Walking the mountain trails down to the village the next day, I assessed my inner landscape. The Vines being so near gave me a sense of homecoming. My tears shed there felt like a puzzle piece of my psyche nestling into place. I was even more unsure now if I would go visit Agus at all. The option of staying seemed like a cop out, though, like settling for a pre-fabricated dream rather than dreaming my own. My urge to go deeper into the wilderness was partly motivated by wanting to get away from craving Blondie’s attention, while deep down inside I knew I couldn’t escape a craving by changing geographical location. Silvia said I could move up to The Vines if I wanted, and help Yolanda with her sheep, learn about bees, and yoga. I decided to mull it all over for awhile. Plus, I wanted to fulfill the promise I had made to manage the Cafe the night of the Moon Fest.
“What was it like up there?” asked Blondie when I got back.
Lila was in the tiny kitchen too, mixing dried herbs together in a large bowl and scooping them into handmade envelopes made out of recycled paper bags to sell in the market. They were hand labeled with the ingredients and symptoms they treated. Thyme, eucalyptus, hibiscus, mullen and tulsi-lungs, throat, respiratory health. I was washing out the containers Silvia and I had unloaded from our backpacks in the kitchen, and Blondie was sitting in the yellow stool at the counter eating yogurt with raspberries and honey.
“It was amazing. It’s like a mini-utopia. There are enough families living in the woods around there to have a real community. They produce practically everything they consume themselves.”
“I wish my girlfriend was into rustic living like that. I’ve been wanting to spend a year or two abroad with the Peace Corp, or start a non-profit o something, but she loves living in the city.”
This was the nicest thing Blondie had ever said to me. He was actually telling me that he preferred me over his girlfriend in a way. I almost fell over, even though I knew he didn’t mean anything by it. I quickly got over the near heart attack, because Lila was making eyes at me with an puckered grin and an omniscient raise of her brow. Placing the last of the glass jars in the dish wrack, I wiped off the sink. Glancing at Blondie, I saw him leaning over his bowl chewing a full bite of raspberry delight. His pants were covered with dirt from building the ‘refrigerator’ prototype, which worked considerably well.
“Why don’t you just live more simply back in the US?” Lila chimed in.
“It’s not enough to just live simply. That’s like returning to the past. We have to change the way the whole system works. Science and technology is figuring out how to make life sustainable for humans on this planet.”
Wow. We were actually getting into a real conversation with Blondie for once, beyond the usual banter of us two teasing and leading each other on. I decided to make some tea for the occasion and started blowing on the embers under the iron burner for boiling water.
“Living simply is not living in the past.” Lila persisted. “Progress isn’t only about material comforts. It is also about psychological and spiritual wellbeing.”
I joined in. “No matter how advanced science gets, if we use it to disconnect ourselves from nature, it will not make us happier.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little more complicated than that? The people in this village don’t support the economy at all, but they would still go to the hospital if they needed to. They will still collect money from the government when they get old.”
The conversation was going in a predictable and hostile direction, but it was still more romantic than small talk.
“The global economy is designed for many people to get stuck doing meaningless and toxic work their entire lives so that the upper class can live luxuriously. Funding the violence and oppression required to keep the global economic hierarchy operating is not a justifiable means to securing a comfortable future for some, even if it’s done in the name of financial responsibility.”
I leaned back on the olive wood bar, beside the cob oven. Impressed by Lila’s remark, I egged her on.
“We cannot change the system by fighting it. We have to disengage from it and support the things we want to see more of in the world.”
Blondie was looking at me now, a treat I relished, admiring his sculpted cheekbones, his light brown stubble.
“Look, Aia. I’m dedicating my life to trying to alleviate poverty and help people who are less fortunate than me. I’m not making excuses for the destructive things capitalism does, but what are you proposing, in place of a global economic system and a technological solution?”
“The scientific community is full of wonderful caring people, but the scientific method is extremely limited. It builds on what it already knows, discarding what it does not know, cannot control, or is not sure about, as unscientific. The scientific method is not the only limitation. Corporate control of research funding, public education, and mass media, not to mention politics, usurp their purposes to serve the common good.”
