Only the Wind Knows Where...: Travel tales from long ago (Continued)

Megan spent at least an hour roaming around the Mezquita, entering the patio de naranjos, exiting once again, and then walking circles around the enormous mosque. She looked bewitched by the way that she moved along, slow and awkward with her eyes fixated on the grand wonder. All the while, her ears were uncontrollably attentive to the hypnotizing flamenco music that was being projected from loudspeakers around the town.

As the sun began to fall behind the river the temperature dropped, and Megan awoke from Córdoba´s trance. She started back to her hostal, glanced at her watch, and quickened her pace. She didn´t know why, but she felt uncomfortable and somewhat frightened on the darkening and narrow street. When she finally entered the front door of the hostal she felt a sense of momentary relief. She was safe. But, wait… Now what? Was she planning on spending the rest of the evening penned up the in hostal? It was only 7:00 and the workers at the hostal were LAME. Typically, hostal workers are extremely helpful. They are friendly, funny, outgoing, original, and carry a contagious excitement about the city in which they work. In change, this hostel´s afternoon workers were banal. They made Megan want to scream. She squirmed in self-battle to hold in the screams: WAKE UP AND SMELL CORDOBA!! What´s wrong with you folks?! Get amped or get out! The unanimated staffs´ disposition was disheartening and nerve provoking. Megan´s stomach knotted up. She tried to stay optimistic; this was part of the fun of traveling by yourself, dealing with awkwardness by yourself, finding your way, by yourself.

In attempt to take her mind off her feeling of “lostness”, Megan stepped into a side room where there were a few computers. All occupied. “GRAND”, she thought sarcastically. Megan felt odd again. She was about to turn around and head back upstairs when something caught her eye: jeans, tennis shoes, and sweatshirt. Her American radar was sounding alarm in her head. Despite her assurance on her assumptions based on physical appearance (mainly dress), Megan decided to play. Let´s see how long it takes him to realize he can switch to English, she thought. She approached the boy and confidently asked him “¿Puedo utilizar el ordenador cuando termines?” With an all-American accent he managed to muster: “sí, sí. me voy ahora a el supermercado.” Megan giggled inside her head. Her hypothesis had been correct: American. Bored, she continued the game, ¿De dónde eres? The boy responded: “Soy de California, ¿y tú?” “Yo, de Ohio.” The boy had now fully turned around to look at Megan, and gave her a face of utter confusion “I thought you were…” he started. “Nope,” Megan interrupted with a smile.

Megan was contented with the success, not only with her assertion, but also with her little experiment. The tables had turned and she felt she was back on the advantaged side. She told Jackson, her new friend from California, that her only goal for the evening was to eat some typical fare in a decently priced restaurant. Although his original plan was to go to the supermarket, Jackson quickly conceded. He admitted that the only reason why he hadn´t wanted to eat out was because, as he put it “you just can´t do that in Spain”. His observation is true. You could eat by yourself, but it would be weird. Really weird.

As it was far too early for dinner (7:30), Jackson showed Megan around and gave her some good advice to take advantage of the next day before her bus departed for Granada at 5.

For dinner Jackson and Megan feasted on chorizo al vino, bread and wine. Well, Megan chose wine. Jackson insisted on cerveza. Along with their food was conversation about their favorite aspects of Spain, Europe, and things they missed about the U.S. of A. Shortly, their stomachs filled and despite the early hour, both were ready to head back to the hostel and get some rest.

Although it was evident that both Jackson and Megan were thankful for the company for the evening, it was equally clear upon return that the two travelers were ready to part ways and continue on their solo journey.

Megan entered her room, cranked the heater (right beside her bed) as high it would go, brushed her teeth, washed her face, put on her pj´s and fell right to sleep.

8 am (Next morning): Megan woke up to her cell´s alarm clock. To her surprise she was on fire. It was baking in the room, she was soaked in sweat, and it looked like her roommates were uncomfortable and annoyed with whoever may have been the culprit in blasting the heater. Whooops. “Not everyone appreciates sleeping in a sauna, I suppose” she thought giggling to herself. She was reminded of those winter days at university back in Ohio, and the scolding from her friends regarding her 75-80 degree room. As she laughed at her stubbornness when dealing with cold she dealt with its backfire: the heater refused to go back to its off position. After a few minutes of struggling (there was no cursing, scouts honor) she got it. She slid off the top bunk and hurried to get ready. There was so much to see and so little time.

With a rush of energy she unzipped her hiking bag, and pulled out her toiletry items and clothes for the day. She squeezed a bit of toothpaste on her toothbrush, shoved it in her mouth, and continued to prepare herself for the day. While dressing, she occasionally paused and gave her teeth a good scrub. When fully clothed, she removed the toothbrush from her clean mouth, picked up the water bottle by her bed, and took a swig. Swish swish swish, went the water as she packed up the rest of her things. She zipped the bag shut and hurried to the bathroom to sink and let the water go. Then Megan took her bags to the storage place in the hostal and let her day´s adventure begin.

