By Granada.
Apparently it means “Pineapple” or something…. Not sure. Regardless, in August of 2011, it became my impromptu destination after a buddy told me I couldn’t miss it.
While wandering around Lisboa for a few days, my friend Michael had been earnest and insistent that I cut my time in Portugal short to head back into Spain and see Granada. He had given me a great pitch on the whole city. There was this
“amaaaazing tour guide, for free, has a gimp left arm and a ponytail…. Charismatic, funny, excellent… he’s the best, you have to go” he said earnestly. “But remember, he starts at 8am, you’ll miss him if you’re not there on time”….
I stored the advice in my head.
Then “Alhambra!!….” he shouted, voice escalating and hands raising to the sky “it’s hard to describe….” … he trailed off and gazed into the night sky, a bit too dramatically. Homeric even. Like he was trying to sell me something too legendary to be true… but luckily I took the bait. With little knowledge of the Andalusian city I took his word for it. I was leaving Lisboa three days early to make time for this new stop on my travels. Then I’d have to get to Madrid for a temporary farewell to this travelling life.
So next stop: Granada.
Taking an overnight bus that took a 12-hour route to the old Moorish town, I spoke with backpackers, pilgrims and locals along the way (read: Single-Service Friends, thanks Tyler Durden) Including one exceedingly interesting Vietnamese woman of wise-old age who had survived wars, lost loves, started all over again outside of Saigon and later emigrated to the states before taking a pilgrimage to Spain to see some spectacular churches I knew absolutely nothing about.
Meeting such people and hearing their stories was my favorite part about travelling. This unexpected diversion to the land of pineapples in search of a gimp-armed guide and the majesty of Alhambra was already looking to be worth it.
At 2am I got off the bus for a transfer in Seville. There I met some Aussie and Kiwi travelers heading the other way, and sure enough, even they spoke of this legendary tour guide. “Yeah mate, he’s got a messed up left arm and a ponytail, you can’t miss ‘em, ee’s amazing.” They not only reinforced how great this guy was, but also insisted that I join his brother for a bike tour just outside the city on the following day. Then they started talking about Alhambra. It was like listening to someone talk about visiting another planet. They were absolutely awe-struck. My mouth spread into a smile and my imagination ran free.
So, the matter was settled. This tour guide and Alhambra were clearly Spanish national treasures. And I was more determined than ever to experience both. Any traveller worth their salt knows that word-of-mouth reviews by a half-drunk Aussie at 2 in the morning on a Tuesday in a dusty old Bus terminal are the best pieces of travel advice of them all. I am actually serious about that.
The Bus-odyssey continued, and after a few delays and a few more single-serving friends, I stumbled off the bus in the sweltering dawn of southern Spain. Bleary-eyed and without a smartphone or local map, I wandered about and found my way to a recommended hostel. Following a sweaty, all-night, bus-trip from the Portuguese capital, I was a mess, and I entrusted myself to the meandering suggestions of the shirtless-dreadlocked fellow who called himself the Hostel Manager.
Also an Aussie, promising.
While making pancakes with careless flair, he confirmed the stories of my friend and the passing backpackers as more than legend, and even used the same descriptor of “Amaaaaaazing” (the exact number of ‘a’s is crucial here). He then spoke at poetic length about Alhambra and had me scribbling all kinds of notes for things I should be sure to see while I was there. So I resolved to commit to the tour the next day and Alhambra right after it. I only had a couple days in Granada, and I needed to fit it all in. I also remember my friend was very adamant about getting to the tour guide by 8am. So I made sure to set the alarm, and took it easy drinking with the Aussies (As one does).
Despite any fatigue, I woke the next morning with an ambitious mind. You know, the overly-confident one you have when you go too long on a trip without anything going terribly wrong. It’s a dangerous thing. In fact, the next time you feel that feeling, you should probably just throw your phone or camera against the wall as a pre-emptive sacrificial offer to the fates to ensure no further harm comes to you.
