Andalucid

Glad in Granada

No soy español, español, español....but last night the joy was everywhere and irresistible. We watched the second half of the big match on a huge screen in a packed bar, and counted down to the final whistle with over a hundred other voices.  At the end I couldn’t even hear myself scream.

Long after midnight Fred and I strolled down Reyes Catolicos, one of Granada's major roads, waving our ice cream cones to salute hooting cars and motorbikes. There was no aggression, no passing-out drunks, just goodwill and euphoria.  Things did get a little darker later on though, with a small line-up of riot police blocking off a street where a lamppost had been set upon and left for dead.

All the way down Recogidas and beyond we moved in one huge, mobile street party.  Alongside us marched platoons of shiny-eyed footie fans draped in Spanish flags and daubed with scarlet and yellow warpaint. In the Plaza Isabel la Católica, a miniature version of the Madrid celebrations was being staged, fireworks illuminating the lads jumping into the fountain or clambering into the stern embrace of Queen Isabel on her bronze throne above the water.

 We'd arranged to meet friends at flamenco and jazz club El Eshavira (Postigo de la Cuna 2, off Calle Azacayas). More and more people arrived after us, both natives and tourists packing the bar to create the limited personal space the Spanish love.

It wasn’t until after midnight that thundering flamenco and fierce cante jondo singing exploded onto a stage the size of a camp-bed, the audience so tightly packed there wasn't even room left to stand. I wedged myself on the floor, leaning against one woman’s legs and elbow to elbow with another. Ana, the dancer, had to step delicately around our bodies to reach the stage.

Being that close to such passionate energy was like sitting in front of a pillar of fire. Ana’s scarlet shoes hammering on the wooden stage, some interior battle going on and the audience forgotten.  She was sweating so much that her face and neck seemed coated in liquid gold, one elaborate curl plastered to her forehead, her face calm and dignified even in the wildest moments.  Then, as abruptly as she had taken the stage, she lowered her head, turned and walked quietly away.

We’re off to Seville and Huelva next for Lonely Planet. See you back here soon with highlights!

Parallel Planet 1 - Almeria to Jaén (with a bit of Granada)

We're in Úbeda, city of stone lions with cruel faces and puppy paws.  We're at an evening concert in an  austere courtyard bordered by orange trees.  Concerto Iris is playing Olivier Messaien's Quartet For The End of Time.  The weather has changed from hot sunshine a few hours ago, to dark clouds driven by a spiteful wind. The slender orange trees writhe like doomed heroines.  More than once, the cellist has to put down his instrument and run for his music, and the pianist's page-turner has flung herself bodily across the top of the piano to hold the fluttering manuscript in place. Every few minutes a group of pinched-looking people get up and leave. At the end, the beautiful Russian violinist rests her head on the cellist's shoulder and cries.

Another night. Jaén city. We're perched at the bar in Taberna El Gorrión in Jaén city. We´ve just ordered our fourth glass of vino araña, drawn from the burnished barrels behind the bar.  Under our noses, a little tower of white chalk hieroglyphs is rising on the blackened wood bar top that runs almost the width of the big crowded room.  Behind the bar in a glass case is a 90-year old ham, affectionately nicknamed Tutanjamón. 

We've got in with a fast crowd: a college reunion of 40-something women with clever, mobile faces and an impish man in his sixties with a snow-white Dali moustache and beard.  Talk and laughter rise to a crescendo as sweet wine and topaz-yellow manchego cheese, the bar's signature tapa, are passed over our heads. (The cheese has been specially made for the taberna since 1906).  It's a memorable night at the start of a long journey.

Regular Andalucid readers will have grasped that what Fred and I love to do most is to travel, see new stuff, eat and drink.  So when Lonely Planet suddenly asked if we could cover Andalucia for their new Spain guide (Spain 7, out March 2009), we kind of thought we would.

But in case anyone feels stirrings of envy, there is an upside and a downside to this miracle.