“So are you guys saying that we shouldn’t touch money ever, because it strengthens the military industrial complex”
I was glad when Lila responded to this, because honestly I was stymied. I worked for money, paid taxes. The way things are set up, it is extremely hard to do otherwise, yet I felt like a hypocrite.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know how to get away from money completely. My boyfriend and Silvia’s son are starting a local economy based mostly on barter.”
This inspired me, and I was off and running again. “There are ways to substitute for money that don’t subsidize globalization. People do need to do something they believe in or else they implode from low self-esteem.”
“You’re getting way off the point. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that there is a New World Order sewing chaos around the globe as a means of consolidating power.”
“Didn’t you learn about that in school? You studied political science, didn’t you?” I could picture Blondie sitting in a college classroom, burgeoning with lofty intent.
“I went to college because I wanted to be able to get paid for doing things I believe in. Otherwise I’ll have to work doing something else to survive, which would leave very little time to be of benefit.”
“But didn’t you learn about the New World Order in your classes?”
“Geez! I was kidding about that. Man, you need to lighten up, sweetheart. Do you want to roll a little joint? You sound like a conspiracy theorist or something!”
“He called me sweetheart! And he’s such a douche!” I didn’t even have to act to conceal my feelings from Lila. I was genuinely getting over Blondie finally. Sad, such a handsome guy with absolutely no brains. That’s how it goes: you get called a conspiracy theorist, and then the conversation ends. Of course it’s not a conspiracy. Otherwise what? Otherwise we live in a police state of indentured servants. As long as we support the economy, we can say what we want. If we’re ungrateful for our security, we get called insane, until the balance tips too far the other way. When people are not funding the powerful elite’s agenda, we will be called ‘threats to national security,’ ‘terrorists.’”
“I don’t really feel like smoking,” was all I said.
Actually, I did. But when I smoke I like to write, or do art, or play outside, or have sex, not sit around and have conversations which amount to intellectual masturbation. And besides, I do all those things much better when I engage in some kind of physical or spiritual activity beforehand, rather than just light up my emotions. We all drank our tea, and Blondie washed his dish.
“What is it about this guy? He makes me feel insecure. He temps me to use drugs. He implies my ideas are insane.....But I can’t get enough.”
Still, as fucked up at it may seem, it is better to dance with our shadow than to shut out the forbidden parts of ourselves.
Lila had finished packaging the medicinal plants and closing the bags with Silvia’s wax seal with the Star of David design. Apparently she was still stuck on our previous conversation.
“Blondie do you know that your country is run by a club of elites who are trying to reek so much chaos in the world that people will be begging for a global martial law?”
“And what secret club would that be?”
“There are several, but the Council for Foreign Relations is one consistent example. Since it was founded, it has supplied most of the US presidents, Secretaries of State, new bureaus of government, reasons for war and their resolutions, plus all the largest international trade alliances and treaties.”
I don’t know how Lila knew all of this. Then I remembered that her parents were part of a left wing religious group of some kind. Maybe she heard about it growing up.
“The United States is a democracy, and other countries should have the freedom to form alliances with whomever they choose.” Blondie retorted.
“Don’t you see that democracy and global corporate imperialism go hand in hand?”
Lila’s last comment was so enigmatic, we all went off to bed without responding. Honestly I hadn’t seen that. I was a social worker, and had never followed politics much. That’s why I always came back to recommending doing what one feels called to do, the importance of self-esteem, and existential stuff like that. As I got ready for bed, I pondered what Lila had said; taking super PACs, and the media, into account, it did start to make sense.
.......
The green apples turned red, and the almonds began to grow plump inside their fuzzy outer husks. Blackberries fell to the ground, and the soft thorns became woody. The people from under the bridge climbed the sandy path to the road. The mountain people stayed in the mountains. Day after day I watered the potted garden at the Cafe. The nasturtiums overflowed their pots. Purple petals shriveled from the fragrant lavender calyces.
The leathery almond drupes wrinkled, wizened as a witches faces. Blackberry thorns faded to yellow, then brown, then gray. The people from under the bridge did not return, but new ones came. The mountain people brought pomegranates, tomato sauce, and fresh garlic. Nasturtiums overran the terrace like squatters, their abundant multicolored edible flowers peppering the air. Lavender buds were distilled and added to soap.
