Granada

Granada is a whole other story. I LOVE granada. Granada is probably best known for free tapas. Whatever drink you order, they bring you one free tapa, sometimes of your choosing. It's also not on the coast, so it is HOT. Like over 100 degrees hot. But dry. The hostel is called “Granada Backpackers.” I usually avoid any place with the name “backpackers” in it, because it usually signifies young douchebags trying their best to get as drunk as they can and not leave the “chillout” room and stay up all night screaming. I arrive at check-out time, and sure as shit, everyone is like “DUDE, where did you GO last night?... I was SOOOO drunk... it must have been the shots...” and I feel a tinge of fear. But the place is gorgeous, so I choke back my judgement. It's in the typical andalucian style.. it looks like nothing from the outside, but on the inside is a beautiful open courtyard that has a roll-back covering to shield the courtyard from the sun. The rooms are “apartment style,” and I get the deluxe, because I guess I think that will shield me from some of the douchebaggery for an extra $3 or so a day. The hostel is only a couple of months old, and this “apartment” is nicer than mine. I rent a bicycle from the hostel, as it's Sunday, so almost everything except the tourist attractions are closed, and I miss riding my bicycle. This was the most treacherous excuse for a bicycle I had ever seen. Rusty, rotting, fixed-gear, handlebars move, and the seat tilts backwards, as if someone calculated the least ergonomic position and glued it there. I decide I'm going to ride up to the Alhambra, and get a little visit of the free gardens before my time slot the next day (you have to buy your ticket a day in advance.) The Alhambra is the royal gardens at the top of a huge hill. So here I am, on my fixed gear death trap, and my back starts to ache after about 10 minutes. I press on. Exercise! I'm riding uphill for about 25 minutes... the long way, like an idiot, because I'm actually following New York cycling rules- you know, drive on the road, not the sidewalk. There's a main road that circumnavigates the city, and that's the road I take as it's most like a road. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE in Spain rides their bicycle on the sidewalk. Also, the cobblestone roads that look like pedestrain streets are not, and cars drive on them. So I took the longest possible route. As usual. It's about 100 degrees out (no exaggeration) and I get about halfway up and quit. My back is killing me. I fear there is irreparable damage to my left knee. Fuck it. I get up to the alhambra after about an hour, and by the time I do, I'm starving and dripping in sweat. I take the cobbled road. It takes me about 10 minutes to descend. Dumbass. I meet Anne, from Germany. She's a primary school teacher, funny, and gorgeous, and we spend the evening out. She tells this great story about how she got completely drunk with girl the night before, and they met some tattoo artists, and they gave them free tattoos. But the tattoo artists are drunk as well, so the teeny peace sign on the inside of her finger is a little sloppy, but not as bad as the big one her friend got on her neck. She's got the whole night documented on her camera, and it looks exactly like “The Hangover.” I never have, and never will, be that drunk, I think. Anne, her friend Evelyn, and I spend the afternoon walking to and around the Alhambra. It took about half the amount of time to WALK to the alhambra as it did for me to BIKE there yesterday. Fuck. We spend the morning walking the alhambra. I stupidly did not buy the ticket that included the Royal Palace, which is what I really wanted to see. Oh well. Did I mention it was HOT? Cause it's hot in andalucia, known as the “frying pan” of Spain in the summer. Anne and I walk back and I tell her how I am in love with the Dunkin Donuts in Spain. The coffee in Spain is spectacular and cheap in pretty much every little bar/cafe you go in, and at Dunkin Donuts, you can get your cafe con leche or cortado iced AND to go (not very common in Spain) and they have a donut filled with dulce de leche. I'm not a big donut person, and I haven't even had churros con chocolate yet, but I had a Dunkin Donut with dulce de leche. I'm THAT American in this instance. Se we walk around for another 45 minutes, convinced we're going to find one because now Anne must have one. You know you're dehydrated when you haven't eaten anything but you're not really hungry, you've drank 3 bottles of water and haven't peed in hours, and suddenly you can't manage to have a conversation with your companion. We both quit. Anne goes to get coffee, I decide to get ice cream. We part ways. I wander around for another half an hour looking for italian-style gelato. By the time I find it, it's like I've been wandering the desert for a century and I find an oasis. I over-order. I'll take the three-scoop- some light chocolate, leche merengada, and pistachio. It's refreshing and amazing. I get back to the hostel, and I feel completely sick to my stomach. Turns out empty stomach, heat, and dairy don't mix. I shit my brains out. Thank GOD all the girls from the hostel checked out this morning. Oof. 10 minutes later, two new girls check in. I apologize for what I am about to do to our common bathroom. Now I feel like I am going to vomit instead, so I try in vain to sleep, and I can't so much as lift my head for the next 3 hours. Isadora, from Sao Paolo, checks in as I'm starting to feel a little bit better. She tells me to wash my face, drink water, take a shower. She's adorable. I tell her I'm going to try to muster the strength to go to a flamenco show at the Alcazar gardens, and invite her to come with. I see Anne on an easy chair in the courtyard. I tell her I have been sick all afternoon. The same exact thing happened to her. She can't get off the chair. I fetch her a beer to nurse her heat-hangover. She's German. This American just tried to drink water. Isadora continues to take care of me, even though I'm completely fine. She's offering me food all day and night, candy, and hold my hand crossing the street when I do that New York thing where you stand in the street when it's not your turn to go. She's a totally sweetheart. I'm of course, biased, because she's Brazilian. The show is in an open-air theater in the gardens. Gorgeous. It's a two-parter... the first is traditional flamenco and the second is some theatrical thing about a man dreaming about a matador or something. The second part I am not so into, but the first is simply breathtaking. There's a lot of dancing with a bata de cola, the type of flamenco gown that has a train, and the dancers artfully and skillfully have to kick the train as part of the dancing. It really makes me want to learn flamenco right now. I've always saved learning flamenco until when I'm older... I have always thought that flamenco is prettiest when done by an older woman. The dance is just as much about the expression on the face of the dancer and the graceful movement of her arms as it is the power of the legs, and to me, it's more moving when someone with some years under her belt does it. I love granda. I might like to retire here. Apartments are cheap, the climate is delightfully warm (OK, I might need a summer home somewhere a bit cooler,) the food is delicious and the city is walkable. It's about an hour from a beach. I don't know that I need anything else, except for all of my friends to come with me. Who's in? It's Isadora's birthday. I buy her a little cake, leave it wrapped up on her bed with a note, and I bid her and Granada “hasta luego,” because I'm sure I will see both again.