Downside: seven hotels in ten days. Four tanks of ruinous petrol for the old Jeep, dozens of indifferent yet not inexpensive meals.  And the pressure of a tight deadline, and the anticipation of covering simmering Cordoba and Sevilla in July, when the sane and solvent residents are leaving in droves for their country cortijos.

But then I remember sitting in my refrigerated office-tomb near Washington DC, staring out of the barred window at the barred window opposite, dreaming of maybe getting a life, never dreaming how much life I'd actually get, here in Andalucia.

So look out for us this summer, tired but happy, in Huelva, Sevilla, Malaga, Gibraltar, Cordoba and Granada. We'll probably be heading for the nearest bodega, with expressions of stern duty and a battered copy of Lonely Planet Spain. 

 

Andalucid Lite(r)

No solid food, no booze, no caffeine.  No TV.  No makeup.  I didn't even brush my hair once.  I just got back from a week's yoga detox retreat at lovely Kaliyoga near Orgiva, and I can't remember the last time I was so happy.

That's not to say it wasn't challenging.  Last time I was at Kaliyoga, in 2005, I did the yummy yoga retreat for people who eat - three delicious, healthy, colourful Al-Andalus meals to look forward to every day. Then, anticipation helped me flow through morning and evening yoga like a young gazelle.

But last week, mealtimes were more like the Japanese shock-TV series 'Endurance'. 

First there was a glass of gluey glop, fibre and suchlike, into which we mixed a few drops of cider vinegar in a vain attempt to make it edible. I can't really talk about it yet. Next, a cup of barley grass water, which looks and tastes like it sounds. The third course, a delightful linseed smoothie made from....linseed.  Our reward was a freshly pulverized fruit and veg juice, a different blend every meal, dancing with garlic, ginger, bright green and citrus flavours.   

In the evening, we gathered around the big table on the terrace for our vegetable gruel, literally the stock from a big vat of cooked organic veg.  With a sprinkle of paprika, a squeeze of lemon and dollops of olive oil, it was a feast.  Still, I think I was the first of the group to break - by the third day I was hallucinating, identifying exciting wisps of escaped vegetable in my soup bowl. On the last afternoon, we were served a salad with alfalfa sprouts, freshly picked organic leaves, carrots and lots else - it was like tasting everything for the first time in my life.

In between meal ordeals, we cleansed our colons, had morning coffee (enemas), and sessions with various therapists - a homeopath, a nutritionist, a kinesiologist, acupuncturist and others. The schedule is cleverly designed so that you are always just on your way to or from an appointment, massage or yoga, like a White Rabbit in sports gear.  I know I didn't have time for any cravings.  In fact I was relieved to be in a food-free zone, not having to make the closely reasoned choices that usually lead me, with flawless logic, to the bag of Maltesers or Doritos.

What I loved about Kaliyoga was the laid-back, houseparty feeling, the lovely staff and most of all, Rosie and Jonathon Miles, who put so much time and behind-the-scenes effort into creating a relaxed atmosphere where I could sit and chat, read, write, sleep, do yoga and just reflect on my life. 

Rosie and Jonathon, who run the detox weeks in spring and autumn, say the process is life-changing.  I have to agree:  I lost 8lbs and kicked caffeine, wheat, sugar - most things really - all in one go.  A week later, I've managed to stay off the junk food, eating more green leaves than ten White Rabbits.  This is mostly thanks to Fred, who devised a weightless, wheatless, meatless menu that kept me on the path of rightjuiceness until normal eating could be resumed.

I think there are still a couple of spaces left on the next yoga detox retreat, which runs from 11th to 18th of May, so check out the Kaliyoga website and come on down!

Asilah II - A Grand Taxi Ride

Half an hour of walking on this sunny afternoon has taken us right through the concentric rings of wealth distribution in Asilah.  From the hundred heavenly blues of its chic Medina, out through the tourist and commercial town with its pavement cafés and leather shops, to this half-built, half-demolished street on the outskirts. 

