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.
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