I should have been warned by my go-lucky sense of the world….. Recently I had stopped locking my hostel locker as vigilantly. I had started getting cocky on my price negotiations with street vendors and had been so bold as to give directions to a lost Italian couple the prior day in a city I had never been to with a smattering of random Italian words that were absolutely not accurate. My sense of impunity as a poor traveler was going to be my downfall. I was due for a disaster.
After waking I rushed downstairs, washed down toast and Nutella with some orange juice and started for the door, as I was leaving, the Hostel Manager yelled out “Oh yeah, forgot to tell ya dude, the Alhambra tickets sell out reeeeeall fast the day before, so if ya wanna go later today you should probably buy one reeeaally soon. Like, before 9, Just go to an ATM they sell the tickets there.”
My eyes widened.
I yelled something unintelligible back as I dashed out with newfound hurry. I had not planned for this. It threw a wrench into my timeline. It was already 7:45, and the “Amaaazing” tour started promptly at 8am according to my best friend (By now this tour guide was starting to sound like some kind of messiah, as I had heard of him, unsolicited, through another 5 people since I arrived in the city.)
To make matters worse, the tours started at least 10 minutes away from the hostel. The math wasn’t looking helpful.
7:46
It would be cutting it close, but I could still make it. I was quick. I did track and field in High School, years of running in ROTC at college had prepared me. I’d be okay.
I sprinted down the street to the closest ATM. Closed.
Ran to the next one. Card not accepted.
Ran to the next. Out of order.
Ran to the next one. Boom. Success.
7:49.
I hurriedly pressed buttons and totally missed the option to switch to “Ingles”, thus condemning my mission to the limited wits of my linguistically-challenged mind. I was rushing. And I failed.
Miserably.
7:52.
I looked anxiously around for other options. There were none. Just as I was about to start the whole process again, a kind-hand waved in front of my frantic gaze. It was a banker from inside, and he spoke perfect Ingles……
(Internal dialogue >“Amaaaazing”…….<)
He asked me what I needed, I told him about the Alhambra tickets in a crazed, hand-waving, pantomiming burst…. he calmly smiled, nodded approvingly and quickly went about fixing everything. Once the transaction was processing, he bid farewell and went back inside. After an agonizing 30 seconds of whirring, technological fax-like sounds, and obvious taunting on the part of the ATM, I had my tickets in hand.
Awesome.
7:54.
My eyes lit up, I had to make it across town in 6 minutes…. Though the desperate ATM search had taken me in the complete opposite direction of my 10 minute walk…. so it was more like a 15 minute walk…. The gauntlet was laid. But it was still doable. I could run.
My overly confident mind felt ready for the time-trial, so I turned, lowered my shoulders, and started on a sprint. Even recalling the lessons of my high school track coach for a moment, I imagined myself back then, on the cusp of a race, the gun fire, the first plant of the foot, raising the head a bit more with each longer stride as my legs fired off like pistons….. I was in true form…. Feeling quite good about myself, there was a moment of elation. Coach Mann would have been proud (Spelled with two ‘Ns’ because he “was more than a man”)
I was in a faraway city. Tickets to a majestic castle clutched in my hand. On my way to a tour of the city that was apparently supposed to be a near-spiritual experience, and I was running at full speed down a beautiful sidewalk, filled with great smells, sights, people, there would be some Flamenco later, it was wonderful…
And then….
BAAAAAM.
I don’t think she was even aware that she went airborne for a moment.
But I did catch a glimpse of her left eye through the luminous black hair cascading in front of it as she flew off her feet and into the air. And that eye, with no question said:
“What…….. the hell.”
