Andalucian Dream

Preface: I held off on posting this entry for a while, thinking I would have a chance to upload pictures. Unfortunately, that chance hasn't happened, so I'm just going to post everything minus the visual element. Hopefully I'll have a chance to upload pictures in the future.

Well, once again I haven´t been doing a very good job of keeping this blog updated. But this time it's with good reason. I've been spending the past week in the Andalucia region of Spain, and the place has been blowing my mind all the while. Of all the Spanish regions, it's probably the most Muslim-influenced (a result of the Moorish conquests from over a millennium ago), which lends it a unique, Arabic flavor. Although Seville is, on paper, the Andalucian capital, many feel that Granada better embodies the spirit of the region. I haven't been to Seville (I hear it's nice, though) so I can't compare the two, but I will say this: Granada is freakin' sweet. Of all the European cities that I've visited so far, it's definitely my favorite. I like the fact that it's a smaller city, and its setting among the Spanish Sierra Nevada mountains is spectacular. When it's sunny (as it is most of the time), the sky is a beatiful royal blue, and the sheer intensity of the light seems to somehow purify the city. The whitewashed houses and villas of the Albaycin and the Sacromonte (the older parts of town) seem to be whiter than white. It's truly a magical atmosphere.

Granada's centerpiece is the majestic Alhambra, which is a 10th century Muslim palace/fortress perched on a hill above the city. My first encounter with it actually happened only a few hours after I arrived. Once I got to the hostel, I met a Texan named Luis. We got to talking, and he asked if I liked hiking which, of course, I do. So he told me about this spot up on one of the hilltops with great views of the Alhambra, and we set off for it right away. It was a weird little hike...we had to scale a few walls and squeeze through a few holes in a chainlink fence in order to get to the ridge, but once we got to the top, the view was well worth it.

Later that night I met up with an American couple and a trio of Germans (who called themselves "The Vikings" for some reason), and we decided to head out for a taste of Granada nightlife. It was night of ups and downs: on the downside, it was a weekday and there weren't many people out at the bars. On the upside, there were promoters all over the streets handing out tickets for free/cheap drinks. It was pretty funny...we'd show up at a bar, have our super-cheap suds, head back into the streets, get stopped by another promoter, and repeat the process at a different bar. I definitely had my fair share of beer and Sangria for the night, and I didn't spend more than 5 euros. Now that's what I call efficiency.

I spent the next day just wandering around the streets of Granada, especially around the Albaycin. It's full of old, traditional Spanish houses, and the streets are narrow and cobbled and ridiculously labrynthine. I got completely lost trying to find the local plaza, but I got there eventually. Also, since I was out during siesta (2-5 PM), the place was practically empty, which gave it a very mysterious feel. I've grown quite fond of getting lost in these old cities, and Granada is definitely one of my top cities to get lost in.

The next day was the day of my up-close visit to the Alhambra. I wasn't sure what to expect...my guidebook only gave a sparse description, garnished with this enticing line: "Much has been written about the Alhambra, but nothing can prepare you for what you will actually see." Well, they were right. First of all, the place is absolutely HUGE: it took me almost six hours to explore every courtyard, garden, and chamber. Second, every nook and cranny is decorated with exquisite stucco work, wood carvings, and marble accents. I can't imagine how many craftsmen and artisans it must have taken to finish the Alhambra. And third, it's an excellent reminder of Spain's Muslim roots. Overall, it was an awe-inspiring and educational experience, to say the least.

The next two days were mainly spent hanging out and preparing for my next adventure in a region called...

LAS ALPUJARRAS!!!

I'm not exactly sure how I first found out about the Alpujarras. It may have been from surfing websites about hiking in Europe, or maybe it was from chatting up a fellow hiker. The fact is, most guidebooks give the Alpujarras only a passing mention, if they mention it at all. But I was seduced enough by the promise of beautiful Mediterranean vistas and tiny, un-touristed villages that I decided to make it a must-do on my visit to Spain.

So what are the Alpujarras? Basically, we're talking about a mountainous region starting about 45 km east of Granada and stretching west to the end of the Rio Trevelez river valley. It's dotted with several small villages which are linked together by a hiking trail called the Gran Recorrido Siete, or GR-7. The idea is that you walk from village to village stopping for lunch at one, taking a siesta at another, staying at a local hostal at another, and so on. For those who have heard of the Italian cinque terre, I get the impression that Las Alpujarras are essentially the cinque terre of Spain.

