Sun, song and sangria under the Spanish sky

"There are no foreign lands. It is only the traveler who is foreign" - R.L. Stevenson.

We were strolling along La Rambla, the most happening part of Barcelona, ice-cream cone in hand, passing shops selling souvenirs, juices and trinkets. We had arrived from Granada a few hours earlier. The large poster announcing a series of concerts at local basilicas displayed at a travel information kiosk caught our attention. A long list of performance were scheduled for the months of October and November at various spectacular locations within the city. There was only one that we could possibly attend, a Spanish guitar performance by Manuel Gonzalez that would begin in a couple of hours at a church that appeared to be located within walking distance of La Rambla. Did we have a list of places to see, things to do, eat, shop and admire in Barcelona? Of course we did. But the best experiences happen when there is a change in plan. And so we decided to book tickets for that evening's performance.

We barely made it in time to the Basilica Santa Maria del Pi, a beautiful church built in the Gothic style of architecture. The seats were almost full with a low buzz as people waited for the artist to arrive. At exactly 9 p.m. Manuel Gonzalez, a distinguished looking man appeared on stage with the Spanish guitar and started playing. We had a program brochure in Spanish listing the pieces to be played. But it did not matter what was written or announced, the music enveloped everyone in that room. The wonderful acoustics of the monument, the ambience of the location, the time of day and the mastery of the artist over his instrument, I am not sure if any one of this was responsible for the temporary bliss that overtook me as I found myself immersed in this wonderful music. If I closed my eyes, I could have sworn that the sounds emanating from the stage were from a piano, or was it the drums or a saxophone perhaps. The artist was highly accomplished in taking the instrument to its limits of creation. Music, particularly instrumental music has the ability to transcend barriers of language fluency, accent and articulation to make a connection with the listener. As a person familiar with Indian music, I am always looking to connect with something I already know - the instrument itself, the raaga, the movie, composer, artist. I try to compare it with something I have heard previously, see if I remember the words. The pure joy of the moment gets diluted by tricks of memory. Here none of my past knowledge mattered, a simple melody, a succession of notes, a series of tunes registered in my consciousness. And filled me up.

Spain as a country seems immersed in music. Whether it was the banjo player outside Puerta de la Justica at Alhambra, or the guitar player in the sunny square near the Alcazar palace in Seville, the haunting music created by a strange instrument called the "handpan" outside the cathedral in Granada, they all created haunting melodies, some sang words that I didn't understand but could probably guess, while others just struck a chord in my heart, completely bypassing my bossy head.

As Mark Twain said, "travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness". With each day that I spent in beautiful Spain,struggling to communicate my need for vegetarian food or ask for directions to the toilets or enquire about train timings, I felt less uncomfortable at my "foreignness" and more connected to total strangers who showed the way or happily took photographs when asked. I read somewhere that it is important to "Travel more. Getting lost may help you find yourself". Isn't that the purpose of all journeys, if not all travel?

Gorgeous Granada

It is 7 a.m. and still quite dark. Dressed in a warm jacket with hair that is still wet, I wait outside the Alhambra this morning, along with hordes of people, all waiting to buy tickets to enter Granada’s prized attraction. The temperature is 10 °C. October is a month of great change said the guidebook – it meant weather-wise, the temperature drops sharply in Granada every week, sensible words of advice to the tourist. But the same words applied to me as well. At least those were my thoughts as I stood in line. My birthday is in 10 ten days and while each day marks my days on this earth, there are some days that dig deeper and leave a lasting impression.

I am on a Spanish holiday, combined with a business trip (at least as a excuse). Since business is far from my mind at this time, I justify this vacation as an advance birthday gift to myself. After all, I will mark a significant point in my life this year, with this birthday. It is the first year that I don’t have parents to watch over me and bless me, a year in which my daughter will finish tenth grade, a year in which my business seems poised to grow. It seems to be a time of great upheavals on many fronts, some that are welcome but scary at the same time.

The Alhambra, from the Arabic al-qala’at al-hamra (red castle), a fortress from the 9th century, is Granada’s main attraction – a palace that has seen many rulers, some who sought to build it, some who wanted to destroy it while others wanted to leave an impression on it nevertheless. Today within the vast space the main sights include the Palacio Nazaries and the Alcazaba (Citadel) and the Generalife gardens. Everyday about 6600 tickets are sold at the gates. Without advance booking, we were worried gaining admission. But as the line inched forward, we manage to get two tickets and start walking in.

