting to think that we might have to admit defeat and stay on in Granada if we could buy tickets for another day during the week. We decided to have a coffee and give Mother Nature one last chance to heed our prayers – and she did!! The rain stopped and, as the day wore on, the sun even made an appearance.
That night, we made the most of the kitchen facilities, cooking our dinner and making our own sangria. We briefly caught-up with Ollie after he arrived but, after a long day at work and a long drive up, he was as tired as we were, so we all had an early night.
The next day, Ollie, Kaitlyn and I had planned to do a Segway tour. Now, before you laugh at us for doing a Segway tour, I feel that I need to put this into context in order to highlight that we did so ironically. From our first day in Prague, the stupidity of Segways became a joke for Kaitlyn and me. We laughed all through the Czech Republic and Germany at how ridiculous they were, and how lazy people must have been to use them. When we were in Rome, we laughed at the “Gladiators” riding them, and laughed even harder when TK told us that he really wanted to do one. By the time we got to Nice and saw police patrolling on them, we realised that we kind of had to go on one before we got home. We must have mentioned this to Ollie while we were staying with him and, after sharing with us the wonder that is “Chimpanzee Riding on a Segway”, we had somehow all agreed we would do a tour together in Granada. We booked it for the Saturday morning but, when we rocked-up, it turned out they had double-booked. We rescheduled for the Sunday afternoon, and instead spent the morning having a Churros and hot chocolate breakfast – the perfect nourishment for a guy running a half-marathon the next day. Afterwards, Ollie gave us his tour of the city. Having lived in Granada briefly, he knew his way around, but his knowledge of sights and landmarks was slightly less-sound.
That night, the four of us decided to embrace Granadina culture to its fullest, partaking in an evening of shisha and flamenco. I have done shisha once before, after a Lady Gaga concert in Brunswick. While the place we went to was probably somewhat touristy, sampling it in the exotic Moorish quarter of Granada seemed a hell of a lot more authentic than doing it in Lygon Street. As for the Flamenco…I don’t really know how to describe it. It was fantastically entertaining, but maybe not for the reasons it should have been. When the curtain on the stage lifted to reveal the backdrop of the Alhambra, illuminated in all its glory, the presentation began with a feeling of real cultural reverence. Then the musicians appeared. The three men looked like homeless buskers, and the female singer looked just like Fergie (from the BEP), with a similar penchant for slutty attire, and a voice which could shatter glass. The tone was lessened even more when the main dancer took to the stage. With no knowledge of the technicalities of Flamenco dancing, I was beyond impressed with her dancing skills. However, she possessed the facial tics of Hollywood-embellished Tourette’s and her mouth fluctuated between a Dick Cheney-sneer and a Smeagol-snarl. It was simultaneously hilarious and terrifying.
The next day we did two tours: the free walking tour and our Segway excursion. Both of them took us on similar routes, focusing on the Moorish quarter of Albayzín. This was actually a really good thing because, on the walking tour we were able to learn about the sights, so on the Segway tour we could focus on the Segways. So….Segways: deceptively difficult to drive. The day before when we turned up for our original booking, we had a quick go on them just to get a feel. I got the hang of it quite quickly, initially finding it a lot easier than Ollie and Kaitlyn, my smallness somewhat of an advantage as Segways work on weight distribution and are extremely sensitive. Segways: deceptively awesome. I’m going to be honest, we had so much fun! And not even in an ironic, look-at-us-taking-the-piss-out-of-Segways sense. I want to buy my own Segway when I get home, ride it to work and around town. I am not being even slightly sarcastic here.
‘That F@#%ER ripped me off.’
What happened was this: Kaitlyn purchased two cans of Sprite and some chocolate, totalling a little over €2.00. She gave the man a €10.00 note, from which she received back a little over €2.00 in coins. Obviously, there was a €5.00 note missing. Whether this was by accident or due to intentional-withholding by the man, we will never know. Regardless, Kaitlyn was aware of this at the time but, rather than say something to the man, she waited until she came back, leaving me to deal with her anger. ‘THAT F@#%ING F@#%ER. HE F@#%ING RIPPED ME OFF FIVE F@#%ING EURO. FOR F@#%S SAKE. I’D RATHER BE IN F@#%ING ITALY THAN THIS F@#%ING SHITHOLE.’ As always, I walked silently next to her, allowing her to irrationally sound-off . ‘JUST BECAUSE SPAIN IS IN F@#%ING DEBT DOESN’T MEAN THAT THEY CAN F@#%NG RIP ME OFF.’ She slammed her open can of Sprite into a rubbish bin, the force of her throw causing liquid to spurt back out all over her. I found this amusing and was hoping she would too, allowing it to snap her out of her paroxysm. Instead, it had the opposite effect, tipping her over the edge and she completely lost her shit. ‘F@#%!’
I have witnessed more Kaitlyn tantrums than I can count, experiencing her irrational anger at its best. But when she turned around and looked at me, I had never seen her look as furious and incensed as she did then. I was almost scared. She walked over to me, bent right down to my level and screamed at me ‘EUROPEANS ARE ALL BLACK @#%ING C@#%S. ALL OF YOU.’ She stood back up and turned around, focusing her attention on three elderly women sitting outside the El Cortes Ingles department store. She stuck her finger up at them, screaming ‘YOU’RE ALL F@#%ING SPANISH DICKHEADS. ALL OF YOU.’ They may not have understood exactly what she was saying, but the sentiment was clear to one and all. I looked over at them with what I hope was an apologetic expression, while Kaitlyn just barrelled on down the street, continuing to rant and rave. For the first time ever, I actually couldn’t even deal with it. I left her charging down the road, screaming obscenities at everyone she passed, and went into a shoe shop.
About five minutes later she walked into the shop and approached me. ‘I have to apologise, don’t I?’
‘Yes. Unless you really think I’m a “black f@#%ing c@#%”.’
‘Oh my God. I said that, didn’t I?’ She had actually suffered a rage-blackout, hardly remembering a thing of what she had said. ‘You might also want to apologise to the elderly ladies you flipped-off and called “Spanish dickheads”.’
And, with the exception of a hostel-viewing of Casino Royale and a Kebab King No 1 dinner while we waited for our night train, that was Granada.
Next stop, Valencia: Jaws, C-Dogg and the disbandment of CICK.
