Verde que te quiero verde. // Green, how I want you, green.
Verde viento. Verde ramas. // Green wind. Green branches.
El barco sobre la mar // The ship out at sea
y el caballo en la montaña. // and the horse upon the mountain.
Con la sombra en la cintura // With the shadow on her waist
ella sueña en su baranda, // she dreams on her balcony,
verde carne, pelo verde, // flesh green, hair green,
con ojos de fría plata. // with eyes of cold silver.
Verde que te quiero verde. // Green, how I want you, green.
Bajo la luna gitana, // Beneath the gypsy moon,
las cosas la están mirando // all things are watching her
y ella no puede mirarlas. // and she cannot see them.
— Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
from “Romance Sonámbulo”
“The desert and the garden are ever side by side.”
— Washington Irving (1783-1859)
Tales of the Alhambra
“This place reminds me of Ikea.”
— Lindsey, about the Alhambra
Granada, May 27th 2025
The Albaicín
If you were to live here all your life, I wonder if you would grow used to seeing it, the medieval palace sitting on the hilltop across, home of viziers and kings and legends great and small for most of the past millenium. I woke up this morning and there it was outside my bedroom window, its ramparts greeting the new dawn, one of the loveliest and most fabled sites of medieval history and architecture in all of Spain, maybe the world. Last night was memorable; Lindsey, her parents, and I met up for dinner on a rooftop overlooking the Albaicín, her dad and I taking turns going to the corner of the terrace (out of way of other diners) to photograph the Alhambra as dusk fell and floodlights illuminated its walls; the Sierra Nevada rising behind the scene to the south; the terraces below filled with happy diners, drinkers, dancers and cavorters; the song and beat of flamenco being performed in the square. We shared a bottle of wine and managed to order the entire dessert menu. It was, after all, technically a birthday dinner. Afterward, wandering the nighttime Albaicín for the few twisting, turning blocks back to my room, I sat down on a bench near home and watched the streetlamps flicker against the white alleyways, the palace lit up on the hillside beyond, feeling very contented and peaceful and calm. From far away somewhere, dogs howling, the strain of music. On the wall across from my front door, a charming line of roses, multi-coloured, leaves curled in the night, growing unabashedly through barbed wire fence. There was a metaphor there, but I felt too tired and happy and grateful for everything to reach for it.
This morning, as agreed upon ahead of time, I walked down to the Dauro and into the city to meet Lindsey and her parents in their hotel lobby, worried as we were that finding each other by text would continue to be unreliable. It turns out that the phone issue quietly resolved itself sometime during the day (I realized when I got a flood of notifications regarding two days’ worth of email while touring the Alhambra), but it meant that the four of us were able to share a taxi ride up to the entrance gate of the Generalife, the summer palace and estate directly outside of the main palace complex. We toured that area for most of the morning, admiring the carefully cultivated garden landscapes of roses, poppies, jasmines, and meadow flowers before turning inward to the Alhambra itself, and the palaces of the Nasrid dynasty which formed the focal point of our day. The less that can be written about the Nasrid palaces, perhaps, the better. Words somewhat fail at capturing the symbolic and practical effect of this place, a mind-numbing sequence of intricate tile carvings, muqarnas, hypergeometric patterns, Quranic script, and natural flourishes that evoke God and the beauty of his creation everywhere you look. And everywhere, the sound of flowing water - from the spring above the Generalife, down the pools and fountains of the gardens below, to terrace upon terrace of carefully cultivated landscape, and onward through the old baths and buildings. All the way inward to the quadrangular canal bordering the Court of the Lions, whose twelve-lioned fountain lies at the very center; the innermost sanctum of the entire palace. Reading about the place ahead of time, one is tempted to write the whole thing off as an extravagant display of bygone wealth - built, abandoned, and only recent re-discovered and repaired in the past two centuries. But visiting it, one truly gets a sense of remarkable vision. The people who designed and built this place deeply loved their world, their nature, their God. They poured many lifetimes and generations of love, design, and devotion into the foundations, the stonework, the finishing touches. It is a triumph of human art that shows at every step. Which made it all the more hilarious when Lindsey, as we carefully navigated the rope-guided, unidirectional crush of tourists flowing from palace to palace, remarked, “This place reminds me of Ikea!” You can count on Lindsey for many things, but to not relate everything she’s seeing back to home decor is not one of them.
In the afternoon, I part ways briefly with Lindsey and company to walk back downhill (and uphill) to the Albaicín, along the way stopping for a bite, a frozen pineapple smoothie, and a tea set gift for Jane. Lindsey and her folks accidentally miss the taxi stand and wind up walking all the way back downhill to their hotel. Back at home, everyone’s exhausted after a full six hours exploring the Alhambra, apparently in no shape or condition to go out again for our original dinner reservation. Yet, I did not come all this fucking way to Spain to not celebrate my dear friend’s birthday. I get up to my typical shenanigans, and through a slight miscommuniqué with her mom, after crisscrossing Granada on foot for an hour in search of a good pasteleria, some candles, and a lighter, I wind up arriving back at their hotel with Lindsey’s birthday cake… while everyone is asleep. All good, though. Her dad comes downstairs, and we (sort of) hide the object of interest in the hotel kitchen, with the receptionist’s help. My favorite parts of the entire excursion: knocking on a random apartment door in a second-floor hallway; someone’s grandmother answers; I’ve been misled by Google reviews, the pastry chef no longer lives here, oops. Then, a half-mile away - the pretty shop owner at Tartas Cristina, who gives a brilliant flavor recommendation (handmade that morning, her personal favorite) as well as helps with cake-writing and candles. “Puede poner numeros… o tal vez un interrogante.” I briefly flirt with the idea of buying Lindsey a younger set of numbered candles and a question mark candle, but decide that would be as mean-spirited as funny. Birthdays should be celebrated and loved for what they are. Cake in the hotel’s safekeeping, I go back out, presuming we will surprise Lindsey once she’s well-rested. Ten minutes later, I’m summoned back from my wandering to retrieve birthday cake for birthday girl. I’m not sure exactly what transpired or was messaged, but if Lindsey was at all pissed at being woken up from a much-needed nap to celebrate her own birthday, she managed to not show it. We sing for her in the hotel’s dining area, and cut into the pastel de chocolate y naranja with accompanying tea and coffee. On my way to retrieve cutlery from the hotel staff, the receptionist asks me about Lindsey’s mom, who is obviously limping after miles of walking, climbing, and twisting her ankle on the steps of the Alhambra’s fortress watchtower. So it is that Lindsey and I end our time together in Spain the only way that two palliative care physicians could: going down the street and acquiring some good ol’ symptom management meds with the help of the friendly neighborhood pharmacist.
