For those who have not been: the Alhambra is a singular experience, a nexus at the intersection between religion, mathematics, and staggering material wealth...it is a masterpiece of geometrical precision and architecture, a tunnel into a history populated by Moors and Catholic Kings and Romans and Arab royalty...and it deserves a place on whatever checklist governs your life. For us, it is also a unique symbol of achievement, the end of what has been the most frenetically-paced leg of our journey to date...2000 km in three weeks during which we completed the Camino and saw Fisterra and drank port in Porto and reached the Strait of Gibraltar and visited Morocco, a sheer volume of experiential awesomeness that would have been impossible to achieve if it were not punctuated by bus and train. Even still, we biked most of it - and we did so in a climate of incredible heat that has warranted frequent mention in these blog entries. It is an achievement to have reached here while seeing all that we did.
And how better for my body to celebrate that achievement than by contracting a particularly nasty case of stomach flu? The pathogenic war rages on in my intestinal tract; I follow Javier as he shows us about Granada, passing by the cathedral and the markets and this one lane lined with tea lounges - but stop short of following him up into the Albayzín; instead, I must spend most of the day resting under a tree somewhat up the path that climbs the hill to the Alhambra. It is restful, and yet this is one hell of a way to spend a day in one of the most historic cities in Europe - I should be about seeing things, eating local food, grabbing drinks in local bars, learning about the rich culture of those that have invaded (and retreated from, in most cases) these parts across the millenia. I hear about the Albayzín only through the pictures Valkyrie has taken on her camera, which she shows me eagerly upon greeting my prostrate body with still-cold spicy chocolate ice cream; it is a district of cave dwellings originally inhabited by the gypsies, who set up residence here on the hillside to escape prohibitive rent in the city below. For it has been - and still remains, to some degree - a poorer district; some parts are without running water or other such necessities of modern life...though, in the usual way, this sparse way of living has attracted tenants from overseas who seek escape from their own overburdened lives. The slow march of gentrification is staved off only by the sheer difficulty of extending services to many of the dwellings...of note, the unusually low doorways reflect the smaller stature of generations past.
We head up to the Alhambra to make our appointment for the Nasrid Palaces; our tickets have a precise time for entry past which the guards will refuse entry, and so we are very anxious indeed to make it on time...but we do, and are greeted with such an amazing array of intricately carved archways and patterned floors and tessellated designs that we must keep the camera on hand at all times. No words can do the beauty of this place justice; our photos do a slightly better but still inadequate job. We spend some hours strolling about the premises of the Nasrid, Generalife, and other buildings and gardens of the Alhambra before finally heading back down into the city, grabbing some food on the way...but, given the turmoil within my body, I'm hardly in any state to enjoy the town. Perhaps tomorrow...