Thoughts of getting myself to a pool, beach, mountain spring or any source of cool aquatic relaxation have been floating through my head pretty much as soon as I landed in Granada. Although not very humid due to the dryness, this place is hot, with temperatures that hovered around the hundreds for the entire first week here.
So last weekend, the dream became a reality as the other students in the program and I headed for Nerja, a beautiful costal town about two and a half hours south of Granada. The bus ride, although a bumpy one, was gorgeous. I was thinking the other day about weather, and how it never seems to change here, and how in the Midwest it changes constantly, with beautiful storms that roll in and change the color of the sky to a deep gray or sometimes even red hue before unloading all that wonderful water. I miss those storms, but as I looked out my window on that bus ride through the Sierra Nevada I realized something this area´s got that at least makes up for if not totally dwarfs its lack of weather; as you move through the landscape, it actually changes, dramatically. Hills unfold into more mountains, mountains unfold into more mountains still. Small villages of whitewashed homes and factories pepper the hillsides. Soon the landscape descends lower and lower until you can´t see any more peaks out in front of you, and suddenly, there´s the sea staring you in the face. Ya, there´s not anything happening in the sky, but who needs to look at the sky with such an incredible landscape around you.
Upon arriving in Nerja, we realized right away that out of the 15 or so of us on the trip, none had bothered to check out a map of the place, and where our hostel might be on that map. Responsibility did not just diffuse with numbers in this case, it straight up disintegrated. Anyway somebody called the hostel, and we met the guy who runs it in a plaza nearby.
The proprietor of our hostel turned out to be a bit of a sight for sore eyes. He had bleached blonde hair, very casual sort of hippie-sheik clothing, and pale skin. He was American, raised in the Midwest even, and talked with that sort of outer planetary, “I’m not gonna come down to earth cuz I’m on a higher plane man” sort of drawl that you only hear from the headiest of heads back at American music festivals. I liked the guy. He began calmly explaining to us that, due some sort of loophole or flaw in the online booking system, we had somehow booked the hostel for about twice its capacity. But apparently this wasn’t a huge deal, as he soon began leading all of us there anyway. The place was nice. Everything was clean, there were two bathrooms, a large outdoor sink (we used it as a shower as well), a back patio with mosaic tiles on the wall, and a decent sized terrace up top. Although at first we thought some of us might have to look elsewhere for a place to sleep, we managed to make it work, with all the girls sharing twin beds (thanks girls), and the guys sleeping on whatever else was available: a cot in the laundry room, two mattresses on the terrace, the sofas in the front room, etc. The place was definitely over-booked, but we made it work, and surprisingly with little discomfort for all parties involved.
I'll say a little bit more about the proprietor/manager of the hostel, and the life he leads, or at least appeared to have led during our brief 3 days and 2 nights there. However I’ll preface this by saying that I did like the guy. He was genuine and nice and everything, I just would never want to live the way he lived. To start, I never once saw him leave the hostel, and I don’t think anyone else did either. Not only that, but he never really left his table, on top of which was always a copy of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, a mamouth work of objectivist philosophy and fiction, rolling papers, rolling tobacco, and a hash pipe, which he was perpetually smoking, day in and day out. Next to him was an I-pod player that perpetually played Grateful Dead, or offshoots of the Grateful Dead post Jerry Garcia’s death. At one point I made a reaching comment along the lines of “O! Nice. Grateful Dead huh?” and he was quick to inform me that it was not, in fact, Grateful Dead, but Bob Weir’s (rhythm guitar, backing vocals for the Grateful Dead) band, who were also “very excellent.” The exact same thing happened to a friend of mine the next day, except this time he had to inform her that it was not Grateful Dead, but Phil Lesh’s (bassist of Grateful Dead) band. Whatever, the player was always on, and I’m almost dead positive that nothing else was ever playing besides something with at least one of the members of the Grateful Dead involved. Someone said that he played a Beatles song at one point, but I’m pretty sure it was the Grateful Dead covering the Beatles. A bit strange, but then I guess I can think of worse, a lot worse, bands that I could have had to listen to for 48 hours straight. When I said this guy perpetually smoked his hash, I meant it. It was very much a non-stop process. At one point someone apparently told him that he did so too much, and he apparently replied that he had to, because when he didn’t, he didn’t like people. And that was it. Don’t know how he ended up in Nejra as a manager of a hostel, or for how long he’d been spending his days on a strict diet of hash, objectivist philosophy and Jerry (I never saw him eat anything either). I couldn’t live that way, but I respect what he does. He keeps a clean establishment and everything for travelers from all over Europe, and is certainly friendly enough, and I’d recommend his hostel to anyone.
