My trip to Andalucia began in Granada. Well, I actually flew from Dublin to Malaga with the full intention to catch the last ALSA bus from the airport to Granada. Of course I missed it by just minutes because of a delay in the flight. These Spanish buses run on time!
I allowed myself to be picked up by a “private taxi”, a young man from Morocco. We negotiated a rate and as he pulled out of the airport garage to begin the hour and a half drive to Granada I realised, seated in the front passenger seat, that I had left my luggage in his boot and he might as well kidnap me, or worse. It dawned on me I didn’t make note of his license plate either. I tried to make conversation (yes, me) but he wasn’t much of a talker. At least I had my phone, and free international data with T-Mobile so I tracked my ride. I was fortunate. He dropped me off first at an ATM in town so I could get money to pay him, then he dropped me off at my hotel. His parting gift to me was fruit – mangoes and a pomegranate, the official symbol of Granada. Mangoes though? Clearly, this man was a guardian angel.
My hotel was a cute little place in the Alhondiga district. After a well-deserved rest, I spent the next day at the Alhambra, the most famed sight in Granada.
That evening I went to Hamman Al Andalus for an Andalucian Arab bath experience. It’s not single-sex so all must wear a swimsuit. The interior is gorgeous. I was introduced to the pools. A freezing cold pool that was rarely populated but which I braved several times, a warm pool, a delightful hot pool I never wanted to leave, a steam room, and space for massages. I had 90 minutes to enjoy the delicious Moroccan mint tea and to rotate through the pools and steam room to my delight. At the end, I got my massage.
Fluffy soap suds helped to transport me to a serene world. I wouldn’t really call it a massage though. I was hardly touched, and though I had no muscles in need of therapy, I would have appreciated a true massage. In either case, there’s a large heated stone on which we are encouraged to lie on afterwards. It was divine. Then I attempted to wash my hair in the shower. Big mistake. The water-stream lasted about 5 seconds. It wasn’t a fluke. I tried 3 different showers to realise that’s just how it is. After my shower or should I say showers, I braided my hair and it was well after midnight when I walked the 10 minutes back to my hotel. Luckily, that was pretty uneventful and I had a wonderfully deep and relaxing sleep.
The next day, I decided to just walk around town. I left my hotel only to find people lined up on the main streets. I was just in time for a military parade. This was a surprise. It was Fiesta Nacional de España or Día de la Hispanidad, in other words, Columbus Day. In the US, I had become disenchanted with Christopher Columbus and his supposed discovery of the Americas and was in approval of the many cities that had decided to celebrate Indigenous Peoples Day instead. But here I was in Spain glorifying the Spanish occupation of the Americas and the consequent genocide of millions of indigenous people.
With these thoughts in mind, I continued my walk around town. Soon, I found myself strolling the narrow streets of the Albaycin, the old Arab Quarter. Then I was up in the hills amongst the cave-dwellings in the Sacromonte district, home to the Roma, from where I had panoramic views of the Alhambra.
Evening came quick. I made it back down into town just in time to join a food tour with Spain Food Sherpas. There were only two of us, plus the guide, who was originally from Russia. I learnt interesting tidbits about Granada’s history and cuisine while enjoying delectable bites and sips of chocolate, sherry, olive oil, dried fruits & nuts, and ham including the exclusive pata negra, the finest in the world, and a pionono, a sweet named after Pope Pius IX. The tour took us through a church, Abuela ili chocolate, Chikito, a popular restaurant famous for being a hangout for literary figures including Federico Garcia Lorca, one of Spain’s famous poets, La Milagrosa, a cute restaurant whose chef had recently won an award for the best tapa, and Oliver, a boutique shop and one of the oldest in Spain.
Oliver 
Abuela ili chocolate
After finally learning that the pomegranate was not just the symbol of the city, but Granada was the Spanish word for the fruit, I started to see the symbol everywhere, on ceramic tiles, on drain covers, on bollards, on storefronts, simply everywhere.
It was a great end to the day.
A lover of mangoes. A woman - smart, without pretense, lefthanded, Afropolitan - navigating this thing called life. An unapologetic believer in social justice and karma. Choosing to radiate positive energy and be true to myself. Here, my musings.
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