Marco arrived earlier than expected. I fist saw him crossing the field from where he parked, in the fish man’s spot at the market. He wore loose creamy pants, a flowery button-up short sleeve shirt, dark sunglasses and a white paper fedora with a black band around it. Marco was dressed in style for any crowd, without needing to change his clothes. The Hawaiian mafioso look blends in with lawyers, squatters, bohemians, police officers, artists and laborers. Marco spanned the worlds with ease, like the Golden Gate Bridge. We nodded at each other as he approached. Why would I respect someone I didn’t even know? Because everyone is deserving of respect, and it’s easier to do when they already respect themselves. I knew before I could clearly make out Marco’s face that he would back me. Posture is everything.
I was sitting at one of the tables, pulling tough rubbery shells from the freshly harvested almonds, as Marco sauntered up Blondie’s institutional-looking steps. I needed to meet someone I admired who was not black and white about things. My world was a sea of confusion, and I knew the solution was not going back to separating right from wrong, the good guys from the bad guys. I had discovered my heroine used to be a heroin addict. I had tasted nirvana and then became more paranoid and insecure than ever before. The self that I had always run away from was my new best friend. I wanted to sacrifice everything I had worked all my life towards. I was in love with a follower. I needed someone to show me how to move between the worlds and remain intact.
I don’t know how I could even tell it was Marco. He could have been a lost tourist, or an undercover agent or something. Something about the way he moved conveyed he was at home.
“Hi. Marco.” He shook my hand and smiled in a ridiculously relaxed way.
“I’m Aia. Can I get you anything?”
“Just some water, please. Thanks. Is Silvia around? Does she still not have a phone?”
“No she doesn’t. Are you sure you aren’t hungry?”
“Hmmmm. Well if there was some food in front of me, I’d probably eat it, but I’m not hungry.”
I prepared him a plate of fresh cut figs. They reminded me of small galaxies for some reason, their violet and magenta skins expanding around robust strings of sweetness radiating out from the dark central seeds buried in nectar. Marco was sitting down husking almonds when I came back out. We chatted nonchalantly for about an hour, bringing out bucket after bucket of almonds to shell. I told him Silvia was probably at her house, but he must have become obsessed with processing almonds like me. He couldn’t stop. One more almond. I’ll just finish this little bucked full. But the big pile in the back shed called.
The almonds came from an orchard beyond the market grove, where the trees’ bark was etched resolutely like the ink of calligraphy letters against the pale parched plain. After beating the densely encased nuts from the branches into a net with wooden poles, the damp outer layer needs to be removed, and the inner shells spread on the roof to dry. Work like this is mesmerizing. It would not let me go, not until all the fruit was extorted from the growth process, slowly separating what dehydrates from what composts.
Marco said he’d come straight from Madrid that day, stopping only once for gas. It was a relief to know it’s possible to feel at home here, still be able to pump gas, and feel at peace with oneself. I had started to wonder. He seemed content clacking the beige almonds in one basket, and flinging the moist drupes in another pile on the ground. It was clear he expected nothing of me, yet he seemed aware that I expected a lot from him, to lead by example. Or perhaps he didn’t feel any pressure. He was just enjoying what he was doing without getting any credit for it.
“Can I live in the material world and still be spiritual? Can I be selfless and still create an identity? Can I do things I don’t believe in and still respect myself? Can I accept other people who don’t understand me? Just put the almonds where they belong. See, Marco is doing it, and he’s an outsider too. He doesn’t look for the missing pieces.”
After awhile the Carpenter showed up. The two men hugged for a long time rocking each other from side to side.
“We should take you out on the town tonight! You need a strong dose of the South. Look at you. You’re getting so posh you’re about to levitate off the ground! You and Lila should come too.” The Carpenter said to me. “Fun for the whole family!”
I felt honored. Since the deluge of tears at The Vines, some of my doubt had been purged. Figuring out my role in this place was confusing, mostly because I was consumed trying to reconcile before and after my unity episode. I told the Carpenter I would love to go, not really sure what I was getting myself into. I no longer wished the tension would go away. Nobody said it would be easy.
.......