We spend the days in Nejra roasting it up on the beaches and cooling off in the Mediterranean water. I don’t really have too much to say about the beach during the day. I’m not really the biggest beach guy, and get tired of the hot sun pretty quickly, but it was sure as hell relaxing.
The highlight of the weekend for me was definitely the “secret beach.” It so happened that at the hostel, I was sharing a room with a really kind gentlemen from Manchester. After little chatter, he told me that not too far off the beaten path of the main beaches that we were at during the day, there lay a few, as he put it, “private beaches,” that were ideal for bringing a few bottles of wine and good friends to during the nights. I went downstairs, confirmed the existence of these elusive beaches with the hostel manager who I've just finished describing, and he even showed me where they were on a map. After at least 10 collective bottles of wine on the terrace with the group, we decided to go find the “secret beach,” and headed out equipped with still more wine and vodka. The journey was pretty quick. I think for a fleeting moment I began to worry that I was leading everyone to a place we couldn’t actually find, or didn’t exist, but it was very fleeting. I was already too intoxicated to be all that concerned about it. After heading east along the beach and climbing over and around a few large boulders, we found ourselves in a truly picturesque place. Totally enclosed by mountain and rocks on all sides except the sea, it truly was secluded. The night was still as could be, with only the slightest breeze coming in from the sea. The waves whashed up against the shore like a quaint symphony. The moon reflected brilliantly off the water. We were there. We opened our bottles, toasted to the view, and had a ball on that tiny little beach out of sight from anyone or anything. Everyone was in their element, totally content, and I don’t know how you couldn’t be in a place like that. I could have stayed there for a lot, lot longer….
So last weekend, the dream became a reality as the other students in the program and I headed for Nerja, a beautiful costal town about two and a half hours south of Granada. The bus ride, although a bumpy one, was gorgeous. I was thinking the other day about weather, and how it never seems to change here, and how in the Midwest it changes constantly, with beautiful storms that roll in and change the color of the sky to a deep gray or sometimes even red hue before unloading all that wonderful water. I miss those storms, but as I looked out my window on that bus ride through the Sierra Nevada I realized something this area´s got that at least makes up for if not totally dwarfs its lack of weather; as you move through the landscape, it actually changes, dramatically. Hills unfold into more mountains, mountains unfold into more mountains still. Small villages of whitewashed homes and factories pepper the hillsides. Soon the landscape descends lower and lower until you can´t see any more peaks out in front of you, and suddenly, there´s the sea staring you in the face. Ya, there´s not anything happening in the sky, but who needs to look at the sky with such an incredible landscape around you.
Upon arriving in Nerja, we realized right away that out of the 15 or so of us on the trip, none had bothered to check out a map of the place, and where our hostel might be on that map. Responsibility did not just diffuse with numbers in this case, it straight up disintegrated. Anyway somebody called the hostel, and we met the guy who runs it in a plaza nearby.
The proprietor of our hostel turned out to be a bit of a sight for sore eyes. He had bleached blonde hair, very casual sort of hippie-sheik clothing, and pale skin. He was American, raised in the Midwest even, and talked with that sort of outer planetary, “I’m not gonna come down to earth cuz I’m on a higher plane man” sort of drawl that you only hear from the headiest of heads back at American music festivals. I liked the guy. He began calmly explaining to us that, due some sort of loophole or flaw in the online booking system, we had somehow booked the hostel for about twice its capacity. But apparently this wasn’t a huge deal, as he soon began leading all of us there anyway. The place was nice. Everything was clean, there were two bathrooms, a large outdoor sink (we used it as a shower as well), a back patio with mosaic tiles on the wall, and a decent sized terrace up top. Although at first we thought some of us might have to look elsewhere for a place to sleep, we managed to make it work, with all the girls sharing twin beds (thanks girls), and the guys sleeping on whatever else was available: a cot in the laundry room, two mattresses on the terrace, the sofas in the front room, etc. The place was definitely over-booked, but we made it work, and surprisingly with little discomfort for all parties involved.
