In Which Team Pants Kick Ass and Take Names

Upon waking in our pension, the alley below comes into aural focus like a distant television set left on overnight on the Noisy Malaga Street channel. The Andalusian sky; a crystal azul mocked by solitary clouds who defy the expanse of sun-filled sky. The day is ours. We've left Holland behind. The snow, the wet cold, and the mistakes. Oh yes, we made mistakes in Holland. I am a savvy traveler, made all the more so by loosing my wife for forty-five minutes during a snow storm. But I digress...

The autobus North to Granada passes between the small mountains which separate the town from the Mediterranean. Some hills are covered with scrub. Scruffy Brillo pads bereft of greenery, balding like middle aged Greek man in a brash sun. Occasionally we see the ordered olive rows, but I wonder where the grass grows? There is none. The scenery looks like California, and then I remember the spaghetti westerns filmed here, and I say, "ah." "This land was designed by Hollywood executives and producers to appear Old West, without the fuss of paying union wages!"

Arriving in Granada appears much like arriving in Mexico: cheap buildings with advertising written in that machismo font that gives me hives. Until descending into the valley, one might believe it all looked like that. The Franco-inspired, near communist grandeur reflected in the monumental fountains and architecture suggests otherwise. It only hints at a regime's belief that all this ancient city served to highlight their impunity and divine right. But the ancient withstood the brief shadow of dictators as easily as the reigns of caliphs and catholic demagogues. Here are the baths fed by aquaducts still in use, built over one thousand years ago. Here, a catholic church is easily recognized as Muslim in style, bells replacing the muezzin's voice in the arched windows of the tower. Each most likely built on the backs of the poor or enslaved.

Our host's house is magical. Shaped like a U with an open courtyard in the middle, the stairs bring you upwards to a rooftop patio under the gaze of the Alahambra. Upon arriving, we quaff mas tinto des verana (i've butchered the spelling in favor of phonetics) and I get a lesson in slicing Iberian ham. It's placed in a convenient stand and shaved to produce paper thin, succulent slices. These hams are curred three thousand meters above sea level in the dry air of the sierra nevadas. The rare air produces rare flavors and savory "tops" to beverages.

The drinking continues until one in the morning. We weave the streets taking in pubs and tapas, bars and wines, savoring the different scenes as we eat and drink our way through the night.

We sleep like dogs.