Alhambra Envy

The Alhambra in Granada, Spain covers about 35 acres. There are dozens of gardens, halls where the reigning sultans greeted ambassadors, and richly textured and detailed architechture. It was the site of treaties, intrigue, happiness, murder and quite a bit of gardening. Books have been written about it, as it is one of the most magnificent and legendary palaces in recorded history.

I used to live in a studio apartment. I had some plants there, but one of them died. I once had seven people over for a chicken dinner, and some of them had to sit on the floor. My shower was cool... it had awesome water pressure. I don´t think I will be able to afford that kind of place in New York, though.

Quixotic Lessons

The Spanish countryside is expansive and stunning. On my bus from Seville to Granada, the landscape stretched out either side of me, with huge groves of short olive trees dotting the scene. They looked like an army of jolly green midgets, marching lock-root over the rolling hills towards the pack of huge modern windmills in the blue-sky distance. Mindful of Don Quixote debacle, I think they should just leave well enough alone. If literary history teaches us nothing else, it teaches us this: nothing good can come from messing with a windmill.

Polly the Berwakker

I have a friend in Spain now! My friend Chelsea has joined me here in Spain, and for once my conversations are more involved than "How long have you been traveling?" and "Do you know where the bus station is?"

Chelsea speaks Spanish, so it's made things much easier on me. It helps in restaurants, and also in conversations with caged birds.

We were walking down one of Seville´s many stone alleys, winding like a drunk, gray snake (the alley, not us), when out of one of the nearby windows we heard "BERWAKKKK!" (that´s as close as I can come to a proper description of the sound, except to add that I at first thought it was a child that had accidentally stuck his finger in an electrical socket).

We walked back to the source of the berwakkk, and found a parrot perched in a cage, with his owner behind him. He was trying to speak it seemed, but his words seemed like nothing more than cries of caged avian angst. His pupils were dilating and constricting wildly as he tried to communicate, as if possessed or high on something. Finally, his owner intervened as Bird-Spanish translator:

Como te llama? Como te llama?-- he was asking our names.

We told him our names, but he just kept on asking.... Como te llama, como te llama, comotellamacomotellama.....

I hate it when birds don´t listen. But he might have really just been all high on birdnip or something, or he may not have heard us, or maybe you just can´t have normal conversations with birds anyway.

Ham Sandwiches on the Street of the King´s Head

Two of the more impressive buildings I have seen on my travels were in Seville. The Catedral (that´s right -- its the cathedral, gothic diva, the Cher of catholic churches) is the third largest cathedral in the world, and Christopher Columbus' burial site. The royal palace in Seville, Alcazar, is pretty much what I would want to live in if I were a king. Peaceful gardens, grand halls and ornate tapestries showing happy camels, emus and soldiers of medieval Spain. That´s what I would want.... along with my own palace rock band and a stable of placid dragons.

The thing about Seville, though, is that it can be hard to actually find your way to the majestic treasures it holds. The city is a fickle nervous system of cobbled paths and streets, and nowhere does it even come close to resembling a grid. One alley looks much like the one before it-- with old world houses and the occasional square tile painting of the Virgin Mary in a bejewelled crown the size of a healthy pumpkin.

As I might have expected with my nortoriously weak sense of direction, this web of stone confused me quite a bit. Most of the streets, alleys and plazas are named after saints, Spanish royalty or Jesus at some stage of his life. So, I might take a left on San Jose, run right into the Plaza of San Ildefonso, but get turned around in my search for The Head of the King Don Pedro Street on my way to Jesus of the Three Falls Street. I found myself needing brief respites, mental sabbaticals, to ease my troubled mind and grease my inner compass. Like a mouse inside a maze, I would head for the place where I knew the food pellets would be. One such place was aptly called The Refuge Bar. It was the first of many such pit stops, and where I first uttered:

Una bocadillo de jamon, por favor, y una cerveza. (a ham sandwich, please, and a beer)

But it wasn´t until later that I learned the phrase most needed -- "Donde estoy?" (where am I?). I think I will supplement it next time with "Y porque esta aqui?" (and why am I here?). Philosophy and Geography, hand in hand, as I navigate ham sandwiches and the streets of Spain.