Man, she's good!
Don't let this smug little smile on my face annoy you. It's just that I was stopped on the street by a group of Spaniards tonight and asked for directions, and I gave those directions brilliantly in really-not-too-awful-Spanish.
Pardon my gloating. This is simply one more "well, THAT'S never happened to me before" moment. Oh, I've been asked directions here before. Even by Spaniards. Usually the stupid "huh?" look in my eyes is enough to send them looking for a drunk slumped over a bench to ask, who is bound to be more coherent than I.
We live in a neighborhood called the Albaicin in Granada. 500 years ago or so, it was spelled Albayzin. Still is, in some places. It was the hub of the Moorish community outside the walls of the Alhambra back before 1492, when Isabel and Fernando (no one here ever called him Ferdinand, I promise!) kicked everybody who bathed or could do math out of their country. Today the Albaicin stands, much the same. Tiny streets (my favorite sign here says "Physically Impossible Entry." Gets me every time) cobbled in a half dozen patterns, all of which kill your feet, no matter WHAT kind of shoes you try. Whitewashed walls, red tile roofs, and the most incredibly tantalizing cooking smells you've every smelled in your life, assuming of course that you like the smell of olive oil and garlic and onion and probably chicken but sometimes sausages and then there's the yellow rice and the red pepper -- have I told you about the red peppers? Wait, wait, this was NOT about food . . . back to my topic.
I gave correct directions to a group of Spaniards tonight. Oh, I said that already, didn't I? The red peppers distracted me . . .
I was walking home alone in the Albaicin, which feels like a dangerous thing to do, because this neighborhood is known to be a little perilous to foreigners . . . although not usually at 8 o'clock in the evening, so I wasn't really being all that brave. A group of twenty-somethings, dressed very nicely, as most of the Spanish do in the evenings when they go out for a paseo (remember from last time? "Stroll."), was standing at a juncture in the street. Well, really it was a juncture where a walkway meets a roadway. To the untrained eye they look all the same, and the motos (mopeds for those of you on the other side of the pond) don't care anyway; they drive anywhere wide enough for their tires. The cars sometimes try that, too, which gets scary. Those tiny little SmartCars might fit . . . they're popular over here.
As I approached their little circle, one of the men turned to me and asked me in Spanish where the Calle de los Tristes was. I understood him completely. This is more impressive than it sounds, because in southern Spain, folks talk a little differently than they do in other parts of Spain . . . or the world. Kind of like someone from Seattle trying to understand someone from the deep south. You gotta watch their lips! That's all I can say.
But I understood him, and what's more . . . (there's more!), I knew where the Calle de los Tristes was! That NEVER happens! I might know my way through the maze of streets, and in the past two weeks, I've learned a bunch of different ways to go where I want to go. I remember now that I like exploring and trying new ways of getting to old places. It's been fun, but I rarely remember the names of the streets. I'm trying to change that this time so I can actually tell people where things are. One of my goals for this trip.
And it worked! Calle de los Tristes is a narrow street that runs along the River Darro, which flows out of the hillside upon which sits the Alhambra. The river runs parallel to the street, but about twenty or thirty feet below street level. It is called los Tristes because it is legendarily the road upon which the Moors (who were both well-washed and mathematically advanced) traveled as they left the Alhambra for the last time in 1492 (remember Isabel and Fernando?). They were sad. Los Tristes. It's a lovely street to walk down (if you don't mind dodging the buses and taxis that roll along from time to time), especially at night, when the mood lighting on the Alhambra hovers on the hillside above.
So I told the Spaniards they could stay on the street we were on and go to the end and circle back onto the main street to get to it, or they could just take the stairs right below us and keep going down, down, down until they ran into it. (Everything in the Albaicin is up, up, up, or down, down, down.)
They understood me! I could tell because they weren't looking sideways at each other in a questioning fashion. I have gotten that a lot in previous visits here, so I know what it means. They nodded their heads and all agreed that going down the stairs was the best option.