I started things off with an hour-long bus ride to Lanjaron, which is known for its fountains (which supposedly possess curative powers). Once I arrived, I wandered around town, searching for the point where the GR-7 picked up. Little did I know that this would not be the first time I would have difficulty locating the trail. I think that Spanish hikers must take a more relaxed attituded when it comes to trail markers, especially when compared to New Zealand. A quick stop at the officina de turismo got me on track, though. I started to climb up through the hills, meandering through olive groves, rural neighborhoods, and little shanty towns. The landscape was very arid...mostly dusty and rocky, with scrub brush all over the place and a few random trees (mainly where there was irrigation). The higher I climbed, though, the more majestic the views across the valley became. It was at this point that I realized that this area of Spain has a very Monet landscape: pretty when viewed from afar, but kind of a mess up close.

Anyways, as I was saying, Spanish trails seem to suffer from questionable marking. And when I say "questionable," I mean "ridiculously bad." I can't tell you how many times I came to a fork in the path, where either direction could have been the true trail, and had to flip a coin, take one route by trial and error, and see where it went. I think I got lost at least 20 times just that first day. At one point, I hadn't seen a trail marker for over 20 minutes, and I was basically relying on my pocket compass to keep me going in the right direction. I asked the driver of a passing car for help: "Donde estas Gran Recorrido Siete?" To which he replied, "Oh, I don't know!" Turns out he was an Australian expat, who obviously spoke English. I was able to convey my dilemma to him, and he gave me some directions, but either they were completely wrong or too complex to follow correctly, because I was lost again in a few minutes. Then, I was lucky enough to randomly run into a British couple hiking through the hills. They had just been on a horse trek, and they directed me to the ranch where they assured me there would be English-speaking people who knew the area well. Once I got to the ranch and got straightened out, I realized that I was about 1 km north of the GR-7. Don't ask me how I got so far off the trail...it's really just a testament to Spanish trail marking.

Once I hit the first village along the trail (a tiny hamlet called Canar), things got a lot better. The trail markings improved a little, and I was able to enjoy the views and the ambience of the town. It was really cool walking through these little villages. You could just observe small-town people going about their daily small-town business. I have always felt that, in order to get the true flavor of a country, you have to get out of the big cities and into the rural areas, and this excursion solidified that opinion.

The next town I passed through was called Soportujar. For some reason I had counted on having some lunch here, but I happened to show up in the thick of siesta, so the whole place was shut down. I abandoned any hope of getting some food and pressed on. By the time I got to Pampaneira (where I would spend the first night), I was starving, moderately dehydrated, and completely exhausted. I stumbled around town for a while, trying to find a decent hostal, but I think my brain was too fried. I tried "donde estas un hostal," but even in this small town, the streets were so convoluted that I kept getting turned around. At one point it seemed like half the villagers in the town square were taking it upon themselves to decipher my broken Spanish and get me pointed in the right direction. Once I finally found a place to crash, I flopped down on the bed and went to sleep, too tired even to eat.

So the first day was a day of mishaps, but the second day went considerably more smoothly. I ascended higher and higher into the alta Alpujarra, constantly stopping to admire the views (and take a big swig of water). I eventually made it to the town of Portugos, where I would spend the second night. This place, more than any other in Spain, had me kicking myself for not knowing Spanish. My hostal was situated right above the town pub, and it seemed like half the village's population was hanging out there at any given time. It would have been so cool to sit down, have a beer, and chat up the locals, but nobody spoke any English, and I certainly didn't know enough Spanish to be conversant. I made a pact with myself right there and then that one day I'll return to the Alpujarras, and by that point I will have learned some Spanish, hopefully.

On the third and last day, I walked to the town of Pitres to catch the bus back to Granada. While I was waiting for the bus, I met an American couple, Joel and Karen from Nashville. (They were easy to spot because they were wearing Chaco sandals and drinking from Nalgene water bottles: telltale signs of Americanism). We hit it off and decided to meet up for dinner back in Granada. It was great to have some quality conversations with them, as their perspective was a lot different from the typical members of the European travel circuit. They were about my age, but they had been married for a while and were doing a trip through Spain before Joel started medical school at KU Med (near my old KC stomping grounds). It was nice to have a brief respite from the typical questions that get asked on the travel circuit: where are you from, where have you been, where are you going, and so on.

So that was my week in Andalucia. Despite all the little hitches along the way, I had a GREAT time. I will definitely be coming back here some day. Now the question is, where to next? Well, previously I had been planning on taking the usual route up the Mediterranean coast to Barcelona. But right before I left for the Alpujarras, I met a girl at the hostel who was talking about wanting to go to Morocco, but wanting to have a travel partner to make the trip a bit safer. I figured that Morocco had a nice ring to it (and it's only 14 km from Spain at their closest point), so I told her that if she could wait a few days, I'd go with her once I got back from the mountains. So, in a few hours we'll be riding the bus down to Algeciras, taking a ferry across the Med, and catching an overnight train to Marrakesh. I had no idea that I would be visiting Morocco on this trip but, once again, that's what I love about traveling by the seat of your pants. You can always turn on a dime and head wherever the winds take you. So hopefully I'll be able to churn out another post from the African continent in a few days! Stay tuned!