A Whistle-Stop Tour of Granada (and Arturo)

The Arab quarter of Granada in which I had found myself was named El Albaicín after it was formed by the Muslim inhabitants of Baeza, (interestingly the very same place Manolo had visited to pick olives and seduce teenagers) in the Andalucian province of Jaén, who had fled to Granada when Baeza was retaken by the Catholic Kings in the 13^thcentury.

It is without doubt one of the most charming and atmospheric areas of the city.

Narrow little streets, formed thus so that the buildings would always provide some shade from the glare of the mid-summer sun, still boast the original drainage gullies running down the centre of each one, almost exactly as the Moors had left it over five centuries previously.

Whilst wandering the cobbles, you every so often pop out into one of its myriad of light and airy little squares: tapas bars around the peripheries providing an ideal vantage point from which to survey the comings and goings. The most popular of these seeming to be Plaza San Miguel Bajo, just around the corner from my language school, and the even more well-known Mirador San Nicolas, from which you can enjoy an absolutely unprecedented view of the spectacular Alhambra palace.

‘Dale limosna mujer, que no hay en la vida nada como la pena de ser, ciego en Granada’

‘Give him alms, woman, for in this life there is nothing so pitiable as to be blind in Granada.’

These poignant lines from the Mexican poet, historian and literary critic, Francisco Alarcón de Icaza, are nowhere more true than when gazing out over the city to the glory of the Moorish ‘Red Palace’ and the adjacent summer palace of the Generalife (pronounced heh-ne-ra-leefay), translated from the Arabic as the Architect’s Garden. 

If you leave the Albaicín via the steep, winding cobbles streets that head in the general direction of the city centre, you will soon find yourself in the streets of Calderería Nueva and Calderería Vieja: another completely separate and unique experience in themselves.

These two busy little thoroughfares are lined with fragrant teashops and Arabic restaurants of all descriptions. It is here that you can also see people selling the same merchandise that would usually only be found in the markets of Fès or Marrakech: the pungent odour of typical Moroccan leather goods almost succeeding in drowning out the more pleasing aromas of incense, mint and jasmine emanating from the cushion-strewed tea rooms.

By descending the rest of the way and turning left onto the bustle and mayhem that is Calle Elvira, you can then make your way to what is really one of the principal social centres of Granada – Plaza Nueva (New Square).

This square, like most city, town and village squares the length and breadth of Spain, is again strewn with a heady choice of restaurants; their tables and chairs scattered at impossible distances from their doors, sending the scurrying waiters on what appear to be kilometre-long detours whenever a customer is thoughtless enough to have left something off their order.

The one thing that all visitors to Granada must watch out for at all times in Plaza Nueva are the pickpockets.

The square (at least in my day) was almost always full of gypsies, beggars and new-age vagrants; many with the indispensable skinny mongrel or two in tow. If you make the mistake of setting your bag or wallet down for a second, it will be gone. And in the constantly moving chaos that is synonymous with the area, you will never have a hope of catching the perpetrator.

Yes. Granada was about as different from Puerto Alcúdia as it was possible to be. It was dirtier, and smellier and more dangerous; colder, and busier and more impersonal; but I loved it. It felt alive and real in a way that no holiday resort atmosphere could ever hope to emulate – just what I had been looking for…

In those first heady weeks after my arrival in Granada and the start of the ‘school term’, my fellow students and I let our hair down on an almost daily basis: wobbling unsteadily down the hill in impossibly impractical heels for nights out in the bars and discos of the city, or simply staying at home to hold noisy parties in the communal rooms of the Instituto Español.

It was there, one tipsy night, that I met Arturo.

He was playing the rather depressing role of foil to his devastatingly attractive cousin, Joaquin (hwa-keen). Having been forced into the same self-esteem sapping position myself on numerous occasions, I warmed to him immediately.

A quietly attractive man in his mid-twenties, Arturo was laid-back and charming and I soon agreed to meet him away from the raucous goings-on of our peer group – namely Joaquin and a gaggle of hopelessly gorgeous Danish Amazons.

Arturo hailed from Sevilla, and was studying mathematics at the Universidad de Granada whilst staying with his sister who had married a Granadino.

It transpired that Granada was actually the second university he had attended:  his parents having forced him to leave the Universidad de Sevilla when he got in with a bad lot and become addicted to gambling… and now this older sister had been entrusted with the unenviable task of keeping him on the straight and narrow and far away from the gaming tables.

The other skeleton in his already well-stocked cupboard was the fact that Arturo was already in possession of a girlfriend.

A girlfriend who happened to be away studying tourism at the Universidad de Las Palmas de Gran Canaria.

Quite a long way away, in other words; in fact a different land mass altogether so I managed to convince myself it didn’t really count…

It was Arturo who introduced me to the wonderful world of the ‘tapeo’ (from the verb ‘tapar’ which means to cover or put a lid on, ‘tapas’ are literally ‘lids’ that are put on top of one’s hunger).

Now Spain is renowned for its tapas tradition, but nowhere does it quite as thoroughly as Granada. If you are peckish in Granada there is no need to go through the rigmarole of choosing a restaurant, then choosing the nicest table, then umming and ahhing over the menu: you simply walk into a bar, any bar, and order una caña (a small beer) for example, or un tinto (a glass of red wine) or if you are feeling really daring you could order un tinto de verano (literally ‘summer red wine’ similar to sangria, but made by mixing  wine with casera – resembles Sprite but not as sweet – before adding ice and a slice of lemon).

Your first drink of choice will be accompanied by a plate of crisps or a dish of olives. So far, so like every other Spanish city I hear you say.

But wait, because when you order your second drink, instead of crisps, you will now get something more substantial: a lump of bread with some jamón Serrano, or a slice of tortilla de papas (tortilla de patatas – Spanish omelette).

By the third drink you can expect a plate of ensaladilla rusa (cold potato and vegetable salad in mayonnaise), boquerones en vinagre (fresh anchovies soaked in vinegar and liberally coated in olive oil) or crusty bread liberally spread with sobrasada (mildly spicy sausage meat), then perhaps a steaming pile of patatas bravas (cubed fried potatoes with a dollop of spicy tomato sauce and mayonnaise).

In my favourite bar of the city, my third tipple would never fail to net me a bagel loaded with cream cheese, smoked salmon, avocado and caviar – not terribly Spanish, but still the most mouth-watering combination of flavours I have ever experienced.

So finally replete, if a little tipsy, you can stagger back to your accommodation happy in the knowledge that you have eaten and drunk your fill for a fraction of the cost of a proper ‘sit down’ restaurant meal.

My new companion also gave me extensive tours of the city of Granada, introducing me to all the delightful corners of the city; the Plaza Bib Rambla with its beautiful flower market, the wonderful fountains of the Parque Federico Garcia Lorca, the delights of the Jardines Botanicos.

On rainy days he would cook for me as we huddled in his sister’s house watching his niece’s impressive collection of Spanish-language Disney videos.

Overall I enjoyed Arturo’s uncomplicated company very much, but when he started to make noises about leaving his long-term girlfriend and running away with me back to Mallorca, I saw that the time had sadly come to call it a day.