Granada: land of romance and legend.

"For my part, I gave myself up, during my sojourn in the Alhambra, to all the romantic and fabulous traditions connected with the pile. I lived in the midst of an Arabian tale, and shut my eyes, as much as possible, to every thing that called me back to every-day life; and if there is any country in Europe where one can do so, it is in poor, wild, legendary, proud-spirited, romantic Spain; where the old magnificent barbaric spirit still contends against the utilitarianism of modern civilization," --Washington Irving, about his work "Stories of the Alhambra," 1829.

This is where I spent the last weekend--obviously, life is not quite as it was in 1829 when Washington Irving spent a summer listening to gypsy music, fiesta, and stories. Today, the Alhambra is, some would say, the top tourist attraction in Spain, and thus, instead of an Arabian tale, it resembles more the over-trampled land of a theme park, at least in parts. Yet this is Spain, and so they have managed to retain vestiges of the original--spots, corners, where the guides haven't quite managed to kill the mystery and beauty.


The halls of the Alhambra, tourists and all, call the passerby to remember days of lounging in the sun, concubines, silent fountains, and aromatic gardens--they remember gypsy campfires and the pride and intrigue of succeeding sultanates.


And then, of course, there was the time we spent lost in Granada [because what's visiting a new city without spending half of your time lost], the time we spent FREEZING in the 50 degree [F] night because we're all used to savannah weather, and the adventures we had climbing a "mountain" [hey, it was high enough that climbing it made my butt hurt for the next few days] to get just the perfect view.


But overall, it is the Alhambra that is and will always be the epitome of Granada. I will leave you with some more of Irving's words--it's long, but I couldn't cut such perfect prose.

"In the silent and deserted halls of the Alhambra; surrounded with the insignia of regal sway, and the still vivid, though dilapidated traces of oriental voluptuousness, I was in the strong-hold of Moorish story, and every thing spoke and breathed of the glorious days of Granada, when under the dominion of the crescent. When I sat in the hall of the Abencerrages, I suffered my mind to conjure up all that I had read of that illustrious line. In the proudest days of Moslem domination, the Abencerrages were the soul of every thing noble and chivalrous. The veterans of the family, who sat in the royal council, were the foremost to devise those heroic enterprises, which carried dismay into the territories of the Christians; and what the sages of the family devised, the young men of the name were the foremost to execute. In all services of hazard; in all adventurous forays, and hair-breadth hazards; the Abencerrages were sure to win the brightest laurels. In those noble recreations, too, which bear so close an affinity to war; in the tilt and tourney, the riding at the ring, and the daring bull-fight; still the Abencerrages carried off the palm. None could equal them for the splendor of their array, the gallantry of their devices; for their noble bearing, and glorious horsemanship. Their open-handed munificence made them the idols of the populace, while their lofty magnanimity, and perfect faith, gained them golden opinions from the generous and high-minded. Never were they known to decry the merits of a rival, or to betray the confidings of a friend; and the "word of an Abencerrage" was a guarantee that never admitted of a doubt.

And then their devotion to the fair! Never did Moorish beauty consider the fame of her charms established, until she had an Abencerrage for a lover; and never did an Abencerrage prove recreant to his vows. Lovely Granada! City of delights! Who ever bore the favors of thy dames more proudly on their casques, or championed them more gallantly in the chivalrous tilts of the Vivarambla? Or who ever made thy moon-lit balconies, thy gardens of myrtles and roses, of oranges, citrons, and pomegranates, respond to more tender serenades?

I speak with enthusiasm on this theme; for it is connected with the recollection of one of the sweetest evenings and sweetest scenes that ever I enjoyed in Spain. One of the greatest pleasures of the Spaniards is, to sit in the beautiful summer evenings, and listen to traditional ballads, and tales about the wars of the Moors and Christians, and the "buenas andanzas" and "grandes hechos," the "good fortunes" and "great exploits" of the hardy warriors of yore. It is worthy of remark, also, that many of these songs, or romances, as they are called, celebrate the prowess and magnanimity in war, and the tenderness and, fidelity in love, of the Moorish cavaliers, once their most formidable and hated foes. But centuries have elapsed, to extinguish the bigotry of the zealot; and the once detested warriors of Granada are now held up by Spanish poets, as the mirrors of chivalric virtue.