Here the shop floor is just that, DVDs and household items laid out on sheets in the dust.  Across the road, drooping vegetables and herbs are piled high on flimsy trestles.  Set back in a dirt courtyard, a display of bathroom taps branches from a set of red wooden stools.  Not much window-shopping as we wait for our taxi to arrive.

Whose idea was it to visit the villages outside Asilah?  Nigel and Zoe's, I guess; they are the property-hunting friends who have kindly brought us with them to this Atlantic coastal town just south of Tangiers.  But a clever person uses your ideas to promote theirs, and Tessa's idea is that Zoe has no more business buying here than Dot from East Enders.  Showing Zoe a 'real' village may help her see this too. But like the canny estate agent she is, Tessa keeps a serene smile between her idea and the clients´.  And even the arrival of the taxi doesn't wipe it off.

The 'country taxi' is the zombie cousin of Morocco's typical 'grand taxis', usually a wallowy old Merc or Peugeot that swallows up to six passengers at a time. Country taxis are the older ones willing to bump along the unmade village tracks, having I suppose very little left to lose. 

Suspending disbelief, we all clamber in.  Nigel is in front with Choaki, Tessa's Moroccan business partner.  Silent, one eye slightly askew, Choaki is a reincarnated tomb guardian in a woolly cap, straight out of central casting.

The car lurches away from the kerb, but Fred still has most of his body and his camera outside.  A shouted chorus of 'stop!' allows us just enough time to gather him in.  A moment later, we stop again for petrol, which the driver cannot buy until we have paid him the agreed €24.  We're not sure if we have bought the car or the ride.  Zoe muses on the strong possibility of a breakdown (the car's I think).  "Control yourself," Tessa tells her, "you're hysterical."  Sinking down in the seat between them, I bark my shin on the exposed plastic molding of the passenger seat.

As we turn off the asphalt road and head for the village, the car comes to a sighing halt. Sweat trickles down the driver's face, more eloquent than tears.  We all clamber out and start walking.  The ochre dirt track is knotted like a labourer's arm.  Chickens start in all directions as we approach. 

Several houses are set in bare earth yards, some painted, others mud raised out of mud, with corrugated metal roofs slipping over them like skewed tablecloths.  One yard is home to a family of goats and kids the size of springer spaniels.  From the pistachio-green-and-cream minaret, with its megaphones where church bells would be, you can surely see the sea.

Back to the taxi, now pointing downhill along the track.  The driver disappears under the car to remove the rock which is holding it in place.  I notice that Choaki is holding the brake pedal down until the driver can get in and take over.  When he does, we move off and start coasting down the track, too fast.  Can you get him to go slower - Choaki, Chalky, Chucky?  It doesn't matter what we think he's called, he answers to nothing. Zoe's tired voice breaks the silence:  "Nigel, take control."  Slow down, shouts Nigel, slapping the dash for emphasis.  The engine starts.

At the junction with the main road, Zoe says she wants to go back to Asilah.  The driver turns and heads in the opposite direction.  Zoe insists.  We all insist.  Tessa says a few words in Arabic.  The driver stops in the middle of the road and starts a long snaking reverse towards a deepish ditch.  A thick shiny line of oil marks our path - a rock must have holed the sump.

It's the last straw. We all get out.  Nigel walks up to the driver and demands his money back, his voice as tight as a fist. We start walking back to town, five kilometres distant.  Moments later, the driver passes us in the taxi, waving.  Moments after that, we pass the driver, who has now abandoned the taxi and is also walking back to town.  After half an hour, Nigel flags down a small 4x4. All four of us get in, literally on top of each other, and are driven back to the centre of Asilah.  The driver won't accept a single dirham, hand on heart, he was delighted to help.

We drop into wicker seats at the corner bar and order cold beers.  The story gets funnier with each retelling.  I keep seeing the driver, his dream of a day's pay trickling away, beads of sweat running into the frayed collar of his blue shirt.  He never looked at us once.

