As this is my first proper post, I thought it only apt to dedicate its contents to the enchanting abode in which I live. I’m ashamed to say it, but it’s actually taken me over a year to properly get off my arse and have a thorough wander around the place I now call home. Of course I’ve always known what treats and feats lie inconceivably close to my doorstep, but it only dawned on me recently that while I may in fact live here, I’ve never really afforded the time and appreciation that such treats and feats undoubtedly deserve. So, this weekend, I abandoned all other plans (in truth there weren’t many anyway) and, armed with my camera, dedicated all my free time to exploring this glorious city; a very, very wise decision indeed.
Exploration commenced in my own hood of El Realejo. It is without doubt one of the city’s most visited areas and one is sure to find themselves stuck behind gaggles of ambling tourists along the narrow pavements at least once a day (if you live there of course). Having said that, the area exudes such ambience that such irks are less than frivolous. My walk took me along the bar-congested Campo de Principe, back along the sleepy Calle de los Molinos, onto the narrow Calle Sta. Estolástica and eventually to Callejon de Santo Domingo, where the grand church of the aforementioned saint towers imposingly above its surroundings. The square was typically packed with Spaniards, laughing and chatting eagerly to one another after afternoon mass.
After the inevitable photographing of the fountain atop which sits the much-papped Isabel La Catolica, I found myself side-stepping through the crowds on Puerta Real, where there happened to be a 200-strong Brazilian themed drum band dancing their way along the road. It was cool, though not exactly something out of the ordinary for Granada. People seemed pretty excited about it anyhow, content to stop in the middle of the street and stare through the lens of their videocameras. Everyone was having a great time. Except motorists. They didn’t seemed impressed at all.
Further ambling led me past La fuente (fountain) de Las Batallas and down La Carrera de Genil, the pedestrianised concourse that runs parallel to Acera del Darro, where one can buy any piece of jewelry or adidas hoody imaginable. The passage culminated before yet another of Granada’s spectacular fountains, this time La fuente de los Gigantones. More frenzied photographing ensued before I wandered back up to Puerta Real and headed for the La Catedral. Unlike most other cities, Granada’s Cathedral is actually rather difficult to find, seeing as how it is tucked clandestinely away among scores of other buildings. As a result, one won’t actually even manage a glimpse of the face of the giant edifice until the final corner of the street running adjacent to it is turned. Sunset wasn’t long off by the time I arrived and the shadows of the facing buildings could be seen creeping up the front of the staggering monument.
Ten minutes later, I found myself meandering through the bustling outdoor markets of Plaza Bibrambla, where, if I had wanted to, I could have bought just about any kind of cheese thinkable, all sorts of chocolatey things and joke-sized loaves of bread. There was also a lovely collection of masks with creepily-real-looking eyes glued inside them, even more jewelry than on La Carrera de Genil and lots of colourful Gypsy things, with no clear purpose. I bought and demolished a huge palmera in seconds. Lovely.
Next day, my afternoon was for the most part spent collecting samples of some of the city’s finest urban art (coming soon in next post ), but there was still much of Granada that remained unclacked. Having carefully made sure that I avoided peak tourist time, I strolled blithely into the perpetually remarkable Plaza Nueva, where the lower reaches of The Alhambra can be easily clacked. After some more aimless wandering about the square, I set off for El Mirador de San Nicolas, taking in the striking colours and unique character of El Albayzín as I went. The winding and cobbled streets are crammed with teterías and Moroccan Shops. You’d be fortuitous to pass through without stopping to buy anything. Unlike in actual Morocco, though, you are neither harassed nor followed en El Albayzín.
Panting like a hound-chased fox with cotton-mouth, I finally made it to El Mirador. The views from the famed lookout never cease to amaze; The Alhambra looms emphatically on its green-shrouded hilltop; the rooftops of Granada glisten in the sunlight and the peaks of the Sierra Nevada emanate on the horizon to complete a magnificent sight to behold. That’s why I live here.