Alhambra
From the Mirador de San Nicolás, the Alhambra appears above the heads of the tourists: palaces, gardens, patios, and Moorish arches. Every time I looked at it, I imagined myself flying along the line of its towers on Aladdin’s carpet. In the background, the Sierra Nevada stretches like a curtain of snow and light, its peaks flushed pink by the sun.
El Embrujo de Granada: a spell with the taste of black tea scented with caramel, jasmine, and mallow.
Diwan
Climbing into the Albaicín, I would always pass through Calle Calderería Nueva. I used to stop at the tetería Diwan for mint tea; now it’s a bazaar, though the owners have stayed the same. From my table, I watched through the doorway: tourists bargaining for Moroccan lamps, street vendors enticing passersby, boys heading for kebabs with mouths already tasting of beer and Red Bull. A hang drum blending into tangos flamenco. The scent of hashish drifting through the air.
Carmen de los Mártires
At the Carmen de los Mártires, the few remaining peacocks are decadent kings. Sovereign over baroque gardens, among encrusted fountains and tired statues, they parade with solemn steps. They stop, open their feathers, and pose for an official portrait.
Calle Santa Isabel la Real, 7
According to an art historian I met during a tour of the Albaicín, the house where I lived on Calle Santa Isabel la Real, 7 was once part of the Alcazaba Cadima, the original heart of Muslim Granada. Long ago, these were the orchards of the Palacio de Dar al-Horra, home to the mother of Boabdil, the last Muslim ruler of the Iberian Peninsula. Legend has it that after surrendering the city to the Christians, Boabdil turned back one final time to look at his beloved Granada, uttering a sorrowful sigh.
The Moor’s Last Sigh. Rushdie’s Boabdil comes to mind, a book I had chanced upon in the library in Amherst while researching Andalusian history for a presentation. Before coming to Granada, I thought the story of that sigh was nonsense. Now I know that sigh really happened. I still sigh, full of wonder and sorrow, knowing that in December of that year, I too would leave Granada behind.
Café Fútbol
Christmas was already in the air. I left El Corte Inglés on Carrera de la Virgen; the stalls outside were open and decorated, but the morning was drizzly, the streetlights off, the avenue almost empty. My phone rang. It was Rafa, the artist.
We had met months earlier at Tocateja. He had just returned from Rome, wearing a black and white striped shirt, holding a book on Caravaggio. He told me he had painted Audrey Hepburn with a flamenco twist around the bar’s central column. I didn’t believe him at first. I had never met a painter before.
He used to walk up to Plaza de San Miguel Bajo and call to me by tossing small stones at my window. When I leaned out, passersby watched us like a scene from a movie. We took the bus to the Auditorium Manuel de Falla, watching goldfish swim in the fountain outside. In my room, a bouquet of fresh carnations leaned against the wall, watching as our bodies remained intertwined.
We met at Café Fútbol late in the morning.
“They’ve called me from Italy, Rafa. They’ve offered me a job. I have to leave Granada.”
We remained still, waiting for a plot twist. He was wrapped in his grey coat, umbrella hooked to the chair, coffee cooling in the crystal glass. Both of us suspended, like characters in Midnight in Paris.
What enchants you cannot be owned.