After bidding Lindsey and her parents farewell and safe travels, I walk back to the city center, on my own again: just me, myself, and my camera. Near dusk, I enter the city’s grand cathedral and stand in the back listening to mass, feeling the words reverberate around the high-arched ceilings and in my bones. Outside, I sit on the steps and watch sunset. I’m alone but not alone - there are many others doing the same thing, speaking quietly in Spanish, laughing with friends. I feel very calm again. I take a photo of the cathedral facade, aglow pink and red in the slanted warm light. A block away, I stop at a well-known local bar and restaurant (my first Bourdain joint ouside of Baltimore or Boston, I believe) for almejas and croquetas de jamón y queso, all washed down with more tinto de verano - that addictive, refreshing, fruity blend of red wine and ice-cold lemonade that I have grown to love over the past week. Bread, olives, fine tapas, a glass of red, and people-watching in the square - what better way to end the day? On my way home, on a lark, I stop in a bookstore minutes before closing and buy a translated book of essays on García Lorca and his concept of duende - the dark, dangerous, passionate force that he hypothesized to lie at the heart of all great art, especially the performing arts. I’ve come to appreciate it more myself, navigating these streets, seeing these hopelessly beautiful sights, feeling the steady oblivion of history and culture collide with the desperate, frenetic energy of modern man and his modern love. A celebration and dirge at once; generative spirit married with loss and death. I take some of my favorite photos of the trip on my slow climb back up the hill through the Albaicín: the Alhambra lit by the final rays of the setting sun. A quiet courtyard, a peaceful fountain. An orange tree bearing fruit in the growing darkness.
Back to Málaga on the morrow. Feeling some duende myself, I think I’ll stay up late tonight. We are, after all, almost at the end. There is always time for sleep after everyone is dead and buried and long gone.
Málaga, May 28th 2025
Apartment overlooking Estación María Zambrano
So we reach the end, my final night in Spain. I’m sitting in a little fourth-floor flat, just across the street and overlooking the train station where Lindsey and I set out on our travels, more or less exactly a week ago. I have one last order of business tomorrow (riding the train past the airport to the seaside town of Torremolinos, where I hope to acquire some cork bags and souvenirs) before heading home via Barcelona. It’s been an enjoyable day of backtracking, consolidating, and wrapping things up. In the morning, I saw Lindsey one last time before departing Granada. She managed to catch me with a text just as I was heading out the door; we met up in front of the cathedral and wandered aimlessly for a bit before I had to say goodbye (for real this time) and head to the station to catch my train out of town. Goodbyes are always a little horrid, even when you see them coming or get the chance to repeat them once or twice. I fell asleep on the near-empty train to Málaga; helped a somewhat beleaguered German woman find her way to the commuter-rail to catch her flight. After checking into my one-bedroom flat and rehydrating, I went out on a walk, back to the city center which I explored with Elyse and Lindsey on the first night. I spend awhile browsing shops here (last-minute souvenir fever) but nothing stands out. I wind up having a very nice dinner by myself at Bar Málaga, on a little balcony overlooking the street below. More tinto de verano (of course), this time paired with setas, gambas, y jamón, along with a plate of calamares fritos. So simple, so fresh, so delicious. On my own, I become a little more carnivorous; I text Lindsey to let her know that I am ordering my mariscos.
After dinner, I work it off with more walking, circling the streets and then turning up onto the switchbacking path behind the local alcazaba (fortress) overlooking the sea. Passing a dance class with an enviable view of the city, I keep climbing to a nice overlook, which faces southwest onto the city skyline, the port, the beaches, and the range of mountains beyond. I spend most of the golden hour gradually shooting, watching the light change, and indulging in a bit of street photography beyond my usual landscape comps. It’s a pretty place for sunset, and evidently a popular hangout for youngsters on dates. Back downhill, I say farewell to the Hotel Molina Lario where I spent my first night here. On my walk home, there’s one final street gelato waiting for me. The gelato counter man (the handsome, tall and suave gelato counter man) asks me where I got my shirt, says it looks good on me (“No recuerdo, alguna marca en Amazon,” I say with a laugh). He complements my multicoloured sneakers - not my rainbow walkers but, notably, a different colorway that resembles the flag of the Second Spanish Republic (“Son de Merrell,” I point out). He asks me if I’d like to grab a drink in a bit. I smile and point politely to my wedding ring, but my brain instantly informs me, “Fucking yes. Still got it…" Thank you, gelato counter man, for making my year.
Now back at my flat. To bed, and to the conclusion of this amazing, unforgettable trip. I have a vague feeling I’ll be back in this direction before long. For now, home tomorrow, where there is always more love to give, more blessings to be counted, and more good trouble to be made.
