All Roads Lead to Granada

When I got off the plane I told myself that it was Ok to get a taxi; I’d dragged my bags so far already that I deserve a break, but I’d keep me eyes open for a bus just in case. The truth was that I was intimidated by the idea of catching the right bus and going to an unknown destination and was alright with the convenient yet more expensive option of making that someone else’s job. I saw the sign for the taxis first on my left but I turned right and went for the buses; just to see what the situation was. As it turned out, the bus was extremely east to figure out, basically a pick up and depository system of “English” tourists (all variety of tourists falling into that category). Getting to the hostel its self proved to be a bit more difficult as the road was blocked by a parade celebrating the patron virgin of Granada. Slowly and somberly (hardly a “festive” mood although that’s what they kept referring to it as) mostly olderly women, holding long white candles flowed down the street carried by the beat of marching bands. Like a motor boat interrupting spawning salmon, I excused my way right through the middle of it; trailing my 55lbs suit case in tow. Parched from the plane and the walk, I finally made it to my hostel and checked in. To my dismay what was described over the phone as a room on the “ground floor” actually ended up being up two flights of narrow stairs; however, I am forever ecstatic about the weight training opportunities that keep presenting themselves. After a nice hot shower, I felt much relieved yet surprisingly hungry; I may have forgotten that Spain was an hour ahead of England, but my stomach hadn’t. I’d remembered passing a tapas bar on the way and decided to check it out. The place was healthily busy and I seemed to be the only foreigner, both of which I took to be good signs. A little overwhelmed at the selection and the prices, I decided to treat myself since I’d saved so much by taking a bus. I ordered a glass of vino tinto, red wine, from “la Rioja” one of the best wine growing regions, and fresh chorizo (something I’d been missing for the past four years). The food was excellent and as the bar filled up, so did I. The bartender’s voice projected over the din as he shouted out orders. I asked the couple next to me if they had any idea where the “sultan’s street” was, the place I’m supposed to go tomorrow for my orientation. They were unable to help me, but very kind. I returned to my hostel and continued my search for the elusive “Hotel Abades Nevada Palace” with the assistance of the clerk (who consequently is also the housekeeper and speaks about five languages). In the end we decided that it would probably be best for me to get a taxi seeing as it was a bit outside of town. Running up to my room I grabbed a light jacket as it had gotten a bit chilly when the sun when down and decided to be out with everyone else- roaming the street. I walked past the cathedral and helped myself to some mango gelato. Unfortunately, I am not yet on the Spanish time schedule and yawning, decided to call it an early night. Though extremely different from Granada, Nicaragua where I was earlier this spring, the scraps of music wafting its way up form the street along with the smell of corn roasting on the corner are oddly reminiscent and comforting.