For more images of Asilah, click on Fred's Flickr site.  And if you want to see any of the photos here in more detail, click on the image to enlarge it.  There's another post about Asilah after this one - with some of the more charming things we discovered. 

Asilah I - Into the Blue

Last week we went with friends to Asilah, about 40 minutes south of Tangiers, on Morocco's Atlantic coast.  Here are a few images of the nice bits.  For more, just click on Fred's well-stocked Flickr site.  And to enlarge any of these shots, just click on the image.

Once part of the Portuguese empire, Asilah languished as a small fishing port until 1978, when two local people started an annual International Arts Festival that now attracts thousands of participants and visitors from all over the Muslim world. 

Adventurous homebuyers from Britain, France and Spain are also being drawn (or is it painted?) to Asilah's chic medina.

Turquoise, forget-me-not, bluebell, sky.  Sapphire, cerulean, lapis lazuli...and a hundred others.  Asilah's Medina homes revel in more blues than there are names for.

The hypnotic colours beckon you around each corner, down narrow alleyways and into tiny squares.

Through the Bab El Kasaba, one of the town's main gates, is the Centre Hassan II des Rencontres Internationales, the venue at the heart of the  Arts Festival held each August.  Last week, roses in every shade and scent of pink were blooming in this courtyard.

Enterprises a thousand centuries apart might well be neighbours in the Medina. This communal bread oven is not far from the shop of a young Moroccan designer, whose swirling cotton and linen skirts, tops and trousers are caught up with elaborate fastenings surely invented by a clever spider.

This traditional large corner house in the Medina felt like a semi-detached Sultan's palace, with several rooms set around its tiled inner courtyard.  The charming young woman who owns this enchanted place wants to sell it so that she can leave Asilah and marry her beloved...

Asilah is well worth visiting, a relatively short journey for a long weekend in a very different culture.  And you can read about one of our cultural excursions in the next post!

Family and friends descend on Lanjarón

Sleepy little Lanjaron played host to an historic visit this Easter weekend. My triplet brother Vartan, his long-suffering partner Jackie, and our old, old friend Carlos, who with us has been laughing at my brother's antics for decades, came to 'do' Granada and the Alpujarras. 

My (other triplet) sister Sosi has been a homeowner here, and having visited so often, she now attracts as much attention as an air-cured jamon leg at Arca de Noe.  But Vart, once heard to sum up Our Town as "two old men and a donkey," my prodigal brother Vart merits a blog.

Carlos survived three nights at tourist tomb Hotel Central, where old men with faded eyes and flat caps play savage games of dominoes at little tables in full view of the street.  Vart and Jackie stayed at the sybaritic Hotel Alcadima, which makes up in comfort anything it might lack in local character. 

For Granada read Alhambra.  I have steadily resisted visiting this over-hyped site since we first got here, but as it was Jackie's birthday, we all dutifully turned tourist.  The Generalife Gardens were lovely, though even they were planted thick with tourists.  But the Alhambra was all I had expected, and even less. 

Oh I shouldn't moan.  After all, I did discover a new word:  "the arch built across the upper angles of a square room to support a dome or cupola is...a SQUINCH."  Don't you love this word?  Doesn't everyone have a Squinch in their lives?  Anyway,  I earnestly followed the guide book around, staring at ceilings, tiles, gilding and such, only to trip over toddlers on plastic quad bikes, people sending text messages, necking couples, and stony-faced wardens.  In the famous Patio de Los Leones, the Leones were away at a day spa getting groomed, replaced by a large Formica and glass box so that you could see what wasn't there.  The Alhambra is other people.  The picture shows our visitors reviving over mint tea at the Alhambra Palace Hotel. (From left to right, Carlos, Vart, Jackie).