The walls of the Alhambra look disappointing from the outside, not quite red or in a good state of repair, seem imposing, not particularly attractive. But the history of the Alhambra starts from the 1237 AD when the defensive fort Alcazaba was built. Almost 100 years later, the beautiful summer palace, Generalife was built. The opulent Palacio Nazaries was built later. As with most palaces of architectural splendor, the remains (most of which has been or is being heavily restored) themselves look grand. While the interiors with the ornate and intricate mocarabe work looks dull today, it is impressive for the extent and intricacy. The ceilings are spectacular and perhps the most striking aspect of the entire Alhmabra is the theme of running water. There are fountains inside rooms, within patios and in the Generalife, at one point the railing on the steps have water running through them. The carefully trimmed hedges of myrtle, a bush believed to have magical properties both hidden and visible, line every building. Pomegranate trees (from which Granada gets its name) are seen interspersed with olive trees. Water bodies are ubiquitous with benches everywhere to rest your tired feet or just to admire the scenery.

We climbed up the Torre de la vela in the Alcazaba for a spectacular view of Granada. At one point, tempted by the soothing breeze that had taken over after the sun rose and took the chill off, we lay down, sky gazing. I looked at wispy clouds splitting into nothingness as I dozed. The low hum of other visitors speaking softly or the soft clicks of cameras added to the lazy atmosphere. I felt one with the clear blueness of the sky. A simple joy took over. Upheavals happen to people, to cities, to civilizations. Even nature undergoes major changes. For me, change seems uncomfortable, unnecessary even but change also offers me an opportunity for growth. And that I am pleased to welcome. As the gentle sunshine warmed my face, I smiled. I felt happy, content, grateful to be here. Tomorrow I will go back home. That means change, but it also means I will move, travel and grow – into the person I am meant to be.

Amazing maze

Involuntarily the song from an old Hindi movie, Aandhi, bursts forth from my lips "Iss mode se jaate hain". The tune surprises me as much as my friend Anupama, who is my travel companion on this last-minute trip to Spain. I am standing at an interesting intersection, of narrow cobbled walkways bordered by shops in the distance and by the high walls of houses that line this spectacular neighborhood called Albayzin in Granada, Spain. The narrow streets lead into the old Muslim quarters of the Granada. The shops sell unusual trinkets made by local artists like a pair of leather earrings that I picked up on a whim or stuff that we see on Indian streets - agarbattis, elephant-printed cotton bedsheets and colorful jutis. Every other store seems to be an eating place, either selling crepes, or Arabic food or teterias, selling Morroccon mint tea or pubs selling sangria. The shopkeepers stand outside the shops that are bursting with the wares on display, exhorting customers to walk in. The tea shops seem to do brisk business on this warm Sunday afternoon in mid-October, days before the tourist season dwindles.

The streets meander along in a haphazard fashion and we pick the way we want to proceed randomly. We stop and admire the Spanish jasmine creepers that enticingly swoop down from the high walls of homes that probably house large families. We can see tall trees peeping out of enclosed courtyards that are guarded by large doors or in some cases electronic alarms. A cat looks down lazily from a steep wall. A dog limps by, his foot encased in what looks like a shoe, probably a pet, allowed to roam free on these streets. I am intrigued by an old shoe that doubles up as a flower vase and stop to take a picture.

We keep moving up, wondering whether cars can come up these narrow bylines, described as "an open-air museum' by Lonely Planet. As we get to the top of the steep slope, we pause to admire the facade of the Alhambra that seems to be within touching distance. The Mirador San Nicolas square at the summit is lively at this time of day. Families, tour groups, tourists on segways, gypsies selling handmade jewelry and little kids and dogs run around in the general chaos. There is live music as well (a constant feature in Spain it seems) with soulful songs and tunes rendered by two young men who use their guitar not just to create music but to solicit donations from appreciative listeners as well. The sun goes down quickly, throwing uneven shadows on the Sierra Nevada and the not-so-red walls of the Alhambra. The city lights up in the distance like a magical fountain, bringing into contrast the dimly lit houses of the Albayzin.

In that magical semi-lit darkness, we descend from the summit to a wide road where buses ply. The streets are quiet but there is music in the distance, a reminder that you may just turn a corner and find yourself in a maze, that does not cease to amaze.

