Pt. 2: some vistas, some bad tapas

Friday I awoke abruptly from an approximately six hour sleep. Juanito, my two year old little bro here in Spain, was already lively and crying, running around and throwing toys seemingly all at once. After laying in bed for about an hour, hoping he would shut up, or that the paper thin walls in our apartment would magically become soundproof, neither of which occurred, I got out of bed. I had a resaca (hangover), but not a resacón (huge hangover). After a few hours I called Chris, found out why he and Maria had left Vogue so abruptly, found out a little bit more about what his puke consisted of, and then invited him and Maria to check out Carmen de Los Mártires later in the day.

The garden of Carmen de Los Mártires, situated conveniently enough for me just 15 minutes uphill from my neighborhood, is a truly wonderful place. The handful of times I’ve been there, it’s always been to relax, get a great view of the city and maybe have some “deep thoughts.” To top it off, the place is free, and open every day. I suppose I’d describe it as an almost labyrinth of deciduous, Mediterranean and tropical trees (they all seem to grow pretty well here), ponds, statues and pavos reales, or peacocks, but which literally translates to “royal turkeys.” There’re not many better places to be after a long night like the one we’d had. From there it was back down the giant, steep hill that looks over Granada and off to a teteria (arab style café). There’s such an abundance of these on la calle Calderería that we usually just end up walking up the narrow, sweet smelling alley and simply picking at random which one we’ll drink tea in this time. We settled on the one that looked the “most plush” to us, with pillowy seats by a window and a warm, dimly lit atmosphere.

Three cups of Persian tea was exactly what necessary to kill the hangover and regain the energy I’d lost walking all over the gardens. Chris wanted to show Maria the Alhambra, so we ended up heading back up to the Alhambra and gardens area to see if there were still night tickets. Sure enough, we ended up snagging some 12 euro tickets for an unguided tour of the Nazarí Palace, Palace of Charles V, other surrounding areas. On the way to and while walking through the Palace of Charles V, Chris and I occasionally traded off pretending like we knew the history of the place, throwing out disconnected pieces chunks of information at Maria about Carlos Quinto or the differences between Arab and Christian architecture that were probably only about 50 percent true. However, the three of us were pretty much completely silenced upon entering the palacio narzarí, immediately feeling the sacredness and beauty of the place. Although I’d been there before during the day, I’d been meaning to come again to see it at night, and so now that moment had finally arrived. It was just as wonderful as I had hoped. Walking through the pillared hallways and tranquil courtyards in the dim light or near total darkness really adds to the ancient, mysterious feel this nearly 1,000 year old monument . We passed through the room after room, walls lined with intricately carved patterns and poetry in white stucco. Like the first time I came, I once again found myself staring for what felt like a century at the stalactited, honey-comb like ceilings found in rooms of importance. I was in a daze...

From the palaces of the last Arab kings in Granada it was off to our favorite tapas bar, El Nido Del Buho (the owl’s nest) – a complete change of atmosphere but a necessary one, because we were hungry as hell from doing the sightseeing thing all day. The Buho is noisy, crowded, slightly dirty and strangely charming. You can never sit down immediately, but rather have to stand and wait at least five minutes or so until a table opens up in the cramped L-shaped bar. Once one does, fast action is the key thing, because it’s sort of a free for all as to who gets it. You must shout at the waitresses to order you drinks and tapas, and they sort of ignore you if you can’t pronounce things right or don’t spit it out fast enough, which caused problems for me a few months ago. The tapas are fantastic, and more importantly, huge. On this particular night, with my two euro beers I got avocados filled with tuna and mayo with toasted French bread on the side, and for round two a tortilla española with alioli. A lot of the tapas bars here baffle me as to how they stay in business giving out so much free food, but none as much as the Buho; it’s a feast. We ate two rounds there (which pretty much equates to a full meal), and then went two blocks down to another place Chris used to go to. This happened to be a bar that served – of all things – hamburgers with lettuce and onion as tapas. I downed one of those and then proceeded to attack Maria’s beef with red sauce and potatoes, which she couldn’t finish (I would pay for the amount of cheap, not necessarily sanitary food I had just eaten in the morning). We finished off the night at Loop, enjoying the good tunes that they invariably play there, and that was that. Waving goodbye, I felt like Chris and Maria had just gotten in. A fast 48 hours it had been indeed.

I woke up the next morning with something evil churning around in my belly, and it didn’t go away completely until much later that night. Bars like the Buho are great, but you’ve got to be careful, which my gluttonous self was not on the previous night. I suppose anytime you’re getting that much food for almost no money, something’s up. Anyway one day in bed and I was no worse for the wear.

