Dale limosna, mujer, que no hay en la vida nada como la pena de ser ciego en Granada.
// Give alms, woman, for there’s nothing in life like the punishment of being blind in Granada.
— Francisco de Icaza (1863-1925)
And the moon was cut like a D,
on a dark robe, written in gold.
— Shmu’el HaNagid (993-1056)
from “The Gazelle” (translation by Peter Cole)
Granada, May 26th 2025
The Albaicín
I’m ensconced in my new accommodations for the next two nights, a traditional carmen in the Albaicín neighborhood of Granada. The houses here are of Moorish design, and many of them date back several centuries: tall white-washed walls enclosing orchards, waterways, and gardens. Twisting alleyways leading to narrow stairs, vines of star jasmine creeping up and down the slope, the scent drifting across the terraces and courtyards, intoxicating in its sweetness. In the cool, shaded living room hangs an old black-and-white portrait, faded by time and sunlight. A beautiful raven-haired woman, a matrimonial outfit. No doubt somebody’s grandmother, great-grandmother, or never-forgotten love. From my patio, I look out and see a small square yard with blooming flowers, a burbling fountain. Down the slope of white awnings and rooftops, the Dauro River, and on the other side of the valley, the Alhambra, a complex of red-earthen palaces, ramparts, and fortresses rising up imperiously over the city. The lights are off and the air conditioning is non-functional; after a few minutes of fiddling I call my host, who tells me that the whole neighborhood is experiencing a blackout, and that power should be back on in a few hours. Oh well - all the more reason to nap and escape the mid-day heat. I try in vain to fire off a text to Lindsey (who is staying with her parents closer to the city center); for whatever reason, my cell service is spotty as well. I manage to call her and let her know I’ll be out of commission for a bit. Faced with a mandatory siesta, I’ve decided to sprawl out on the bed and write.
In my first semester of college, I took a seminar on Hebrew Poetry in Medieval Spain, taught by visiting professor Peter Cole, a poet and scholar from Princeton who quite literally wrote the book on the subject (and produced many of the definitive English translations). An eye-opener for a naive Chinese-American freshman from California, who had inklings of love for literature, but had never explored poetry, Jewish culture, or Spanish history in any detail whatsoever. The only two other students in the course (which shrank from a roomful during our first week ‘shopping period’ to a small, single round-table by the second time I walked into the room) were both senior literature or spiritual studies majors, Jewish, and deeply fluent in both Hebrew and Jewish cultural context. I remember feeling badly that I was slowing everyone down, limiting discussion to English, and so forth, but Professor Cole was incredibly gracious and patient, and I think recognized that I wanted to connect with the work, total novice though I was. It became a tremendous learning experience, and it exposed me to a place, a people, and a world of poetics that were entirely new to me. Through the profoundly beautiful, spiritual, romantic work of writers like Shmu’el HaNagid, Solomon ibn Gabirol, and Yehuda Halevi, I learned about the golden age of Al-Andalus. Here was a Spain in which Muslim, Jewish, and Christian thinkers lived in close proximity, freely admixed styles and influences, and drew upon each other’s science, art, and literature. Where the great Jewish writers of the age were empowered by their milieu to express deep love and yearning - for family, community, place, home, God, fellow man - often through powerfully cross-cultural and erotic/homoerotic poetic conventions and forms. Although there was still plenty of religious segregation, discrimination, and violence to go around during the so-called Convivencia, I have often thought about what we current-day folk might learn from this period of time, situated as we are in our age of rapid globalization and modernization. As our geopolitical, interpersonal, and interior borders shift at growing speed, I wish more of us could practice freely giving and receiving from each other; welcoming each other’s gifts and flaws alike with gratitude; and creating more together, always with a view toward the beautiful and the eternal. Granada, alongside a few other cities in southern Spain, became an epicenter of this cultural moment. It was ultimately the final Muslim kingdom to fall to the Catholic monarchs’ reconquest in 1492. It is another place I have been looking forward to visiting for a very long time.
It was a roughly two-and-a-half hour ride from Seville to Granada this morning, passing through some familiar places such as Córdoba (from two days ago) and Antequerra (where Lindsey and I transferred on our way from Málaga to Ronda). As usual, after staring out of train windows for too long, wanderlust sets in. After we disembark the train and witness the snow-capped sierra rising above the city to the south, I part ways with Lindsey and family and set off on a stroll (the upside of backpacking as opposed to suitcasing) between the station and the Albaicín, the old Moorish quarter. Granada is more my vibe compared to the polished gleam of Seville’s city center: a touch grittier, more aware of itself, its history, its folklore. I pass barbers, fruit stands, traveling merchants selling religious trinkets. A plant shop named after the opening line from one of my favorite García Lorca poems. The city is suffused with his presence - there’s a certain duende in the air here, a certain “hopeless sensuality,” as he wrote about this neighborhood in his teenage years. This being, after all, his hometown, as well as his final resting place after a fascist squad unceremoniously murdered him and left him in an unmarked roadside grave somewhere nearby. I stop in a bookshop to browse and read. By the time I make the climb up the hillside of the Albaicín, following the terraces and staircases ever higher and higher, the sun is directly overhead, I’m covered in sweat, and glad to finally step into the cool comfort of my new home. My clothes (and I) are washed and drying on the patio now.
After attempting to locate Lindsey via extremely delayed echolocation (no luck; still struggling with phone and power issues, though I did have a nice wander down to the city center, passing by Calle de la Calderería and its North-African-feeling bazaar), I’ve returned to the house to rest and take the rest of the afternoon off. I’ve decided I will go sit in on an evening flamenco show in the caves of Sacromonte, the gitano quarter a short distance away from here. I have one fewer night in Granada than Lindsey and her folks (and will be back in Málaga by the time they take their night tour of the Alhambra on Wednesday), so I’d best make the most of my time. Then, it’ll be dinner with a view atop the Mirador San Nicolas, a prominent hill looking out onto the Alhambra from the upper reaches of the Albaicín. Lindsey may not know it yet, but her mom and I have been in cahoots for some time before this trip, and have essentially planned dueling birthday dinners for her here in Granada. Tonight on this side of town, tomorrow near the palace itself. In my typical fashion, I made a few different reservations months ago before settling on a restaurant at the last moment. Here’s hoping it’s anything to write home about.
Getting to dusk now. I’ll head out on foot to Sacromonte soon. As usual, with plenty time to spare, so that I can poke around with the camera and get a feel for where I’m going.
