I’d bought my Alhambra tickets weeks ahead of time at the recommendation of my Airbnb host, Pradip. Another day or two and I’d have missed it. This morning we walked down along the Albaicín estuary, into town and took an Uber up the hill to the entrance of the hilltop palace. Right on time, for the tickets I’d bought were for an assigned slot. We made steady progress to the head of the line when the lady there insisted that I not only had to show my tickets but our passports as well. My wife and I had our physical docs but the girls did not. “No, photos of the passports would not suffice.” Not here at least. She imperiously sent me off to the “ticket office” with a “somewhere over yonder” flick of her hand. I did my best not to lose my patience. My Spanish had been performing fine until it wasn’t. Go to the ticket office . . . where? And do what?
I asked another attendant. Then another. “You proceed ahead straight.” The road ominously lead back down the hill. I stomped off in that direction that we’d came with no idea of how far I was going or what I was do when I got there. Let’s just say it took a lot of time, there were a few major wrong turns and finally I had a chance to plead and speak with someone who verified my daughters’ identity and gave me tickets to get them in. And by now the Mrs. had just about had enough of me and my rushing everyone here and there. “Let’s just not go.” It’s times like these when it is a very good thing that I meditate or have been known to. Slow your heart down. Don’t scream.
Back at the head of the line the same annoying lady with curly blond hair remained. I presented my info anew and she mentioned that we were now later than the time on the tickets. I didn’t have: “no shit, dingbat” in my Spanish word-hoard but I have her a look which said as much and then I realized that she was serious and was seriously considering not letting us in now because it was no longer 10:30AM. Now I was truly infuriated. Now I really needed self-control. It would not do me to yell in English at a Spanish lady in front of a line of one hundred people, but I was a hair’s breadth away from it. She talked to someone, they pulled up someone who spoke English and after some exasperated pleading, they let us in.
Breathe. Breathe again. This place was built to be calming. I tried to let the majesty of the sanctum knead its knuckles into my knotted shoulders. In the Patio de los Arrayanes I considered the simple fountain at the center of a rounded key structure that dropped gently into one side of the marvelous pool. The same key poured a complementary stream over on the other side. Light shone through the Salon de los Embadjadores with its mesmerizing roof carvings. Frustrated but not really at anyone. Just a dull reaction of feeling deadened for having fought against something systemic and unforgiving. By the time we’d reached the view from the Mriador de Daraxa to yet another fountain below, I’d shaken it off and was genuinely smiling in the photos.
I noticed that there was a vegan place, the Hicuri Art Restaurant, which apparently sported the work of the city’s premier graffiti artist. My older daughter would appreciate that. But it was closed and we wound up at the El Bar de Fede where we were treated regally by a young waiter who hailed from Argentina and wondered about the origins of some of the customers who gradually filled the place.
Sunday, 8/22/21
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