Such was the amusement of the evening in question. A number of us were seated in the Hall of the Abencerrages, listening to one of the most gifted and fascinating beings that I had ever met with in my wanderings. She was young and beautiful; and light and ethereal; full of fire, and spirit, and pure enthusiasm. She wore the fanciful Andalusian dress; touched the guitar with speaking eloquence; improvised with wonderful facility; and, as she became excited by her theme, or by the rapt attention of her auditors, would pour forth, in the richest and most melodious strains, a succession of couplets, full of striking description, or stirring narration, and composed, as I was assured, at the moment. Most of these were suggested by the place, and related to the ancient glories of Granada, and the prowess of her chivalry. The Abencerrages were her favorite heroes; she felt a woman's admiration of their gallant courtesy, and high-souled honor; and it was touching and inspiring to hear the praises of that generous but devoted race, chanted in this fated hall of their calamity, by the lips of Spanish beauty.

Among the subjects of which she treated, was a tale of Moslem honor, and old-fashioned Spanish courtesy, which made a strong impression on me. She disclaimed all merit of invention, however, and said she had merely dilated into verse a popular tradition; and, indeed, I have since found the main facts inserted at the end of Conde's History of the Domination of the Arabs, and the story itself embodied in the form of an episode in the Diana of Montemayor. From these sources I have drawn it forth, and endeavored to shape it according to my recollection of the version of the beautiful minstrel; but, alas! what can supply the want of that voice, that look, that form, that action, which gave magical effect to her chant, and held every one rapt in breathless admiration! Should this mere travestie of her inspired numbers ever meet her eye, in her stately abode at Granada, may it meet with that indulgence which belongs to her benignant nature. Happy should I be, if it could awaken in her bosom one kind recollection of the lonely stranger and sojourner, for whose gratification she did not think it beneath her to exert those fascinating powers which were the delight of brilliant circles; and who will ever recall with enthusiasm the happy evening passed in listening to her strains, in the moon-lit halls of the Alhambra."

“This is a London particular . . . A fog, miss.” --Charles Dickens

Luckily enough, we escaped with only 50% of our trip--that is to say, roughly one day--spent in fog in London. The other half was, miraculously, sunny!

No, really, I can prove it. Look.


This is St. Paul's Cathedral, seen from the front, on a perfectly sunny day [complete with fluffy white clouds]. It was actually a very nice day in London, and although it was a bit chilly, you can see that everybody was out at lunchtime to enjoy the sun.

I think I liked London more than any other large city I've ever been in. It reeks of tradition and past, of war, poets, and queens. How do you describe a place where monarchy, the industrial revolution, globalism, businessmen in suits, tea with sandwiches, and the dignity of the Church are so very much concurrently visible? We walked down streets that were almost entirely government buildings, streets that were almost entirely theatre after theatre, and a street [my favorite], that was almost completely composed of bookstores.



Businessmen wear suits in London--not just older men, but men my age, all in suits. People eat outside. There is still a high society, and a magazine to follow and photograph it. There's a Starbucks on every streetcorner but tea, fish and chips, and roast is served everywhere else. The subway is referred to as the "Tube" and looks to be about 200 years old. London rivals New York City for diversity in population.

I know I'm rambling, but it's so difficult to describe such a large, diverse, vibrant city. I did love it, and I would love to live there, but perhaps not forever. In some other life, I would've taken another year to graduate and perhaps spent a semester studying at Cambridge or Oxford, right at the homes of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien; I could've visited the haunts of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, seen Shakespeare's home and the Brontes' cottage in the moors. Someday, I will go back and see it all. When I actually have the money to afford it, that is.

We saw Buckingham Palace, which looked disappointingly unlike a palace and left us wishing we had time to visit Windsor Castle. We saw Westminster Abbey and thought of the many kings and queens--and other notables--who had been christened, wed, crowned, and buried there. We saw the Parliament buildings, the incomparable Big Ben, the original home of Scotland Yard, the Churchill War Rooms Museum--the very rooms where Churchill lived and met with his staff during the war--Trafalgar Square, and St. James' Park (which was heartbreakingly green and beautiful). We saw the British Library.

Let's pause a moment to think about how amazing the British Library is.