See, in my haste, I was sprinting at full-speed, close to the building-walls, storefronts, and doors that line the sidewalk, and in my zealous quest to parkour across the city and make it to this prophetic tour on time….. I managed to bulldoze through a lovely, olive-skinned, green-eyed, senorita who was peaceably exiting the bank on a quiet Tuesday morning. (On a Tuesday)
My shoulder ran into her face like a poorly-rehearsed scene from a B-level Steven Segal flick. Except this was very unrehearsed, and the part where she was lifted off the ground and fell with a convincing body flop a few feet away, was unfortunately not acted out by a hardy stunt double. I stopped several meters ahead and turned quickly. Quite baffled for a moment, I just stared for a second before dashing back to her side. I looked down confusingly. Still unsure what exactly had happened, but still thinking I’d get to my “Amaaazing” tour on time, I went into College-Lifeguard auto-pilot mode…. And scanned her over, checking for injuries and vitals. It didn’t look too bad, her hands were up by her face, but everything was intact, and she seemed conscious and fully aware….
annnnnnnnnnd then she removed her hands…
Boom.
Blood came pouring out like sangria on Friday night. It was bad.
And though she had kept her composure thus far, the instant she saw the bloody result, tears came cascading out. It was torrential. The only words she managed to sputter out was “Dios mio” a few times.
7:55
Soon I found myself berated with verbal strikes by a very angry, old woman who had no time for my apologetic protest of “lo siento! lo siento!” as I very genuinely became overwhelmed with guilt and surprise.
A small crowd formed outside the bank’s entrance and the same banker who had helped me earlier emerged with a commanding presence but a puzzled face.
He looked over at me.
Then down at the sobbing, bloodied woman.
Then back up at me.
Then back down at the woman.
Then back at me…
All with the same level of confusion.
Finally he shouted a few words to the crowd and started reassuring the angry old woman, while helping me with picking up the injured woman. He brushed away my hand and cast a look back at me that said “Hey amigo, I got this, you just play it cool”.
I followed them sullenly into the bank.
7:56.
As I entered, the first thing I noticed inside was the air-conditioning…. Wow. This was great.
Staying in cheap hostels, even cheaper buses, and romping around Iberia, I had forgotten how phenomenal this luxury was.
But my momentary cooling experience was interrupted when the banker walked over to me and asked in a concerned but assertive tone:
“What happened?”
I immediately spilled into a rambling story filled with wild gesticulations and a flurry of poorly constructed Spanglish, but to my surprise, he seemed once again to understand. This man was not only a savior, but obviously a linguistic genius who spoke full Insane-Americanish.
Nodding knowingly, and with a slight smile, he returned to the injured woman. She had been brought water, tissues, and ice from some other staff and looked to be recovering mentally (The staff all looked at me disapprovingly). Then, the old woman returned to her duty of berating me with what were probably fantastic insults that only someone of her age and experience could wield but which I was also woefully ignorant of understanding. I simply accepted the verbal battering and kept muttering “lo siento, lo siento.”
8:04.
I had definitely missed the tour start by now…
After lingering around to the side of all the commotion, tensions seemed to lower slightly, so I made my way over to the lady I had demolished.
Up to this point, I had only really noticed that she was a woman, spoke Spanish, and was obviously displeased at the sight of her own blood pouring out of her face. It’s with retrospect that I used the prior descriptors… But anyway… at that moment, with the blood mostly cleared away, and sitting up straight with her face up, I noticed that she was unreasonably gorgeous. Absolutely beautiful. Just comically attractive. I mean. I think I had always wondered what the word Senorita exactly meant. Now I knew. Holy shit. I need to live here. I need to ask her out, I need to…. Hemingway got it right. This is “Amaaaazing”…..
I jolted myself back to reality. Nope, none of that.
8:07
I realized I had dazed off into a stare, so I shook myself back to earth and approached. I took her hand and apologized sincerely. She seemed to accept it and smiled kindly. I noticed then that her nose was clearly bent. I had broken it. And who knows what I had done to her cheekbone, as the whole left side of her face was swelling up like a balloon. But despite these handicaps, her striking appearance prevailed. It was then that the banker put a hand on my shoulder and talked to me for a couple minutes…. Explaining that he had told the story to the injured woman, who had apparently chuckled at parts of it, and to the old woman, who maintained a stoic despise of this reckless American. He also told me not to worry about hospital bills as “After all, this is Espana” he said, before inserting a scoff and grin with: “we have free healthcare… unlike you Americans”.
