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| Hedge walk at the Generalife Gardens |
We stagger awake at 11, though Ron and I had originally planned to
leave for Granada then. Whoops. A knock at the door; it’s Nikki dropping off my
shawl after a chilly walk home last night, as promised. Ron and I lurch into
action. Granada was hotter than hell, rest assured. After nearly passing out in
the painfully long ticket line at the Alhambra (thanks be to Ron and his
polka-dot umbrella), we crossed the street and lingered in a lovely little café
for more than an hour, allowing the worst of the heat to pass over us.
Then we
strolled through the magnificent Generalife gardens until time came for us to
enter the Nasrid Palaces. Though I saw some magnificent Islamic architecture in
India, I never saw anything as well-preserved as the rooms here.
In the Patio
de Machuca, Ron and I sang to each other, testing the fantastic acoustics.
The
Lion Fountain, out of commission for many years, was flowing, though all the
lions now let loose at once. It had been dismantled by the Christian conquerors
in an attempt to figure out how the Jewish creators managed to make one lion
spout each hour; it hasn’t worked properly since.
Muhammad
I al-Ahmar, founder of the Nadrid dynasty, started construction in 1237—the
palace continued to be built, complete with ever-flowing automatic fountains
and water features (the Muslims preferred still water, and plenty of it) until
their surrender to Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492. Isabella must have been
thrilled, because she ponied up for Italian explorer C. Columbus to sail the
ocean blue that year.
In 1500, Charles V plunked down a circular monstrosity of
a palace on the grounds—fortunately, and thanks to Washington Irving of all
people (the author of “The Headless Horseman” and one of the 19th
century’s most beloved writers, as well as ambassador to Spain), the Alhambra
became a National Monument in 1870.
We were
beat by the heat, and instead of staying in Granada, chose to drive back to
Lanjaron, where we had a inexpensive, pleasant dinner and tinto de verano at a café on the main
street connected to the Hotel El Sol. I tried a local dish that consisted of olive oil,
sausage, olive oil, blood sausage, olive oil, a pork chop, olive oil, thin-sliced jamon—you get the idea. We
ate most of it for breakfast the next day. A late stop at one of Lanjaron’s
spring-fed fountains (the water actually tasted sweet!) to fill up our
containers and we were off.
The poetic soul of Spain can be summed up in those
fountains—the water flowing from a tap into a basin, surrounded by tile on
which a poem in Spanish, The Mute Boy, was emblazoned:
The
little boy was looking for his voice.
(The
King of the crickets had it.)
In
a drop of water
the
little boy was looking for his voice.
I
do not want it for speaking with;
I
will make a ring of it
So
that he may wear my silence
On
his little finger.
In
a drop of water
the
little boy was looking for his voice.
(The
captive voice, far away,
Put
on a cricket’s clothes.)
--Frederico
Garcia Lorca
On
the way back to the casa, I missed a step in the dark, left my blood on Spanish
soil, and rubbed some of Spain into my knees.
