3/31
Some seven and a half years ago, I sat down in Ms. Highfill's seventh grade Spanish class at Roosevel Middle School. Now, as I write this, I'm above the clouds on a plane that's taking me to the place that I began dreaming about from that day forth: Spain. Through gaps in the puffy white clouds, I can see sunlit countryside and coast down below. I feel a tremendous sense of adventure and excitement for what awaits me in my time this quarter in Spain.
4/1 (translated from the original Spanish, so it's kinda awkward to express the same thoughts)
Yesterday I arrived in Madrid at Barajas International Airport. The design of the terminal impressed me quite a lot. The curved wood paneled ceilings combined with the fresh air inside to yield a fortuitous beginning for my trip. My luck, however, would not last. British Airways lost my luggage. I took the metro from the airport to the stop at Sol, and I climbed out from the underground to arrive at Puera del Sol in the very center of the city. It was an exquisite experience for me, to emerge there among the throngs of people, amongst varied buildings and flashing signs adorning the square. I walked to the Francisco I hotel by way of Arenal Street. I met the people in my group, and we had our first meeting with the director (Santy) of the program. Afterwards, we walked through the streets together and ate dinner, finishing with plates of kiwi for dessert. We all got to know each other a little bit over the meal, and we talked about the quarter ahead and our impressions of the city. During the return trip, we ran into a procession for Holy Week.
This morning, we left the hotel by bus and traveled to the South of the country. Now, we're passing through Spain's central plateau, surrounded by soil that's perfect for growing olives, rocky hillsides, and mountains in the distance that are capped with wind mills that still await the man of La Mancha. The sun is shining.
Later 4/1 - El Alhambra
There’s an old Spanish phrase that goes, “No hay peor azar que ser ciego en el Alhambra,” meaning “there is no fate worse than to be blind at the Alhambra.” Right around the time when I was walking through the painstakingly manicured evergreen labyrinth that surrounds the old king’s quarters at this fortress perched high atop the cliffs of Granada, I realized the depth of the truth communicated by this saying. No matter what direction I faced, I was presented with a view that dared a postcard-maker to faithfully recreate its heart-stopping beauty. To my left, a series of intricately carved marble columns adorned with spiraling suras from the Qu’ran, to my right, terraced hills continuing to the snow-capped mountains in the distance. If ever there was a place on this earth that deserved an episode of Cribs, it was this.
Our tour began at the alcazar, or military fortress. We entered by way of a narrow path that snaked through one imposing arched gateway after another. Our guide explained to us that this design feature was to ease the task of defending the vital interior portions of the compound; those inside could easily rebuff advancing troops in these narrow corridors. At the top of the ramp, we entered the interior courtyard that once housed military barracks. All that remained of these abodes were incomplete foundations and truncated walls. The parkour part of my brain kicked into high gear, as I intuitively traced the paths that would allow me to move the most quickly from one end of the space to the other. Our guide interrupted these acrobatic musings by pointing us towards the fortress’ tower, but this only made me think about how fun it would be to climb said tower under the cover of night. Some men may want to live in palaces, but I’d be more than content to just have the opportunity to bound across their grounds, climbing everything in sight.
Pipe dreams momentarily suppressed, I made my way up the tower in a more literally pedestrian manner: the stairs. Upon finally reaching the top of the tower, I was greeted with a view that dared description. Under a perfectly clear blue sky, rolling red hills stretched out to the horizon. I made my way over to the edge only to feel a rush of cool air making its way of the exterior walls. After several minutes of refreshing natural conditioned air, our groups descended from the tower and exited the fortress.
Our next stop was the late 15th century palace that had been built on the grounds near the alcazar following the Catholic reconquista of Spain that ended with the capture of the Alhambra in 1492. The Spanish monarch of the time had commissioned an Italian renaissance architect to build the palace, and as a result, the exteriors bear a clear resemblance to the facades of many a Florentine edifice. Additionally, when seen from a bird’s eye view, the building is a square, but features a circle circumscribed inside to represent the Renaissance idea of the divine (circle) residing within the human (square).
Originally, the Alhambra was a fortress cum summer palace for the Moorish king that ruled this area of present day Spain, akin to Camp David for the President of the US, but infinitely more stylish and opulent. In the tradition of Islamic architecture, the grounds are divided into areas of public, semi-private, and private space, each more secluded, and ornate, than the next. The remaining portion of our visit would reflect these themes. We passed in small groups through the wall that divides the palatial grounds from the exterior yard and alcazar, emerging into a shaded foyer. Over the next half-hour, we passed through several mazelike hallways, with each one opening up into an impressive reflecting pool, columned courtyard, or ornately decorated antechamber. One hallway lacked walls, instead featuring a picturesque view of the city of Granada on the adjacent hillside. I couldn’t hit the button on my camera fast enough in a vain attempt to document my surroundings, a problem from which all of my fellow tourists were also suffering.
After several minutes of taking photo after photo, I paused. We had just entered the Generalife gardens, and everyone around me had whipped out their camera to take aim at a particular photogenic pool. Orange cue lights turned on, beeps sounded to warn of an oncoming picture, and flashbulbs went off, one after another. Just as soon as the pictures had been taken, the cameras went back into their bags, and their owners kept on walking. It seemed strange to me that people would come all this way to visit such a beautiful place, and instead of taking the time to live the experience, were content to inscribe it on an external memory card for viewing later, back home, in one’s living room, on one’s computer, on a Sunday, when one had to go back to work the next morning. Anything but guiltless in this affair, I silently put my camera away, allowing all of my senses to inform me in no uncertain terms that I was currently partaking of one of the most sumptuously gorgeous places on this green Earth.
As the afternoon progressed, I found find myself alone in a portion of the grounds, accompanied only by the sound of a gentle breeze and water trickling softly into the fountains. Set against the arid deserts of the Middle East, the Islamic idea of heaven was ample water and lush vegetation, life embodied. As I looked around at the many orange trees, shrubs, and flowers that dotted the terraced landscape and the secluded courtyards, I quietly enjoyed the fact that I was experiencing someone’s version of heaven.
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