Yeah, you got me there guy.
8:12.
After he finished I looked over to the woman and back to him with a hopeful and concerned look on my face.
He read it like a book.
“Yes, you can go, really, it’s fine” he said.
It had felt like hours, but barely 20 minutes had passed.
I couldn’t believe it. I was free. Despite the disaster, I could still possibly, maybe, against all odds, catch the mythic tour-guide. Maybe. Just maybe he’s running late. Or maybe I can scour the streets looking for him and the group. Or maybe HE also ran into a lovely women on his way to work and was delayed by the ensuing chaos…. Maybe….
…I could still make it. So I apologized one last time, turned and did the same to the old woman, shook the hand of the banker, who maintained kind eyes but looked as though he was desperately hoping not to see me again, and made off out the door.
THIS time I sprinted even faster. Buuuuut, I stuck to the curb-side of the sidewalk, infallibly rationalizing that no ill could come to me as long as I stayed away from storefront doors and the…
CAR DOOR.
It had opened suddenly.
Green, with the window half rolled down, I had managed to barrel right into and past the obstruction, whipping it shut with a resounding explosion of noise. Stopping several meters ahead, I felt oddly in routine, and dashed back to see what I had done.
8:13
Prepared for a deluge of blood, a furious grandfather (for symmetry of course) and without any benefit from a kind-hearted banker, I painfully looked into the car.
Inside I found a very frightened, pale-faced 30-something man. He had not expected the car door he just opened to swing back and attack him so ferociously. I looked down at my left elbow, it was pulsating with red-ooze, I looked back at the driver. He looked completely fine, seated awkwardly with his hands locked onto his knees, he was clearly in a kind of confused shock from the dramatic slam and crazed-Gringo that came after. Having learned the phrase for “are you okay” from the banker’s repeated inquiries 10 minutes before, I ensured all was well, got a “Si”, apologized, and dashed back off.
8:14
Surprisingly, and stupidly, I was still running. Blinded by my irrational desire to still make this tour AND Alahambra in one day… I would not let up in my pursuit. Okay, middle of the sidewalk.” I thought, “That’s my jam. I’ll be fine there. It’s great. No worries. Just got to make that tour…” 8:15
As I was sprinting through the streets it crossed my mind that I had wasted a fantastic opportunity. I had a perfect excuse to get the woman’s contact information. You know. Send a get-well card, then a gift. Start a flirtatious trans-Atlantic correspondence. Fly back to visit her. Charmingly sweep her off her feet. Marry her. Settle in Granada. Work ATM-technical-support at the local bank…
Oh the woefully wasted opportunity.
I considered heading back to see if she was still there for a fleeting moment, then disregarded the insane day-dream, as running full speed to find this legendary tour guide consumed my mind… and I was coming close to hitting oncoming cars. Hurdling into a spacious square, over a fence, and through traffic, my hands fell on my knees for a moment as I regained my breath…. I looked up.
And to my amazement..
…against all odds…
There the tour guide stood.
He was unmistakable. With the gimp-left arm and ponytail, a cluster of young travelers around him looking eagerly around. He stood like a mirage in the distance. Except it was only 15 feet, and he and the travelers were quickly wondering what the sweaty, disheveled, heavily-breathing weirdo with the bloody arm was doing staring at them.
8:19.
Out of breath, I told him I was there for the tour, explaining I was very thankful that he was running late and hadn’t left already since I had just gone through a lot to get there.
“Oh well you could have walked…
…The tour doesn’t start until 8:30.”
I just looked up and…
Oh dios mio…..
Thanks Michael.
P.S.
The tour was worth it, Amaaaaaazing. I would have run into the banker too. And Alhambra?…. You just gotta go. It’s beyond words.
Leventeia 