The morning is loud and busy as children rush into the playground eager to see their friends, high up on the hill in the Albaicin, the old moorish neighborhood. An owl´s hooting keeps a constant pulse amidst the children´s exuberant laughter and high pitched chatter. An occasional patter of feet running and the sweet whistle of another bird provide some counterpoint. Dropping off children, moms and other passerbys speak in low hushed tones, as they begin their day.
After the siesta, later in the day, I walk around the Albaicin, on the way to the Corte Inglés department store, located in the more modern part of Granada. Gingerly descending the ¨Cuesta de María de la miel¨(Honey Mary) I hear the sounds of a guitar in the distance. There are many ¨cuestas¨, steep hill paths in the Albaicin. At the next landing I encountered a man playing the guitar. I think the piece was Spanish Romance. I dropped a one euro coin in his cup and listened discretely from across the street as he plucked expertly.
I kept walking down the hill finally reaching the Gran Via. Now there would be easy walking, no more cuestas! While on Calle de la Virgen, behind the Corte Ingles, I caught the Pachabel Canon by a string quartet: 2 violins, a guitar and a cello:
The short street has a pedestrian walkway between two roads for cars. Each end opens up to a plaza with its own fountain. With gushing water bookending this tree lined avenue at sunset, listening to the music, the effect was just simply sublime. Little children strolling by with their mothers spontaneously broke into dance–whether making ´flores´ with their hands flamenco style, or swinging each other around by the arms. The look of delight on their faces as they approached the group and heard the music was unmistakenly touching and heartwarming.
On the way out after shopping, the group was still there playing something else, surrounded by a small crowd. I rushed past this time as I had decided to walk up to the Mirador San Nicolás and it was getting dark. I figured I could save a couple of euro, burn some calories and save some time by walking back, instead of waiting for the little red bus at Plaza Nueva, which was bound to be crowded at the end of the workday–no seats available!
Starting my ascent at the base of the Albaicín, I passed by store after store. Unfortunately, I was moving slowly since I was behind a couple carrying some type of fence up the hill. This was an amazing feat in itself considering the path was about 5 feet wide and teeming with people. The tiny stores overflowed with Moroccan items: lamps, prayer rugs, slippers and scarves, teas and other souvenirs. Teterías (tea houses) awaited tourists who were brave enough to taste strange food with their hands and smoke a hookah. The new stands, or sits, of women in traditional dress offering henna tatoos clogged the path too. They had replaced the ubiquitous male vendors who would sell a sign or card with your name written in Arabic.
Beyond this marketplace, a trio sat on the steps on a plaza and played some upbeat folk music. They had their CDs out for sale too. There was quite a large crowd listening and offering support. And 20 metres up the hill another guitarist sat on a ledge tuning…
Darkness set in as I trudged up La cuesta de María de la miel, my breaths heavy yet rhythmic. I had left my bedroom window open–perfect to hear the soothing flow of water from the fountain in the patio next door.