I’ve only been in Spain for two weeks and already I have more stories and pictures than I know what to do with. From taking cooking classes; walking my feet to the point of having steel-thick calluses take residence on my poor, irredeemable soles; buying, storing and putting off dismemberment of a whole baby octopus; and realizing I possess some form of secret streetwalker magnetism that beckons every rent boy and prostitute within a mile’s radius to come speak to me, though I’d really, really prefer they didn’t. It’s been a busy two weeks with many stories to tell, but having just returned from a three day trip to Granada, I’ll begin there.
Before I left the states I’d been told that before I left Spain I absolutely had to visit Granada. Everyone said, It’s beautiful! You’ll love it! Go! And maybe it was the five hour bus ride from Madrid or the Stinky McCheese I was sitting next to, but when I arrived I felt exhausted and grossly underwhelmed. We pulled into the bus station after traveling through what looked to be Madrid 2.0, and I didn’t really see what was so special about this place.
Until I did.
I took another bus into the center city toward where my hotel was situated, and out of nowhere I was slapped across the face with a scene that immediately validated everyone’s praise. Overlooking the city were old houses clustered throughout the steep hillsides, and beyond them, in spite of it being nearly 90 degrees, was a sprawl of snow-capped mountains lightly faded in the distance. Bob Ross would shit himself if he could see this.