Andalucid Again

Coming to my senses at Christmas

Fred and I got to Almeria last weekend to find that the hotel near the Cathedral hadn't processed our booking.  There was definitely no room at this particular inn.  After some scowling (us) and apologetic hand gestures (them), they booked us into nearby boutique Hotel Plaza Vieja in the square of the same name. 

While Fred pressed a button on the loo marked 'Shower' and emerged soaking wet from his very own inadvertent spa experience, I read the promo blurb and discovered that the hotel was attached to the latest Hammam, or traditional Arab bath in the Hammam Al Andalus chain.  These people know how to Hammam, and after eight years in Granada, I was about to find out.

I stepped into the warm candlelit darkness in my borrowed black swimsuit and the white towelling elf-shoes you have to keep on at all times.  It was quiet, just the music of water and occasional murmur of conversation.  A middle-aged couple and two elderly women were going through the age-old circuit of warm, hot and cold pools and I joined them. 

The warm pool was bliss.  I slipped through the soft water scented with essential oils, then sat on the stone ledge watching the candles flicker through pierced lanterns. Next, it was time for the hot pool to unknot tired muscles and lull me almost to sleep.  Big mistake. In a moment, I was instructed to climb out and step into the cold pool. Right in.  After the first shocking sensation of cold...there was a shocking sensation of cold.  But like eating chili peppers, the endorphin rush became addictive and I did this three or four times.  My reward was the foaming jacuzzi, as big as a swimming pool.  Followed by the all-marble steam room which warmed me right through. I finished with peach tea and a chat in the relaxation area.  When I walked through to the changing rooms I felt happy about nothing I could name.

I didn't have time for a massage ('on warm stone with kessa glove and natural soap') that afternoon, but if I had chosen that, the cost for a whole afternoon of indulgence would have been under €50. It's the perfect, calorie-free pre- or post-Christmas indulgence for jaded spirits and I totally recommend it as a New Year treat.

Do you have a Hammam in your area?  Are they in the UK yet?  If you're in Granada, I'd love to hear which of the hammams  you like best and why.  Happy bathing.  Happy Christmas and New Year!

Tripping Over My Roots

Writing three fun-size features for Lonely Planet's next guide to Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan (GAA), seemed simple enough: call and email Armenian family and friends; ask them to share memories, folklore, that lullaby Granny used to sing; write poignant prose; get paid.  In fact, it was like extracting pine nuts with my teeth.

Like any deadline three months ahead, it was all going brilliantly until I started to tackle it with four weeks to go.  You'd never think I had a tribe of relatives in L.A. and another branch in London, all practising Armenians theoretically wallowing in cute cultural references.  When my lovingly hand-crafted email questionnaire failed to elicit a landslide of responses, I had to call and Skype at selected targets instead. 

I got lots of stories and 'information'. But knowing that my mother's fourth cousin's mother had once knitted a sock that her intended wore to a May Day gathering as a sign that he was ready to exchange several sheep for her didn't fall readily into my categories on Armenian emblematic fruits, the Church, or Mount Ararat.  I ended up getting soundbites from three men called Moses. 

However, I did discover that several of my older relatives have never even been to Armenia.  Which is odd, because I thought they had all been born there.  (My mother's and father's relatives are distantly related, which explains some strange personal traits I had been wondering about).  My father's family, Seventh-day Adventist converts in Cyprus, knew more about Betty Crocker than they did about Gregory the Illuminator.

Complete strangers turned out to be the most helpful:  Zareh (Serge) Jerejian at Armenia specialists Sunvil Travel sent me an information pack and put me in touch with some heavyweight Armenians: kind and courtly ex-newspaper editor Asadour Guzelian told me a lovely Noah on Ararat story, while a grumpy woman journalist in London collapsed under the weight of her own ego and gave me nothing.

The other godsend was Irina Petrosian, based in Indiana.  With her husband, David Underwood(ian?) she has written a charming book called Armenian Food: Fact, Fiction and Folklore.  She kindly shared some arboreal arcana with me, so do check out the beautifully illustrated fruits of her firsthand research, available from Amazon or from lulu.com.  With David, she also has a toothsome blog site called Armenian Food.

Thanks to these loyal fellow countryfolk, I was able to deliver on brief and on time. Now my editor loves me, and I can dance to the piping of the duduk (flute-like instrument carved from apricot wood) like a young goat...

More, much more Armenia stuff to come as I bother family and friends to find out about the communities in London, L.A., Lebanon, Cyprus and Yerevan.