First stop was café con leche at the bar that was conveniently connected to the hostal. After a couple of gulps she had finished the mediocre version of her favorite drink. She didn´t mind that the coffee was second rate. She was much more interested Cordóba´s marvel, anyhow. She placed the proper coins on the table and hastily grabbed her small bag and camera. As she pushed open the door her mind had already begun to leaf through the pictures she´d seen in textbooks. Megan wondered how well these had captured the inside of the mosque. “Surely it will be more stunning,” she hoped.

After just a few minutes at her brisk pace she had arrived. She smiled. The mezquita looked just as beautiful as it had the day prior. Without hesitation, Megan made her way to the entrance. She was early, giving her an advantage of being one of the first tourists to make it in.

She entered the mosque, took a few steps and stopped. Her eyes lingered on the 856 columns made of jasper, onyx, marble and granite. The place was breathtaking. She maintained a stone like position for a few minutes before she found her legs beneath her once again, and took a few more steps in. She stopped again and pulled out her camera. She must have spent 15 minutes just attempting to take one suitable picture, adjusting the settings for the dim lighting, attempting to stay still, waiting for another tourist to pass. Her efforts were mostly useless. She tucked the camera away, mentally marking the mezquita as another of “the most beautiful places”. Those who have seen one of these “most beautiful places” will know that it isn´t often they let down their guard for photographers to capture one image that depicts their charm and beauty.

Megan spent a good hour exploring every last part of the mosque: the Christian chapel that had been built inside, the little chapels with Islamic style doors that were most royally ornamented with dark greens, blues, reds, and trimmed in gold. Before the noise level and crowd had grown she could imagine what it must have been like hundreds of years ago. She saw the leaders Abd ar-Rahman (I,II,III), Al-Hakam II and Al, Mansur Ibn Abi Aamir being fanned by bystanders listening to their lectures and orders. She could see the men sitting in the most comfortable sort of couches, with a stern-proud look that only the leaders of the cultural capital of the world could convey.

Mid-daydream her imagination stopped. It had been abruptly interrupted by the ticking of the second hand on her watch. A reminder of reality, her watch was back on her mind. It was time to leave this sacred place. Her mind rebutted this sudden return to reality with a plea for another five minutes. However her logic quickly fired back with the reminder of her day´s list. “Right”, she breathed and silently admitted “No more time here, I´ve got to go.”

Megan made it unwillingly to the door and said goodbye. It was time to visit a few other places in Córdoba. None of the other buildings or locations were as stunning as the mezquita, but they were definitely worth her time. She divided the rest of her afternoon in Córdoba between the Alcázar of the Christian Monarchs the Calahorra Tower museum, and an hours long walk up and down the gorgeous winding roads. She also was also able to squeeze in an hour to try flamenquín. The dish was slightly disappointing, along with the salmorejo that everyone brags about. Maybe it is just that she cares less for the food in the south. (After all, the food in the north is where it´s at! Shout out to Aragón and Galicia!! Mmmm!! :) )

After eating at the restaurant that was literally pegged next to her hostal, she gathered her quechua bag and was on her way. She made it to the bus stop a bit late, but she was optimistic she would make it to the station in time to catch her bus to Granada. If she missed it, there was always the option of catching the next at 7.

Luckily, she made it to the station with about 5 minutes to spare. Five minutes cushion is most acceptable in Spain, and even more so in the south. Arriving “justito,” they might call it.

The ride to Granada was grueling. Megan was tortured by the thought that she would no longer have all the liberty to decide the following things: when to get up, where to eat, what to visit, when to go to bed, etc. Additionally, she was bored. She was bored of letting her brain think think think and couldn´t find the reigns to calm it down enough to read. Just as her energy began to windle and she was about to lull off to sleep the bus arrived to Granada.

Now exhausted, Megan stepped off the bus and headed up the escalator scanning the station for her friends. After a few minutes waiting awkwardly at the top of the steps María showed up with a tall skinny boy and a girl. María gave Megan a kiss on one cheek, and then the next and then introduced Megan to her friends. Octavio, who would be providing our free lodging for the next few days, and his younger sister, Celia.

The many days in Granada were pretty great. Despite Córdoba´s charm, Granada´s beauty, bewitching powers and fairytale-ness are even more evident. However, as Megan went to Granada with her friends she didn´t have the time to get lost, to fall into the cities trance, or truly experience the Albaicín. Likewise, her camera failed to capture the Sierra Neveda overseeing the glowing Alhambra at dusk, and the flamenco that randomly came alive in the bar. But, for those worrying and or disappointed readers, do not fear. These are all compelling reasons for a return trip and another adventure story.