This is a series of posts about Italy, Malta, and Spain that starts here.
Lynn and I flew from Madrid to Granada, and I don’t remember anything about the flight except seeing these magazines and newspapers with photos of Melania Trump in the airport:
The first headline says, “I’ve never been the type of woman who gives her phone number to just anyone,” and the second is, “The Amazing Life of the Most Powerful Woman in the World.”
Um…she may be married to the President of the United States, but that doesn’t make her the most powerful woman in the world. I would put Angela Merkel, Christine Legarde, or Janet Yellin in that category, but not Melania Trump. Maybe they expect her to exert a powerful influence on fashion.
The Alhambra Palace Hotel. What can I say? It was like a palace. The room wasn’t huge, but everything was of supremo quality and very clean. For instance, the white linens on the beds were heavy thick cotton and the tile in the bath was beautiful.
We had two French doors that led out onto a massive terrace:
But the best part was the terrace bar, overlooking Granada:
No, the best part was, Lynn had got a great deal on our five nights. Again, one of the big benefits of traveling during the off season. It’s not like it was cold or rainy here, either, so I don’t why anyone wouldn’t visit Granada in November.
We had tickets for the main event of the trip—the actual Alhambra—in two days. We headed out to do a re-con walk and were at the entry to the site in about 10 minutes. It was so easy, and we hadn’t gotten lost. Feeling a little cocky, we decided to walk around some more. We walked back to the hotel then onward in the opposite direction down an alley-like lane. We passed something called the Jose Rodriguez Acosta Museum.
“Never heard of him,” I noted.
“Me either,” said Lynn. “Something to check out later.”
We walked down, down, down a hill and stairs to a neighborhood called Albaicin. We stuck to the main drag, which was about 12 feet wide. Every time a vehicle came by, we pedestrians had to flatten themselves against the walls of the buildings on either side. A river ran along one side, a hill ran up from it, and at the top were old buildings … houses? Whatever they were, they were beautiful:
Families were out for their evening strolls along with tourists. We passed shops selling arts and crafts, and tourist kiosks selling Flamenco tickets.
“I would like to see Flamenco dancing,” Lynn commented, “If we can find an authentic place.”
I wasn’t thrilled about seeing Flamenco. For one thing, all the posters seemed to indicate that the dinner-dance package didn’t start until 8:00pm. I flashed back to a trip to Peru with my Peruvian friend Roxana, whose nickname for me is La Marmota (the marmot) because I sleep so much. She took me to a popular dance club to see a spectacular costumed dance show, which was followed by a free-for-all dance party. The show didn’t get started until 10:00, you could cut the cigarette smoke with a knife, and worst of all—I am a terrible dancer. Really. I was finally cajoled by Roxana and her friends to get out there and dance, and I think they regretted it. When I made a move to sit down after 10 minutes, they didn’t protest. It was fabulous—watching everyone else dance—would I be dragged out to dance Flamenco in front of hundreds of people too?
We huffed our way slowly back up the hill to the hotel and ordered drinks and the tapas platter on the terrace. Now this is tapas:
“I could eat this every meal,” I enthused, probably with my mouth full of food. The bartender came to pour Lynn’s dry martini and my rum and Diet Coke. The glass was the size of a fish bowl and he poured, and poured, and poured.
I don’t remember what we talked about as we watched the sun set, but I know it was very profound.