Calle de las almas perdidas

She revealed herself to us, slowly, coquettishly as we walked upward on the road.  The hot night pressed with the force of a thousand kisses when we glimpsed something new and exciting around each bend.  The hill swayed with us, against us, alternatively hiding and showing.  The road we were on led into the heart and loins of al-Andalus, where the Almoravids and Almohads built their cultural and economic centre.

The blue air is fragrant with the arid desertlike air that permeates you, a soft Iberian massage.  As we ascend further, we get glimpses of the lit Granada cityscape in between cacti strands, cacti whose limbs and appendages resemble meaty hands and feet, almost dancing along with us, hiding, blocking, revealing the truths of the city we are meant to see.

Finally, we reach the top, near the Alhambra, and plunge ourselves again into the dark, following a dirt road near the cemetery.  It leads us into the warm dark, twisting upward among orderly quiet rows of olive trees but not before a brief dalliance with a dark wood.  In those woods, the expectant silence was only broken by the crunch of our feet on the gravel below.

As a car passed by us, we briefly entertained the idea of scaring the passerby with outlandish costumes and weird prayer-like poses, rising out at them, phantoms in the dark, ancient Moors returned to reclaim the caliphate.  Instead we stood quietly by and watched the red taillights creep down the road, briefly illuminating the solemn olive trees that had watched over us like sentinels.

We were surprised and pleased to discover the rich soft sand-like soil of the earth around cushioned falls nicely, as we both fell trying to climb a slippery hill for a better view of the dark landscape.  Retreat was the next logical option and we crossed the fields, bypassing the winding road, back to the cemetery and the hidden presence of the Alhambra, the red fortress and the living place of the Nasrids.  In their alcazabra they prayed enclosed by fortfied walls.

Veering off to the side and down a long ravine that contained a well-worn path, we inadvertently bypassed the Alhambra and instead passed into the old part of the city, penetrating that which we had only seen from afar.  White walls and small houses surrounded us, smooth black cobblestones pushed us forth, ever forward and back again upward into an ancient place from which we have yet to return from, for our timeless souls remain lost in wonder, wandering the twisting streets.

The city alive

A despatch from Madrid at 4:30 AM, when you can look at the city, it with half-lidded eyes and walking with us down Calle Gran Via.  The night is relentless here, pulsing with energy and bonhomie.

Recipe for Spanish Experience Cookie:

• One part getting lost in the center of Old Madrid
• One part getting lost in the Metro
• 1/2 part visiting the Palace
• 1/2 part walking
• 1/4 part gumption

It is not long after I retreat from the City Alive until I return to the streets in search for a Coke and a snack.  The wan hotel guard shrugs when I ask if anything is open around.  He says, “Try down the street,” indicating the street in front of the hotel.

So I do, walking down the street alone, accompanied only by newly withdrawn euros burning a hole in my pocket.  The night presses on me as I walk down, towards nowhere because I know not where I am, but thataway.  I pass by a couple hidden in the shadows around a makeshift bench, slouching, eating something that looks like thin pizza.  After a few quiet blocks, I encounter a white island, lit windows indicating a 24 hour convenience store.

Drawn to it like a moth, I bang up against the glass doors that didn’t open.  Confused, I glance around inside the store and notice a security guard waving at me.  He is holding one hand up, in the universal gesture to *wait*.  He then points at the crowd inside the store.

After a few minutes, two people exit the store after the guard presses a key on a remote to open the doors and I was then able to enter.  This singularly odd experience left an impression on me and I wandered the tiny store aimelessly, feeling the one-minded Spaniards watching me; the security guard with his powerful remote, the crowd of aloof hipsters near the register waiting for something.

The crowd was not together, not a group, they were a loose collection of individuals, waiting, individually, with expectant eyes towards the back of the store–ahh, where they were heating up purchased pizzas, which were laying in tidy stacks in refrigerated shelves.  I thought to myself, “Perhaps I should check that out, pizza sounds good.”

I quickly decided against it after reading the various and disgusting toppings that these people thought were appropriate on pizza.  Note that I am a purist and anything other than cheese, herbs, and perhaps pepperoni gets voted off my pizza island.

After paying for my coke, waters, and potato chips (which took me 10 minutes to choose, as I had to study each bag and make sure I wasn’t buying bacon infused cheese chips) I tried to leave the store by walking up to the glass, forgetting that the security guard held the Power.  He then opened it for me and I was let out on the night.

On the way back to the hotel I passed by many discarded boxes of heated pizza from that convenience store, discarded in dark corners and on quiet benches, refugees from that endless bright place.

To the land of bears

I am twenty minutes away from the Barajas airport in Madrid, on an Iberia Airlines flight.  Fortunately I have an aisle seat.

The people on the plane are a nice potpourri of various travelers–next to me sits a couple from South Africa, in their 40s.  They carefully sit, carefully eat, and carefully watch the inflight movie; with their gray hair and gray stares.

The young blonde girl two rows down from us is playing with her hair, getting the front of it back into a pinned twist, just so.  She is noticeable mostly because she is blonde, young, and good looking.  The boy with her is a lesser douchebag (as opposed to major) with only a few douchebaggy qualities:  (1) a permanent half scowl, (2) half-turned hat, and (3) a perfectly put-together clothing ensemble, complete with faux street graffiti tee shirt.  He has his training wheels on, soon he will remove them and move on to overly tanned skin, bluetooth earpieces, and white shoes.

A certain numbness, a kind of disbelief pervades me.  Perhaps I’m a jaded traveler now but it doesn’t feel like a vacation yet.  But I can smell it, just like I can smell the perfume of the gorgeous Spanish women on the plane, scattered around like impossible flowers in a meadow.

Me and my mate exchange jokes to melt frozen time, watching it drip away minute by minute.

Smells on the plane always come in cycles.

1. Stale baseline plane smell
2. Whiff of airplane food that always smells the same
3. Unknown bodily function smell (was that from the toilet?)
4. Actual smell of airplane food from cart or from tray
5. (Bonus) Smell of shit as someone changes their infant’s diapers right next to you, or behind you, with an apologetic air (too bad it doesn’t smell better).
6. See #1

At this time, 15 minutes before the flight lands, I am smelling #3, UNKNOWN BODILY FUNCTION SMELL.  When I smell this, I dart my eyes quickly around, almost as if to catch someone squirming in their seat, post-fart, with a guilty expression on their face.  I don’t see anyone.

When we touch down in Madrid, eight hours later and still carrying recycled air and smells from Washington DC, we will all exhale, the plane, the passengers, exhale and open to tumble down the concourse and into the land of bears.