Silvia, Marco, the Carpenter, Lila and I went to Granada that night to hear some music. It was the first time I rode in a vehicle since Miguel had dropped me off in the village. Although I had no idea where we were going, how long we would be there, nor any engagements pressuring me to get back, I felt nervous and rushed as the car sped along the highway. The Carpenter drove Marco’s car, and we parked on a narrow back street in the Chana district which is rather ghetto. It was 10 or 11 o’clock when we jammed ourselves into a crowded flamenco peña. On the tiny stage, painted with a sepia mural of a couple dancing, a young woman sat on the edge of her chair, lamenting and cajoling into the mic, accompanied by a cajón and a guitar. Her straight hair, the straight back of the chair, and the straight tassels on her silk shawl were all vertical. Cas and Millan were there.
I’m not sure of the artist’s name who sang. The amps were on high, and the music was all encompassing. Live flamenco is not background music. There is nothing more interesting than seeing the human spirit laid bare, naked for all to see, as it writhes in anguish. The clarity and heat of being reflected through song coagulates human virtue from the turbid sea of collective emotions. There were five names on the ticket: Iván el Centenillo, Ana Mochón, Gema Jimenez, Ramón de Paso, and Gabriel Exposito. The singer was young, in her 20’s, and wore a long flowery dress, with ruffles unleashed below the elbows. The pain and misery of thousands of years of abuse, exploitation, and the struggle to survive strangled her voice, but from somewhere deep in her gut, the cry grew stronger and stronger. She was accompanied by a guitarist, playing elaborate rifts between her Granaína and Media Granaína phrases, weeping, complaining, defying surrender. This style of singing derives from a tradition of mine workers. They pounded rock all day, in the dark, underground, separated from their loved ones, in toxic life-threatening conditions. The sound of their hammers kept the beat. Their melancholy watered the stems of their souls to rise up, higher, and higher, and higher. Art turns lead into gold, suffering into truth. The mind is always free.
After the performance, Cas and Millan joined the group of us outside where we could hear each other talk. Lila was a bit annoyed at Millan, for some reason.
“I brought “Los Secretos de la Alhambra,” because I thought Aia would like to hear it. Do you know the story, Lila?” The Carpenter asked,
“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never read it.”
Cas de-briefed us. “The American author, Washington Irving, was in Spain writing a history book. When was it, 1830 or something, right? The Alhambra was abandoned at the time, so he moved into the palace, where beggars, prostitutes, and farmers were living, and wrote down some of the folkloric stories from the area.”
I was blown away. First of all, I hadn’t heard Cas talk that much before. He had a beautiful voice, eloquent, literary, considerate. Also, it amazed me that the Alhambra had been abandoned at any point in history, never mind less than 200 years ago. It is one of the ‘Eight Man-Made Wonders of the World.’
Silvia did not sound excited. “So what are you saying? We’re going to the Alhambra now? It must be two in the morning!” She said, dreading the sleepless night ahead.
“Common Silvie!” Marco put his arm around her, engulfing her small ladylike body in his pudgy arms. “Nu has been promising me this for years, and Lila and Aia haven’t heard it either.”
“Will you come too?” Lila asked Millan, her eyes imploring.
“We were going to a party at our friends’ carmen in el Albycin.” Cas interjected, to spare Millan from delivering the bad news.
“That place where the teachers from el Carmen de las Cuevas go in the evenings?” Siliva asked, interested all of a sudden. “Can we come with you guys? Didn’t you see Jesus Carmona there once?”
“Mom, I don’t know about showing up there with so many people.”
Suddenly I felt guilty. I was the only person who really didn’t belong. Hanging out with a bunch of insiders didn’t mean I wasn’t an outsider. Deeper in my stomach an even more unpleasant feeling lurked. Maybe guilt was covering it up. It’s easier to feel guilt than less self-righteous emotions like rejection, disappointment, jealousy. I was hoping Cas would come with us. I didn’t want him to notice me, like Blondie. I just wanted to watch him. I wanted to learn how someone my age, maybe a few years older, carried themselves, who grew up in the wilderness their whole life, with parents like Silvia and the Carpenter.
“Common, Babu! It will be like old times.” The Carpenter coaxed Cas with baby talk. This seemed to do the trick, although I suspect it was Lila’s telepathic threats which ultimately convinced them.
Millan and Cas could have been brothers, except Millan had straight hair and Cas’ was curly. Well, actually they looked nothing alike, besides both having dark eyes and big eyebrows. There was something about their auras which made them similar. They reeked of rebellion, like young Che Guevara, Sinead O’Connor, or Julian Assange.