Flamenco

The chairs are arranged along three sides of a square, in a typical courtyard of a house in the Barrio de Santa Cruz. The entrance is deceptive but soon you find yourself seated in a functional foldable chair, looking at a 12 feet X 12 feet wooden stage set firmly in the middle of the courtyard. The fourth side of the square has 3 chairs facing the stage, placed about a foot apart, with a small table with a pitcher of water. The wall behind these is covered with a creeper that has seen many seasons and innuneraable performances of the traditional flamenco dance that were are waiting to see. A woman dressed in black comes in with a young bearded man carrying a guitar. Without much ado, she starts singing, a soulful tune, foreign sounding words, maintaining the beat with claps. The male flamenco dancer enters at some point, tapping his feet, using his hands and his body to convey the power of his passion as he dances to the music. At times, the woman is singing in the background, sounding very far away, though she is right behind him. The guitar provides both the melody and the percussion at other times, again seeming to be an unnecessary accompaniment to the force of the performance by the dancer. But there are times when there is no sound other than the tapping of the black-soled shoes on the wooden stage in a still night in this courtyard where the audience holds its breath as it watches him perform. The dance is memorable not because the dancer is able to perform intricate fast-paced footwork impeccably but for his ability to overwhelm and overturn the other artists and relegate them to the background as his joy for the art form spills out and takes over the entire audience.

The guitarist then performs alone, slowing down the tempo and bestowing a sense of calm after the explosive performance of the dancer. The melody and talent of the guitarist appeals in the way that instrumental music tends to do, connect at a higher level by making you listen to something beyond mere words that our ears strive to hear most often.

The beautiful senorita in a figure-hugging red dress, with her hair tied tightly appears. She takes up a striking pose and begins her dance. It is a high energy performance - she moves likes a tightly wound spring, exuding strength, passion and grace with the tapping of her feet and the movement of her hands and body across the tiny stage. Her dress moves likes waves of water around her, fluidly crisscrossing her swaying and tapping form. She seems angry almost, giving off vibrations of extreme emotions as she concludes her performance. Once again, the song and the guitar take a back seat as the dance takes over. Before we know it, there is a crescendo and the performance is done. The audience claps as the artists come in to take a bow, and a second one as the applause continues. And then there is silence as we step out into the narrow bustling lanes of the Santa Cruz quarter on a Saturday evening. The night is young, and so is everyone seated at the bars sipping sangria while waiters handout trays of tapas. The tourists take a look at the lit up cathedral in the night, the bells of the Giralda look down on the square benevolently. And I feel immersed in the history and spirit of Andalusia as I go to bed.

Ah, Seville!

There are things that you pay for, material things, tangible things, things that cost money, stuff that you save for, plan for, buy, own or add to your collection. And so it is that I find myself on a holiday in the beautiful Andalusian town of Seville, on a perfect October morning, looking at the cathedral that is a few steps from the hotel room. A small wedding party is busy with its activities, watched curiously by a large number of tourists, milling around aimlessly, dozens of immaculately maintained horse-drawn carriages standing patiently, observing the orderly queue that waits to enter the Real Alcazar palace.

We booked our flights to Madrid in advance but paid dearly for the hotel room that is located in such a prime neighborhood in Seville. The only seats available were first class ones on the train from Madrid. For a tourist it all adds up - the train fare, the taxi, the transaction costs on the currency. But what we got for free, was the gorgeous weather, a perfect 18 °C temperature, clear skies and a light breeze.

There is something about the colors that are favored in the architecture of this region. A brick red that is not as dull, a shade of turmeric yellow that borders on mustard, the green of the Seville orange trees and the sheer blue of the skies, as cloudless and clear as that of the guileless eyes of a young child. The Real Alcazar palace amazed me with its innumerable courtyards that led into intriguing gardens, each with its unique identity, some with fountains, others with manicured lawns and precisely cut topiary. The girth of ancient tree trunks shamed me into humility with their sheer size, age and wisdom.

There are benches everywhere, lined with the famous Triana tiles. Couples hold hands and lie in each others laps, lured into loving somnolence by the soothing bird calls in the trees, oblivious to tourists who pass by. The pink blossoms of the magnolia framed the arches held by columns that overlooked courtyards with little nooks that invited me to sit awhile, perhaps with a book or an ipod, or even better, a companion who shared the same sentiment.

I look up and see those characteristic yellow and red colors on the walls that support the Spanish jasmine creeper that sways gently and rises up the white façade of the building towards an inviting blue sky, bringing me a whiff of a heavenly floral fragrance as the sun gently warms me in this beautiful place that I find myself in. Can money buy me holiday? Yes. But can I afford to pay for this truly priceless experience? Absolutely not.