Acción de Gracias/Danksgiving

Despite the fact that I was an ocean away from my family during a holiday that, more than any other, is all about family and togetherness, it ended being one of the better weekends here in Granada without a doubt. For one thing, the good people at CEGRI University had set up for us American students a thanksgiving feast, complete with a 16-pound turkey, stuffing, pies, mashed potatoes (although they were a bit on the runny side, como liquido), and bottles of wine. We’d be eating this wonderful feast in a little pueblo just outside of Granada, after a 15 minute bus ride. As if this wasn’t enough, Chris came to visit once again, and to take part in the CEGRI dinner, which he had attended when he studied there two years ago. Along with him he’d be bringing Maria of course, also one of my great friends from school. And so although I wouldn’t be with family on the day of many thanks, I’d be with people I’ve known for years and really care about, which was more than I could ask for. A good weekend it would be indeed…

Although none of the students were required to, we were all encouraged to get together and make dishes to bring to the dinner. And so naturally Eddie and I were scrambling around in Supersol (the grocery store in my neighborhood) about two hours before the bus left to the dinner, trying to find ingredients for our “dish.” But, naturally as well, we were not actually making a dish, but a beverage – alcoholic cider to be exact – as we figured there’d be plenty of food but, considering this was a university affiliated event, perhaps a shortage in the drinks department. We snagged some brown sugar, apple juice, cinnamon sticks, and coconut rum. We also picked up a bottle of wine for during preparation drinking. Next we headed to hipereuro, the Spanish version of a dollar general store, and picked up a plastic pitcher for 2.50 (this place almost always magically has exactly what you’re looking for, just of very low quality). We quite power-walked to his señoras, where we began preparing our concoction. We boiled it all up together, poured in all the rum (after taking a shot each), poured in a ton of brown sugar and, in a moment of buzzed spontaneity, peeled an orange and threw the skin and meat in too. The end result was, by our very low standards, a masterpiece.

As we were finishing up, Eddie’s señora, Ana, showed up and immediately began laughing at the sight before her: here were two skinny Americans – both at least twice her height – hovering over a large, steaming pot with empty cartons of juice and brown sugar and empty bottles of rum and wine scattered about her kitchen. Thank God she has a sense of humor, and after a good laugh she immediately began helping us clean up and transfer the cider into the 2.50 euro plastic pitcher. She also helped us wrap foil and rubber bands around the top, because part of it had already broken off. Ana is the quintessential Andalucían woman, or at least what I think is the ideal of a typical Andalucían woman. She’s short, stout, has a surprisingly raspy voice and commands an incredible amount of energy, working 3 or so jobs and taking care of a foreign student. She’s got motherly instinct in spades, and seems to be always ready to aid Eddie in whatever way she can, whether that means making him more food or giving him a foot massage after he’s gone for a long run. Her three sons (the youngest of which is now approaching thirty) still make sure to take advantage of her endlessly giving nature, and come over often to eat dinner, make fun of Eddie (all in good fun of course), or ask for a ride to the bars. She’s also seems to have a very strong sense of that southern Spanish hospitality, and is constantly inviting me over for dinner, during which, on the one occasion so far that I’ve obliged, she made sure that I’d eaten enough sopa, lomo, pan y fruta hasta el punto de que no podía moverme. After straightening Eddie and I’s collars evenly over our sweaters, we bid her goodbye, but not before she invited me over for dinner once again.

Arriving at the bus stop, I saw that Chris and Maria had not yet arrived, and so told Yanira (my conversation professor) that I was going to look for them closer to the intersection and to wait for me. About five minutes late, my good friends emerged from the corner of Gran Via. I gave them an excited holler and led them to the bus. One again, the same surreal and altogether wonderful sensation emerged upon seeing friends from the states here in Granada. Dinner was a bang up success, and so was Eddie and I’s “cidra” which, after being poured generously around our table, had other students lining up to try the brown sugar and rum loaded libation. We feasted, caught up and killed two bottles of wine on top of the cider. After having a good hour or so to settle mountain of food and drink we’d just consumed (I was the only one to go for seconds, which felt a bit strange on a holiday where I’m used to seeing everyone go for seconds or maybe even thirds), we took the bus back down to Granada and headed to the discotheques to continue the mild amount of dancing that had begun at the restaurant. El club Vogue ended up being the choice, just of La Calle Gran Capitan. Waiting in line, I was pleased to see that not only the majority of the CEGRI students were in action, but a good chunk of our professors as well. I’d been out with Elsa (culture of Islam professor) a few times and Yanira once, but had never seen Nerea (escritura y gramatica) or Monica (arte y cultura) ready to rock before. After a bit of slightly uncomfortable milling around and conversing, Elsa resumed the dancing (not surprisingly) by taking over the empty dance floor and beginning a head-banging, hair-flying, limbs-flailing solo mosh to Rage’s “Kiling In The Name Of,” (a little surprising). I followed suit with my own nerdy hopping around and a few moves I’ve still got from my hardcore days, and before long almost all of CEGRI’s student body and at least half of my professors had taken over the dance floor, shouting and grooving in unison. So I guess that’s the difference between your relationships with your professors in the states as opposed to in Granada…

We spent the rest of the night more or less in this manner, although the music quickly took on a much mellower ambience, dominated by 80’s alt and new wave pop the likes of The Smiths and The Cure. AJ and I exchanged our best “Charlie Brown” dances for quite some time. At some point Chris and Maria disappeared completely. Chris had eaten “some bad salad” or something and had to very suddenly quit dancing and rush to his hostel to puke his guts out. Apparently, and slightly miraculously, Chris only vomited out the salad, and maintained most of his delicious thanksgiving meal where it belongs. Anyway, feeling a bit put-off (I only found out that they had left for this reason the next day), I continued to groove it down, take down Estrella Damn, and display my notorious fist-pump/foot-stomping dance moves hasta las altas horas de la madrugadora, o casi la madrugadora. Ben and I, the final two, ended up leaving the joint at about 4:30. True to the Spanish custom of partying very, very late into the night, the place was just getting cracking…