With these two handsome hostages, we proceeded on foot to downtown Granada, the old downtown, along winding streets of four and five-story houses, with tiny shops on the ground floor. I doubted there was often a need to enter the modern downtown, which looks like every city anywhere in the world. The old quarters of Granada were constructed by Jews and Berber Moors, and later inhabited by Christians. Austere Moorish facades open into verdant interior courtyards, although, in the wee hours of the morning, all the heavy doors were bolted shut to the narrow cobblestone streets. A fair number of people were out, couples glued together from head to toe as they walked, teenagers stumbling home, groups like us traveling in packs enjoying the warm July night air.
Marco bought us all shawarmas at a fresh fast food stand open 24/7. Glistening clusters of marinated chicken and lamb slabs rotated in the electric roasters, inside the bright vending window behind the chef, who smiled like a friendly Saharan genie. Marco and Cas carried the bags of sandwiches, wrapped in wax paper and tin foil too keep them warm, as we scaled the empty lane leading to the sultan’s palace and fortress. I had visited the Alhambra before, along with thousands of other people who revere the structure each day. The architects’ concept for the building was based on the Islamic idea that the earth is a fruit of the heavens. The ornate ceilings of every hall are painted plaster mocarabes stalactites, inlaid metal starbursts, metaphorical root systems embedded in the stars. The outer walls of the building are entirely plain, chiseled sandstone brickwork, while the interiors are resplendent as the inner life. Every inch of wall, every floor and ceiling, is exalted by complex moldings of plant motifs or Arabic text from the Koran, or adorned with fourth dimensional geometrical patterns, elaborate wood cornices, or decorated with kaleidoscope designs of multicolored tiles. Every alcove, every domed hallway, every arched balustrade invites a prayer. Pointed windows are veiled by carved wooden lace, shrouding the sacred space. Unlike most monuments in the West, which often contain a statue, or some other famous figure, in the center of every hall, expanse of wall, or garden, the Moors enshrined emptiness. In every illustrious open space, only light and water are worthy of so glorious an altar.
I figured we would sit in the public park, outside the theater of Carlos Quinto, which the Catholic government of Spain smacked atop what was once a city within the fortress walls, where thousands of Muslims dwelt, during the peaceful years of the caliphate. However, the Carpenter led us deeper into the palace complex, and told us to wait under a square pagoda covered with vines. He and Cas disappeared, away from the streetlights, as the rest of us waited, giddy with fatigue (and two bottles of spicy Spanish sherry being passed around).
Silvia explained. “Nu is good friends with the guy in charge of renovations here. They met over thirty years ago when he hired Nu, who specialized in traditional Arabic woodworking, to restore an old balcony. His friend showed him where to switch off the security cameras, so Nu could hang out inside the palace at night, like they used to before the cameras were installed. He’s not allowed to show anyone else, though. They’ve gotten quite strict in the past few years.”
Moments later Cas reemerged from the leafy shadows. We followed him out of the lamp light along a gravel path, between a row of jet black cyprus sentinels, onto a dark lawn. While crossing the yard, I caught sight of the moon, more than half full, reminding me that everything changes. Through another arch cut in a dense wall of arborvitae, we found ourselves on a smaller, unlit path. A few paces further, a small gate let us through the thick wall, under a fountain of blooming wisteria. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I could make out the crenellated turret of the Comares Palace. Macro had to flip open his phone several times, for light, as we used the back of a bench to scale the flakey vine-covered garden wall. The Carpenter was there to catch us on the other side, in a bare stone ditch between the ancient soldier’s quarters and the castle. Then we slipped through a tall door he had apparently unlocked.
To my astonishment, we found ourselves inside the Lions Plaza! Amid a timeless forest of marble columns and variegated arches, a maze of lines and curves lit from behind by the purple night sky, we filed silently out of the magical colonnade into the moonlit grass. In the middle of the starlit garden, a gravity-fed fountain whispered ceaselessly into the broad ear of its alabaster basin. Crossing the courtyard, scented by fresh invisible roses, we entered a sparkling tunnel that flowed into the patio of the Arrayanes. I recognized this regal rectangular court, protected by high walls on all sides, the old government headquarters of the Cora of Elvira. Framed by a limestone sidewalk, a large mirror of still water rose to the almost to the level of the dark floor. My fear of getting caught evaporated when the lawyer and the Carpenter took their clothes off and jumped in to the cavernous pool. The two younger males followed, their naked bodies glowing like sensuous ghosts in the charcoal velvet air.