Actually, all our visitors were charmed with Lanjarón.  Vart loved the markets, the price of prawns, barbecuing on our rooftop and ordering café con leche in every café in town.  Jackie enjoyed 'silly shopping' for the Lanjaron look - it's loud and proud and must not contain any natural fibres.  Both of them enjoyed visiting Pampaneira, once they got over vertigo and car-sickness.  And we just spent a lot of time laughing at each other, but mostly at Vart, because he is funny.  See him below with four other donkeys....

On our way to Malaga Airport to dump them - sorry, I mean drop them off, we stopped off at Nerja Donkey Sanctuary just outside the town, which Jackie said was the real highlight of her trip. You are given a bucket, a donkey goodie bag of shredded lettuce, chopped carrot and carobs.  And you just go around doing a meet and let eat, getting to know each donkey's story - often very sad, but it's lovely to see them in clover now.  You can take dog chews to the rescue dogs, too.  There are even two turkeys, Christmas Day and Boxing Day.  They like bread sauce.  Only kidding.

This time when I overheard my brother talking about his stay, he was plotting how he and Jackie could come back and housesit for us in the summer. Get over here, guys!

A Tale of Two Markets

We've been living in Spain for four and a half years, and I last visited Madrid eight years ago.  Somehow it's always been too hot, or too cold to go; we are too busy or too broke.  But recently time and temperatures, money and motive all happily coinciding, we decided to spend a weekend there. 

Motivation came from Fred having a few of his photos included in a showcase collection sponsored by the Junta de Andalucia. Cipriana Soto Toro, who sells Fred's photography at Galeria Toro in Granada, asked if we wanted to meet up with her there. It seemed like fun-with-a-purpose, so we said yes.

Meanwhile, friends David and Shujata Dry of Los Piedaos had just returned from Madrid.  They raved about the comfort, convenience and economy of leaving the car behind and taking the coach.  We checked out the Alsa site and were sold.  It was easy to book online and get e-tickets straight away.  And €28 for each return ticket was less than the price of one petrol fill-up.  The whole trip, from parking our car right outside the Granada bus terminal, to being dropped outside our hotel in very central Calle Arenal, took about six hours.  Six hours with loads of legroom.  Six hours to read, talk, look at the views.  And instead of arriving exhausted after an extended battle with Spanish motorways and non-existent parking, we were ready to go out and explore.

Saturday morning, we took the clean and efficient Metro to the Arco fair.  The queues were longer than at Disneyworld, but the fascinating mix of punters more entertaining than Mickey.  Ahead of us in the queue, a well-dressed couple handed their nice-looking teenage son his wallet.  On it in big yellow letters, the words 'Fuck You'.  (English logos and legends on Spanish outerwear is a whole other blog I must do soon).  Once in, there was plenty to gawp at as well as walk past.  We were particularly struck with 'Big Ping-Pong' by Li Song Song, sculpted in stainless steel. It certainly raised some important questions, chiefly, 'why'?' After six hours feeding our eyes and on our feet, we literally could not stand any more, and beat it back to our hotel.

Next morning, we set off for the famous Madrid Rastro, or street market.  I was anticipating a delightful stroll through long avenues of antiquey charm, keepsakes, old photos, vintage clothes.  What we got was the usual sad selection available in any Spanish town: belly dancing ensembles in dayglo colours trimmed with dull coins; a row of deerstalker hats on blind-faced dummies, lined up like traitors on Tower Bridge;  acrylic blankets printed with bikini-clad blondes beckoning you to Tahitian seascapes, all done in sludge browns and mustards. 

There was art for sale here too.  Lionesses stalking their prey, leopards draped across tree limbs against impossible sunsets, soft-focus Gardens of Eden set in a parallel world.  All viewed by a constant stream of people, shabby, tired, unshaven and unwashed in the cold grey light.  The most fun we had was playing 'Spot the Pickpocket'.

The best surprise of the day was Cerveceria Alemana, in Plaza Santa Ana  (Metro Sol/Sevilla).  With its wood panelling, plain furniture and worn floors, it can't have changed much since Hemingway was ordering his tapas there.  We got a seat right at the back, the better to see the whole noisy, happy, full house in action.  Even the light coming through the windows was sepia, tea-dipped. Afterwards, you only have to weave across the square to equally antique Cafe Suiza for coffee and cake.

