Alhambra Now, Sleep Later: The Granada Chronicles Part II

I awoke very early on Saturday morning, convinced that I would see the Alhambra that day. By 7am, Dana, Katie, and I were standing in line on the hill, shivering, but excited to see the glorious fortress. At 8am, the box office opened. A voice announced that there were 80 tickets left for the morning tour and 103 tickets left for the afternoon tour. Surely, we were part of the first 80 people (don't call me Shirley), and if not, definitely part of the next 103 people. The line had barely moved when the voice announced that the morning tickets were sold out. How? Confusion swept through the queue. To whom had these mysterious tickets been issued? Rumors surfaced about another line somewhere. Ten minutes later, all the afternoon tickets were sold out as well. All around us, there was great displeasure. After some eavesdropping and some inquiries, we were elucidated to the fact that there had, indeed, been another line. A line for people paying with credit cards. A line that moved much faster than the taquilla* because the people working there moved at a glacial pace. Joder.** Getting out of line, we decided to be proactive and arrive at 5am the following morning. We were not leaving Granada without seeing the Alhambra.

Hungry, we decided to head to the Albaicín to desayunar*** and explore. The Albaicín is the old, Moorish neighborhood--situated on a hill facing the Alhambra. The streets are narrow, cobblestone, and uneven, going this way and that. The houses are whitewashed with terracotta roofs and ceramic flower pots are cheerfully lined up on windowsills. The quaint neighborhood bears the feeling of a seaside town, even though there is no body of water nearby. The cars parked on the streets almost seem like anachronisms.

It was still relatively early when the bus dropped us off at the Albaicín's doorstep, so we wandered aimlessly, our stomachs growling and our eyes searching for an open cafetería.**** A man walked by us carrying loaves of bread. Immediately, we trotted in the direction from which the man had come and stumbled upon a bakery. Greedy from hunger, we stocked up on various pastries as well as a big loaf of bread to share. Happy, like Dickensian orphans with their daily bread, we continued walking and stopped at a café to have some coffee. The café was just like any other café in Spain: small, bustling, and warm. However, its location in a neighborhood that felt more like an old town made it all the more cozy. People seemed to know each other and the atmosphere was very homely. Women were having their morning coffee together while elderly gentlemen in cardigans sat discussing the latest news. I felt as though I had been transported into another time. Sometimes, it is difficult to believe that places such as this café still exist when you spend most of your time in a modern, bustling, metropolitan center.

Considering the Albaicín's opportune location on a hill, it hosts some seriously splendid views of Granada below:

Furthermore, while we were in the café infiltrating our bodily systems with caffeine--at least I was--the neighborhood around us woke up. Upon exiting the café, we encountered a market selling produce.

People were going on about their daily lives or simply strolling, enjoying the October sun. Take that, Alhambra.

*box office

**fuck

***to have breakfast

****café