I heard somewhere that beneath the city of Granada abide underground lakes, bordered with pillars and domes like Moorish bathhouses. Perhaps the inky water were my friends swam was the only entrance. Down there, mystics can paddle and find sanctuary from the world, carry their drops of wisdom to the center of the earth, which is always saying, “Yes yes yes! I want you. I want you. I want you. I only want you to experience this with me. That is all.” From what I could recall, from seeing the Alhambra as a tourist by day, that pool is an opaque shade of bright green, so I was pleased not going in. Silvia, Lila and I sipped Pedro Jimenez from one of the glass bottles, lounging on warm steps under lobed arches. Furtively peering at the double window overlooking the patio, the only somber slits in the impenetrable tower’s facade, I could feel the black eyes of the emir in exile, with a falcon on his shoulder, his trusted astrologer on one side, and several viziers in brocaded robes standing beside him, staring detachedly from the small pointed peepholes.
The boys put their clothes on dripping wet, water glinting rarely off their refreshed bodies and the sandstone floor beneath them, worn smooth by billions of feet. We arrived at our final destination, the humble arcade connecting the Hall of the Ambassadors to the royal living chambers to our right, where Washington Irving himself had squatted while writing our story time legend. The great hall was surprisingly unlocked, and we felt the axes of history pent between the fateful walls, which look much larger in the light. We had to used our imaginations to make out the seven skies, in obscured array, inside the vast copula. We preferred sitting outside, on the roofed margin of a desolate garden. The entire old section of Granada was visible across the valley, streetlights and awake houses shining like pink, orange, white, and yellow jellyfish. It must have been about four in the morning by the time we finished our juicy shawarmas, wraps of tasty meat nestled in shredded lettuce, cucumber, and tomato and cilantro relish, doused with homemade cumin yogurt and hot sauce. I wondered if Millan would roll a joint. I wondered if he didn’t because Lila had been complaining about him smoking lately. I wondered why I wanted to smoke at all, and why I was glad that we didn’t. It’s good to have friends who stimulate their brains with beauty and meaning, not just chemicals, indulging in installations, rather than distractions, for the senses.
“Maybe I have an addictive personality,” I thought. “Or maybe I was just brought up too Puritanically.”
Marco finished his food first and stood up theatrically, gripping the ornately carved railing and puffing out his chest. In a jokingly sinister voice, he recited the melodramatic introduction to “Viento de Otras Tierras” by El Barrio.
“Where is my kingdom? Where is my crown? Where is my throne? Where is the light?”
Everyone laughed, recognizing the song immediately. You couldn’t help but like Marco. He was always having fun or relaxing. I liked him from the moment we met. Without further ado, he treated me like an old friend, maybe from a past life. He made me feel assured that one day, like him, I would spring from my chrysalis and play amidst the holy flowers, which bloom no matter how grim the world gets. I liked everyone there, but Marco was the most lighthearted of the serious bunch, he and Lila. He climbed playfully onto the railing, unperturbed by the cliff on the other side, leaning steeply towards the rest of us, his middle-aged body erect, holding on to the strong historic post. He motioned comically with his free arm.
“Where is my castle?
Where is my armor?
Where is my princess?
Where were you?
Everything is dark.
Where is my court?
Where is my spire?
Where has my youth gone?
Where is hope?
Where is my shield?
Where is my sword?
Where were you?”
--El Barrio
Everyone started singing along now. “And if the wind blows in from another land....”
“Shhhh!” The Carpenter laughed. “We still need to keep it down. Make yourselves comfortable. We have many stories to read before the sun comes up.”
We all hunkered down in a circle between the pillars and the banister. Silvia stretched out on her back and was soon asleep. Lila lay with her head on Millan’s chest, and I recalled my dream about Cas. He was propped against a column on top of the railing, hugging his knees, his lean body perched like a crow perusing the town below, shining with treasures.
I looked away and snuggled up to a wall, facing the the view, thinking to myself. “Do guys call themselves sluts when they desire more than one person in a matter of days?” I guessed probably not. “Lately I have questioned what love even means, but now I know. It is the desire to know another person, to come together in such a way that we are able to share ourselves fully, knowing we will be accepted by one another. I can love. I want to start again. Are you ready for this?”
