Our Granada mother

We were greeted at the train station by a little old lady. She was drawn to the large Canadian flag on my pack. As usual we rolled into town with no place to stay. This is generally not a problem. But it was Semana Santa, and this is a big deal in Spain. We had not consulted a calendar or our common sense before heading into Spain during the event of the year.

So when she approached us offering us a room in “mi casa”, we figured it was our best bet. “Venga” she motioned for us to follow. We tightened our huge packs around our waists and were off.

Up and down steep hills, along cobbled streets, passing old stone buildings with wrought iron balconies, through picturesque plazas. She gave us a tour along the way, pointing out the sites, talking with animated gestures. A couple years of high school Spanish was helpful, but I was lucky if I understood one word out of five.

When we finally arrived, she proceeded to give us the full tour of her “casa”: our room with two beds that practically collapsed under our weight, the timeworn kitchen for guests, the precise jiggle on the handle to flush the toilet, the old light switches that loudly click. When it came to the key to the heavy front door, she patiently explained the exact way to maneuver the sensitive lock. Turn the key to the right twice. “Uno, due, uno, due…” she kept repeating like a mantra. For some reason Sarah and I could not figure it out.

We were practically in hysterics at our stupidity. When we finally managed to get it, we all smiled contentedly (or relief in her case). For once, we left our packs in our room not worried anything would get stolen. We had the key and still had trouble getting in.

The next day, we visited the Alhambra. It was the longest line up we had encountered, but it was worth it. I have many photos of our visit to this pinnacle of Moorish architecture. The exquisite carvings, geometric mosaics, ornate marble columns and arches, manicured gardens, calming water features.

The one photo however, that truly brings back my memories of Granada is of our motherly host upon departure. She smiled at us proudly and told us we now had a place to stay in Granada.

This is one entry from my 1992 European backpacking trip with my friend Sarah. If you want to start at the beginning, please check out The journey starts in Nice.