And on the Next Hill...

There's a ravine in Granada. I don't know much about it. I peered down from the Albayzin. The wide promenade and the river I saw below seemed nice, but like most other tourists (who were smart enough to book ahead of time), I was headed to the next hill.

On it was perched a palace built in the 1300s by the rulers of the Emirate of Granada called Alhambra. Suffice it to say, that a lot has changed since then.

Detailed inscriptions litter the walls

OMG it's Jeremy Lin!

Court of the Myrtles - the central courtyard

Hall of the Ambassadors

The Citadel - the lost GoldenEye level!

Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, had his own palace built in the middle of the complex, effectively giving the Moors the finger. He was nice enough to not knock down the rest, though.

By the way, I should mention that after hours of walking around the palace grounds, I got a snack and the coffee from the central square. That was the most satisfying coffee I've ever had in my life. I then walked over to the Generalife, which is actually a big garden, not a medical insurance corporation like the name evoked in my mind.

Wandering the Hills of the Albayzín

Granada is the least "European" town I've seen in Europe. My course director expressed a haughty disdain for this town; he suggested I visit the Alhambra and get out; it's just small town with a bunch hippies. That's what he said. What I heard, however, was "perfect for backpacking."

I booked a hostel in the Albayzín, the old Moorish quarter. It was right around the corner from a narrow North African market street. It was filled with the scent of incense and tea, the walkway made of mosaically-arranged stones, the shops filled with deep red and browns and the occasional bright hue, a mixture of rugs, fabric, and nicknacks. After resting from my long walk from the train station, I wandered around the Albayzin. Around every corner was an Old World corridor, a row of Moor-inspired houses, a centuries-old tree, brimming with sunlight and a history I could not fathom.

The market near my hostel.

An interesting aside. My hostel offered a "Street Art Walking Tour." I jumped on this, as though this town was really fun to wander, a free tour can't hurt either. There were maybe 3 pieces of street are the whole way, though. The main event was the hippie who lived in a cave. Yes - Granada is a hilly place. And there is an entire neighborhood, Sacromonte, of caves. This hippie, who I will call Don Juan for the purposes of this blog and my perception of his former sexual prowess, showed us around his multi-room cave. We ended in the deepest, darkest, room of the cave, where he led us in a Buddhist chant and moment of silence.

Our hippie friend Don Juan. The green tarp is his garage. For his Ferrari. No joke.

Street art imitating life

Un Día a la Plaza de Toros

On May 1, with a small duffel bag and an even smaller backpack, I set off to Spain in business class, only to spend my first nights on a top bunk in an 8-person dorm at the Way Hostel Madrid. I had done my research, and already knew what I would be doing that first night - seeing a bullfight. It was never a life goal really, but my excitement grew at the prospect of seeing such a unique spectacle. Once a week, every Sunday at the Ventas Plaza de Toros, was it, so I had just this one chance.

After a day of touring the city, I found a couple girls from the hostel to join me for the bloody event. As I was the group's lone Spanish-speaker (scoff), I articulately purchased the cheapest seats, and we headed through the inviting entrance.

Our frugality took us high.. and higher, onto the second to last row, where we struggled to share space with the feet of those on the last row. The roof seemed within the reach. And the ring... wow. A beautiful structure all around. It began with a triumphant tone from the start. A parade of the participants, the toreros, and upbeat music played from the band.

The family in front of us was local, and in half English/half Spanish, the father explained to us what we were seeing. "Tercios! Este es el primer tercio - capote!" Capote refers to the magenta cape of the toreros. They tease the bull around the ring. They also bring out a picador, a guy on top of a horse. When the bull attacks the horse - "pica! pica!" The blood begins to flow.

The second act is that of the banderilleros. I didn't get a good picture of them, so you should go watch a bullfight yourself the next time you travel to see what it's all about. The third and final act, el tercio de muerte, pits the matador and his "muleta," the red cape, against the weakened and injured bull. This tercio above all displays the artistic grace of the torero, not to mention courage and a healthy dose of showboating.

The bull obviously gave this matador a little trouble before it was all over.

For the uninitiated, this spectacle is quite shocking. Seemingly harmless at first, seeing a bull killed, dragged away to upbeat fanfare, and the next victim brought in, makes you feel like you're a peasant in the stands at a Roman ampitheatre. One of my friends had to leave halfway through the first bull's show. Not for the faint of heart.

Familiar Territory

Before my most recent trip, I bought a new camera, a Fujifilm FinePix F550 EXR. It is a 16 MB, 15x Zoom, compact dSLR. The next day, I went to Rice Village to meet my band for drinks at the Gingerman. Unfortunately, I found out my group was bailing on our plans after I arrived, and then my phone died. Oddly, Kristen "Free Glass Whore" Hild was not even their this Wednesday. My camera was with me, the sun was bright and would be out for a little longer, so I decided it was a perfect opportunity to test out the new camera before heading to Spain that weekend (hint: guess where my next photos will be from?). I headed toward Rice, stalked some bikers, and wandered around the stadium. All while still in my work clothes, and I was quite happy when I was done walking in dress shoes.

And then a walk over to the ticket office. A little creepy, but it sure has character...