I'll say a little bit more about the proprietor/manager of the hostel, and the life he leads, or at least appeared to have led during our brief 3 days and 2 nights there. However I’ll preface this by saying that I did like the guy. He was genuine and nice and everything, I just would never want to live the way he lived. To start, I never once saw him leave the hostel, and I don’t think anyone else did either. Not only that, but he never really left his table, on top of which was always a copy of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, a mamouth work of objectivist philosophy and fiction, rolling papers, rolling tobacco, and a hash pipe, which he was perpetually smoking, day in and day out. Next to him was an I-pod player that perpetually played Grateful Dead, or offshoots of the Grateful Dead post Jerry Garcia’s death. At one point I made a reaching comment along the lines of “O! Nice. Grateful Dead huh?” and he was quick to inform me that it was not, in fact, Grateful Dead, but Bob Weir’s (rhythm guitar, backing vocals for the Grateful Dead) band, who were also “very excellent.” The exact same thing happened to a friend of mine the next day, except this time he had to inform her that it was not Grateful Dead, but Phil Lesh’s (bassist of Grateful Dead) band. Whatever, the player was always on, and I’m almost dead positive that nothing else was ever playing besides something with at least one of the members of the Grateful Dead involved. Someone said that he played a Beatles song at one point, but I’m pretty sure it was the Grateful Dead covering the Beatles. A bit strange, but then I guess I can think of worse, a lot worse, bands that I could have had to listen to for 48 hours straight. When I said this guy perpetually smoked his hash, I meant it. It was very much a non-stop process. At one point someone apparently told him that he did so too much, and he apparently replied that he had to, because when he didn’t, he didn’t like people. And that was it. Don’t know how he ended up in Nejra as a manager of a hostel, or for how long he’d been spending his days on a strict diet of hash, objectivist philosophy and Jerry (I never saw him eat anything either). I couldn’t live that way, but I respect what he does. He keeps a clean establishment and everything for travelers from all over Europe, and is certainly friendly enough, and I’d recommend his hostel to anyone.
We spend the days in Nejra roasting it up on the beaches and cooling off in the Mediterranean water. I don’t really have too much to say about the beach during the day. I’m not really the biggest beach guy, and get tired of the hot sun pretty quickly, but it was sure as hell relaxing.
The highlight of the weekend for me was definitely the “secret beach.” It so happened that at the hostel, I was sharing a room with a really kind gentlemen from Manchester. After little chatter, he told me that not too far off the beaten path of the main beaches that we were at during the day, there lay a few, as he put it, “private beaches,” that were ideal for bringing a few bottles of wine and good friends to during the nights. I went downstairs, confirmed the existence of these elusive beaches with the hostel manager who I've just finished describing, and he even showed me where they were on a map. After at least 10 collective bottles of wine on the terrace with the group, we decided to go find the “secret beach,” and headed out equipped with still more wine and vodka. The journey was pretty quick. I think for a fleeting moment I began to worry that I was leading everyone to a place we couldn’t actually find, or didn’t exist, but it was very fleeting. I was already too intoxicated to be all that concerned about it. After heading east along the beach and climbing over and around a few large boulders, we found ourselves in a truly picturesque place. Totally enclosed by mountain and rocks on all sides except the sea, it truly was secluded. The night was still as could be, with only the slightest breeze coming in from the sea. The waves whashed up against the shore like a quaint symphony. The moon reflected brilliantly off the water. We were there. We opened our bottles, toasted to the view, and had a ball on that tiny little beach out of sight from anyone or anything. Everyone was in their element, totally content, and I don’t know how you couldn’t be in a place like that. I could have stayed there for a lot, lot longer….
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