I cannot even describe the heaven that is the British Library. I could write odes. They have the COOLEST things--let me digress into teenage silliness a bit--they have Mozart's marriage certificate. Letters of Jane Austen's. TWO copies of the Magna Carta. Scribblings from the Beatles of original lyrics. Two of the oldest copies of the Bible ever discovered. And that doesn't even cover it.

We stopped in Starbucks a couple hundred times, since we walked all of this. In a day. Then we went, the next day, to the Tower of London, Covent Gardents (complete with minstrels and jugglers), St. Paul's Cathedral, and the British Museum, where we saw the Rosetta Stone and mummies. And other stuff, but the mummies--let's face it--are the coolest part.

And in all this, I think many of my favorite things are the smallest. Seeing Drury Lane. Fish & chips at a pub. Walking by the Thames. Just listening to the accents of the people. &etc.

Samuel Johnson once said the following, and then I will leave you with a few pictures of our days: "Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." I don't know how true this is, but it is certainly a fascinating city.

baking&rock climbing: adventures

What is this, you ask? It's hard to say, really. It looks like it might taste good--illusion, I assure you.

I decided a few weeks ago that I really, really missed fall. All of a sudden amnesia hit me, and I didn't remember how much I hate it when summer ends and I get cold; I forgot that fall, for me, means going back to class, no more beach weather, and the beginning of gray, depressing Michigan winters. Instead, I was filled with nostalgia for apple picking, football games [I don't want to talk about it right now], donuts & cider. Not that these things aren't great; it's just that it's rather amazing how attractive things that you can't have are.

Anyway, I decided that I was going to make apple crisp to celebrate the beginning of the fall and share a little of Michigan culture with Rosario here, who, poor thing, has been inflicted with endless blue skies and a complete lack of cold weather. It took me a good week and a half to gather the supplies. Oats were easy enough to find, as were apples (mostly, I think, because I wasn't picky about type of apple). Brown sugar was tough. What I ended up finding as brown sugar was more like cane sugar dripping in molasses, but close enough. The baking soda said "for household use only," but what do they know, anyway. I literally had to buy every ingredient; even butter wasn't in the fridge.

So I set out one evening to actually make this thing, and I was confronted with yet another problem: measuring. Sure, I had remembered to hit the "convert to metric" button on my online recipe, so that was all taken care of. My current problem was that the only tool I was given for measuring was basically the metric equivalent of the scale my mother uses at home to weigh packages for the mail. The smallest increment was 20g--and here I was needing to measure out, you know, one tablespoon [8g] of flour, half a teaspoon of baking powder...So I guessed.

I'm not a very good guesser.

When it came out of the oven, it smelled great, if a little overwhelmingly of nutmeg (I got a little carried away with the guessing in this area). But the biggest problem was, as Rosario put it, that it tasted like pure sugar. Ouch. Some people like sugar!

But nobody likes sugar this much, honest. You couldn't even taste the apple.

I guess I'm stuck with flan and arroz con leche for dessert. Poor me...
Now this picture presents another story altogether. This is me yesterday, in Ronda, Spain, one of the most beautiful places on Earth [I say this a lot, but it's true, honest].

I guess it's not much of a story. Look, this is where I was yesterday! They thought I was crazy for sitting like this! It was fun. End of story.

We also hiked like maniacs down into a gorge to see a waterfall and a puzzling doorway that said "Central Electric" (ideas, anyone?) and what looked like an abandoned house. We climbed back up, which amazingly enough was a much longer distance than going down, I swear. I walked into a short pole and got a huge bruise on my knee. I bought some really pretty ceramic bowls. I bought ice cream (you have to try it EVERYWHERE, you know, just to find the best place). I got half lemon sorbet, half coconut sherbet. Yeah, it's as good as it sounds. Amazing.

Rosario wants to go back to Ronda with me, which I'm totally okay with. I have to take Brad there for the hiking, too. It's a gorgeous little town. I love Europe--the "new" bridge in the town is 18th century, if I remember correctly. You know, like the same age as the United States. The old bridge and Arab bridge are much older (but I don't know exactly how old because I was taking pictures instead of listening to the guide).

Ronda is basically built on a cliff, so it offers lots of opportunities for pictures. These are three of my favorites:




And if you're really amazed by this city & my amazing photography (and, obviously, my skills in technology), check out my facebook album! It's awesome.

Off to London this coming weekend with the parents--I'll let you all know how that goes! Hasta luego, chicos.