Granada

I could say I’d been to Granada, but my only memory from my previous trip to The City of the Pomegranate was a vague one of dinner at a fondue restaurant. To have managed to forget the rolling hills, the snow-capped mountains, and La Alhambra was no small feat, and I am unsure of whether it was swept up at the tail end of a two-week college tour of Spain, lost sight of over the years, or somehow entirely missed altogether. Trauma has a way of affecting our vision, whether it be in the moment or in hindsight, and our minds have a way of shielding us from the past.

It would take another seven years for me to be driven from my thin garrison of disguise, and then another eleven to return to the fortress on the hill, which I did not recognize in spite of its size and grandeur. I saw it as though I had never seen it before, as I did the hilly and winding city set against the backdrop of a landscape that I knew I did not have enough life to fully appreciate. I had a hard time walking away.

In spite of the gray skies, my view had never been brighter. Alone, I wandered the city streets more completely than I did all those years ago. Over the course of my first afternoon there, I had a late lunch at Papas Elvira, a Middle Eastern fast food joint, only accompanied by the mother and children who, after school, were helping her with work, followed by my first cup of pour-over coffee in Spain, as I inadvertently took an indirect loop around the cathedral. Later I met you for drinks and their accompanying tapas, as we would do every day we were there. The next day, following a menu del día, I made my way up to Carmen de los Mártires, a beautiful garden with views of the city below. I was free to go my own way.

On our last afternoon there, we took in views together, stopping for lunch at Palacio Andalúz Restaurante Almona before dropping by Coffee Corner Sur for my second time. On a whim, we purchased tickets for a live flamenco performance and while we waited for it to begin, we enjoyed glasses of wine in the window of a bar next to the stream that cuts through Albaicín. After the performance came to a close, we went out for the night. Our final stop was a party that my former disguise did not match, however transparent it may have been.

Now I can say I’ve been to Granada, and I have many vivid memories of The City of the Pomegranate. However, memories of the fruit for which it is eponymous remain elusive. What one doesn’t look for one doesn’t find, even when it is everywhere.