And On Your Left You Will See…

As I seemed to have reached the available maximum of workable hours at Hotel América and yet still found myself in an undesirably intimate relationship with the poverty line, I decided to turn my thoughts to other potential money-spinning activities.

The sheer volume of North American exchange students having rendered the English teaching market well in excess of saturated,  I was fortunate enough not to have to look any further than my good friend Anja for an exciting alternative – a language school acquaintance of hers had come up with the most wonderful idea of giving guided tours of the rather neglected Albaicín.

For although the Granadinos had the Alhambra covered to the nth degree – guide books, guided tours complete with guide, hand-held electronic guided tours, guiding arrows, guiding maps and endless information points to add to the overall guidefull experience; all the fascinating history perched up high on the opposite hill appeared sadly neglected and untapped by comparison – used primarily as a spot from which to admire the already much admired Red Palace before lowering bum to plastic chair in time to sup at a refreshing cerveza.

But this wonderful young man, having spent his time in Granada thoroughly researching the subject matter in order to pen endless and in-depth notes, was then promptly and unexpectedly summoned back to his home country; very generously handing his new friend Anja a potential cash cow (by Granadino standards anyway) before he departed.

So for days upon days we tramped the chosen route, reciting historical facts, dates and anecdotes to each other ad infinitum until we felt we had an appropriate sort of a handle on the subject matter that was to be imparted as well as a moderate chance of being able to accurately answer (or skilfully improvise the answers to) any questions inquisitive tourists might throw at us in their thirst for enlightenment.

One aspect of our endeavours that did surprise me was how very little Rafael approved of them.

The same Rafael who spent hours educating me on the rich history of his beloved city whilst bewailing the youth of the day and their lack of interest in the past; was incensed by the fact that two foreigners had the cheek to assume they were (moderately) capable of educating people about any part of his heritage.

Every single one of my attempts to get his input into the process were coldly stonewalled; but despite my sadness at having upset a man who I not only respected, but whose entire existence was woven tightly into the fabric of the city we were all trying to promote; the fact remained that no Spaniard (at that time) appeared to have taken up the Albaicín cause.

Which only served to make us even more determined that we would.

The next stage of our mission was to design posters tempting enough to lure unsuspecting tourists out on the rather Heath Robinson-like walkabout, before covering what felt like a hundred kilometres on foot as we visited the hotels and hostels the length and breadth of the city: stickytaping our home-made artwork on the information board of any hotel that was indifferent enough about the legalities of what we were doing to let us do so.

It was then a question of sitting back, and watching the pesetas (3,000 of them per person – tinto de verano in atmospheric plaza included in the price) roll in to our eagerly outstretched hands…

Well, we certainly did a lot of sitting, that I can’t deny; but the pesetas appeared substantially less inclined to fulfil their side of the bargain: in fact throughout that entire summer, we only managed to coax half a dozen different parties into hearing our well-rehearsed rendition of the history of Granada and the Albaicín.

So Rafael need not have worried after all.

And anybody who is reading this with the dawning realisation that they were actually holidaying in the city of Granada in the summer of ’99 and upon glancing at an eminently charming invitation to roam positioned hopefully in the lobby of their hotel, decided to simply walk on by, opting instead for an afternoon spent gorging on ice-cream or sangria under the balmy sun of the Plaza Bib Rambla: shame on you!

By this time I was nearing the end of my second year in Granada, and after struggling for nearly eighteen months since returning from the disastrous Catalan ‘adventure’ to find some sort of employment that would enable me to live marginally above the bread line, my thoughts were beginning to turn once again to moving on.

With Hotel América still only able to offer me Saturday reception work, with lunchtime waitressing during the week, the sum total of my wages was just enough to either pay the rent or pay for food. Carrying out both functions was quite literally out of the question.

Luckily Abel received a small allowance from his father which just about kept us in basic foodstuffs: we had become connoisseurs of the dish ‘arroz a la cubana’ (boiled white rice with tomato purée and a fried egg) and a similarly sloppy concoction of tomato purée with chickpeas and onions.

His mother also came good on a regular basis with deliveries of spicy Moroccan biscuits loaded with pistachios or almond paste, and stacks of meloui, beghrir and other types of Moroccan pancake-like creations that could be liberally spread with amlou, their delicious almond alternative to our peanut butter.

So although we weren’t at imminent risk from starvation, adding to my constant money worries were Granada’s cold damp winters, which never failed to stir my asthma to chronic levels leaving me regularly gasping my way down the street to the Virgen de las Nieves hospital for a couple of hours on the nebuliser attached to a blissfully cortisone-filled drip.

The cloying heat of the summer brought me little relief either; high levels of pollution stemming from the city’s position in a valley basin – the otherwise protective mountains ensured there was never enough air current to rid Granada of the fumes from its heavy traffic – landing me with constant and painful sinusitis that remained stubbornly resistant to the curative powers of modern medicine.

I had found, and indeed greatly appreciated, all the history the culture and the heritage that was so lacking during my years in Mallorca: from the ancient and mighty walls of the Alhambra to the dreadlocked percussion groups in the Jardines de Triunfo.

But Granada was, above all, a city of students; and one of the most important in Spain alongside Salamanca and Santiago de Compostela. Sadly that in turn rendered it not particularly conducive to carving out any sort of lucrative ‘career’ unless a position in the hallowed halls of academia calls; which for me it most certainly didn’t.

So yes, I was getting a little fed-up.

And after Abel and I were held up one evening by a drunken tramp wielding a broken bottle, and forced to hand over our last five hundred pesetas (for that month, at least), it made the decision to leave one hell of a lot easier.

Hotel América closed its doors over the winter months, so as they were already snuggled into the start of their hibernation period when I tendered my notice, I was thankfully not made to feel as if I was letting them down.

And luckily for all involved I was even able to present them with a perfect replacement all ready for their spring opening.

Anja had been having similar employment issues and was more than happy to take over the position. (I have to add at this point that she came to regret it: Maribel, having viciously chastised me on a daily basis throughout my time at the hotel, proceeded to reinvent me as a paragon of virtue and use this fanciful creation as a stick with which to belabour my unfortunate replacement).

So once my ‘affairs’ were in order, there remained of course the niggling issue of what all these changes would mean for my relationship with Abel.

He wasn’t the most trusting of boyfriends even when we were cohabiting, but as we had been together for over a year and a half by that stage we convinced ourselves that a few years of only seeing one another at weekends and holidays was not going to necessarily mean the end of us.

Abel only had to finish his studies, after all, and I was not going to be that far away either: given my current geographical location, and my rather patchy employment history, there was only one logical place to go – the Costa del Crime.

Sorry, did I say Crime? I meant Sol…