The Carpenter started reading, beginning with Irving’s detailed description of what the overgrown palace looked like after being abandoned for over 150 years, ravaged by the weather, plant life, whores, thieves, invading armies, families of farmers, and lovers. Mudéjar buildings, the advanced technology of the Moors imported from Persia and the Far East, and other exotic relics of Moorish Spain, spawned the Romantic aesthetic which enchanted all of Europe. The fine quality of all things Arabesque beguiled even the aristocrats to recant their gaudy stuck-up contrivances of art to savor the middle class rebirthing of the Classical.
The book got passed around. I was drunk and tired, so I allowed Nu, Cas, Marco, Millan and Lila to read, waxing and waning between sleep and the imagery of the stories. Washington Irving wished to stay in part of the palace where no one else was living. At night, he lay awake, in the empty rooms next to us, his eyes open, feeling the presence of old inhabitants blowing through the open window. Lovers eloped on a flying carpet, leaving the constraints of privilege and pride behind. A wise astrologer, who was given the secret to immortality by King Solomon, bewitched the fairest woman, whom the emir himself also happened to be in love with. The old wizard kidnapped her, hiding her underground, and to this day, the princess remains trapped in the esoteric chambers below the fortress. When the carved symbols of the hand and the key, inscribed in stone on the inner and outer arches of the Puerta de la Justicia, touch, the beautiful damsel will be freed.
As dawn painted the sky the pastel colors of thin watercolor veils, we groggily snuck out of the national heritage site, turning the surveillance cameras back on for another busy day. We stopped at the Italian cafe in Plaza Nueva, at the foot of the hill, with mirrored walls, round leather stools, and swirling marble counters. It opens very early, for people who read the entire newspaper before the rest of the city takes its morning shit. A quick shot of espresso powered us up the roller coaster streets on the other side of the Darro, every corner a postcard of el Anda-luz. Birds chirping in a pomegranate tree. Copper knockers in a chipped blue doorway. Cascades of jasmine, large terra-cotta jugs, faded stucco, and broad staircases. After sweating up a labyrinth of quaint streets, without meeting another soul, we caught the last flares of sunrise, from the ancient wall cresting the back outskirts of the city. Caffeine, adrenaline, and reverence in our veins, we sat in a row on the sandy earth, again overlooking the entire city, from the other side this time. The state park, where we lived, was behind us. The Sierra Nevadas, the Alhambra, and the city waking up piled in front, layered like a sorbet sundae. The sunrise kissed the snowcapped peaks, the most delicate shade of pink, and the palace where we’d spent the night plummeted from orange, to garnet, to rust, to ordinary brown, as regular life took its sway.
Before going back to our cars, and going home to bed, we had breakfast at what appeared to be someone’s house, with several metal tables surrounded by chairs out front, under a prolific lemon tree. Our host, El Capitán appeared to have been awake for many hours already, although it was still early for Mediterraneans. He wore a ship captain’s hat, crisp white with a polished black strap and visor. While we ate our toast, with tomato and olive oil spread, and sipped sweetened coffee, he gave a lively speech, with Paco de Lucia playing “La Danza del Fuego” over the decent sound system, about how to navigate one’s own ship through the trials and tribulations of life. I was exhausted, but what the man was saying seemed too important to miss. Looking around the table, my friends felt it too. All glassy eyes were riveted on the old man, jaws munching munching our salty and sweet breakfast hypnotically. El Capitan’s mother sat in the corner of the terrace, wearing a long black skirt, a black blouse and a black kerchief tied under her chin. She smiled and nodded proudly, as her 80 year old son expounded gaily to their attentive guests, probably for the millionth time. His message was simple: Do whatever you want. Don’t worry, and don’t cause harm.
Some videos of Flamenco performed in the Alhambra:
Enrique Morente-Donde Habite el Olvido
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGWLtxnCIEg
Enrique Morente y Tomatito
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqQsKbBRe_Q&list=RDXYYg7JQh00w&index=3
Enrique Morente y Chab Khelad
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYYg7JQh00w
Enrique Morente and his daughter Estrella Morente in the sultan's bathhouse of the Alhambra
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7PbZpqQdhk
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