  After we got back to Granada, we agreed that we hadn't seen anything like enough of Madrid.  We'll go back, to stroll through the Retiro Park and visit galleries. And when we do, we'll take the bus.

Small town, simple pleasures

Welcome to Lanjarón, our quaint spa town in the beautiful Alpujarras......

In spite of the increasing obstacles to commercial and social life, the ancient instinct of the hunter-gatherer continues to assert itself.  Stationed behind a completely useless bright yellow barrier earlier this week, I watched local people picking their way through the post-apocalyptic scene unfolding in  Lanjaron's 'high street' - Calle Real.

Abuelas and abuelos on wobbly pins and sturdy canes; young mums with teetering pushchairs, pulling toddlers out of the path of reversing diggers; delivery trucks ploughing like Columbus' galleons through choppy seas of builders´rubble.  There's never a dull moment, and the whole show is something of a  tourist attraction in its own right.

New pipes and cables are being laid, hence the excavations.  But we'd just got used to threading the little mountains of assorted builder dusts (I am defiantly ignorant about building materials) when a new twist was introduced: last week they took away the pavement.  Now we're all weaving around the builders, their rubber-footed robots, and each other in an increasingly elaborate Lanjarón shuffle.  It's basically a rapid sidestep ending in a short leap towards the nearest shop doorway.

But don't let all this talk of roadworks kerb your enthusiasm for a Saturday morning of simple pleasures in our pueblo.  Recently, Fred and I have started a new weekend custom. We choose an interesting recipe, something a little more complicated than we would do during the week.  We walk up to the 'new' covered market (head up the street opposite the church, past Carmen's fruteria and Antonio's pollo asador, and take the next left.  Head up the stairs to the market).

At the butcher's, we might choose some plump solomillo de cerdo (pork tenderloin) to sauté with an oloroso sherry sauce, (here's a similar recipe on YouTube) or chuletas de cerdo (pork chops) also sauteed, this time with a Catalan prune and cinnamon sauce.  You can see this recipe in The Foods and Wines of Spain by Penelope Casas. 

If we're feeling in need of an Omega-3 boost, we visit the fish stall (run by the Callejon family who also run the very good Los Mariscos seafood restaurant near the Hotel Miramar).  Hake, flounder, shark, prawns, mussels - everything appears to have been polished, and it's all so fresh that there is no fishy fragrance force field as you approach, only the faintest hint of the sea. 

Actually, the old 'Central' market further up the road towards Barrio Hondillo also has a great fish stall presided over by Enrique. (He used to be behind the bar at Los Faroles restaurant).  A couple of weeks ago, we went in search of flounder for Lenguado al Limon, a dish with lemon, ginger and mustard sauce (also in the Casas book).  Enrique didn't have flounder, but suggested pargo, or red snapper. 3 big pieces of fish for €6, and it worked brilliantly with the recipe. 

After all the excitement of shopping, time to stop at Cafe Melilla.  (Come down the steps from the market, it's a small doorway on your right as you head towards Coviran supermarket).  It's been the neighbourhood churreria for more than 20 years, cheerful, loud, authentically local.  Get there before 11.30 when there is a stampede of shoppers from the market. You can order fresh orange juice, get wired on the strongest coffee in town, and soothe your nerves with a media racion of deep fried churros.

Then you can stroll home by way of Carmen's jewel-box greengrocery, pick up some knobbly sweet potatoes, emerald kale, delicate bright orange carrots to go with your protein. 

That's it.  You stroll home, greeting friends on the way. You've spent about €15 on buying dinner and having a great morning, and as you pick your way through the madness of Lanjaron's main street, suddenly it doesn't seem so bad.  The age-old instinct has kicked in, with Nature making sure you forget the pain.