There. Smug. Me. Spoke Spanish. Knew the street name. Where it was. How to get there. Oh, yeah, baby. I'm on a roll.
Pardon my gloating. This is simply one more "well, THAT'S never happened to me before" moment. Oh, I've been asked directions here before. Even by Spaniards. Usually the stupid "huh?" look in my eyes is enough to send them looking for a drunk slumped over a bench to ask, who is bound to be more coherent than I.
We live in a neighborhood called the Albaicin in Granada. 500 years ago or so, it was spelled Albayzin. Still is, in some places. It was the hub of the Moorish community outside the walls of the Alhambra back before 1492, when Isabel and Fernando (no one here ever called him Ferdinand, I promise!) kicked everybody who bathed or could do math out of their country. Today the Albaicin stands, much the same. Tiny streets (my favorite sign here says "Physically Impossible Entry." Gets me every time) cobbled in a half dozen patterns, all of which kill your feet, no matter WHAT kind of shoes you try. Whitewashed walls, red tile roofs, and the most incredibly tantalizing cooking smells you've every smelled in your life, assuming of course that you like the smell of olive oil and garlic and onion and probably chicken but sometimes sausages and then there's the yellow rice and the red pepper -- have I told you about the red peppers? Wait, wait, this was NOT about food . . . back to my topic.
I gave correct directions to a group of Spaniards tonight. Oh, I said that already, didn't I? The red peppers distracted me . . .
I was walking home alone in the Albaicin, which feels like a dangerous thing to do, because this neighborhood is known to be a little perilous to foreigners . . . although not usually at 8 o'clock in the evening, so I wasn't really being all that brave. A group of twenty-somethings, dressed very nicely, as most of the Spanish do in the evenings when they go out for a paseo (remember from last time? "Stroll."), was standing at a juncture in the street. Well, really it was a juncture where a walkway meets a roadway. To the untrained eye they look all the same, and the motos (mopeds for those of you on the other side of the pond) don't care anyway; they drive anywhere wide enough for their tires. The cars sometimes try that, too, which gets scary. Those tiny little SmartCars might fit . . . they're popular over here.
As I approached their little circle, one of the men turned to me and asked me in Spanish where the Calle de los Tristes was. I understood him completely. This is more impressive than it sounds, because in southern Spain, folks talk a little differently than they do in other parts of Spain . . . or the world. Kind of like someone from Seattle trying to understand someone from the deep south. You gotta watch their lips! That's all I can say.
But I understood him, and what's more . . . (there's more!), I knew where the Calle de los Tristes was! That NEVER happens! I might know my way through the maze of streets, and in the past two weeks, I've learned a bunch of different ways to go where I want to go. I remember now that I like exploring and trying new ways of getting to old places. It's been fun, but I rarely remember the names of the streets. I'm trying to change that this time so I can actually tell people where things are. One of my goals for this trip.
And it worked! Calle de los Tristes is a narrow street that runs along the River Darro, which flows out of the hillside upon which sits the Alhambra. The river runs parallel to the street, but about twenty or thirty feet below street level. It is called los Tristes because it is legendarily the road upon which the Moors (who were both well-washed and mathematically advanced) traveled as they left the Alhambra for the last time in 1492 (remember Isabel and Fernando?). They were sad. Los Tristes. It's a lovely street to walk down (if you don't mind dodging the buses and taxis that roll along from time to time), especially at night, when the mood lighting on the Alhambra hovers on the hillside above.
So I told the Spaniards they could stay on the street we were on and go to the end and circle back onto the main street to get to it, or they could just take the stairs right below us and keep going down, down, down until they ran into it. (Everything in the Albaicin is up, up, up, or down, down, down.)
They understood me! I could tell because they weren't looking sideways at each other in a questioning fashion. I have gotten that a lot in previous visits here, so I know what it means. They nodded their heads and all agreed that going down the stairs was the best option.
There. Smug. Me. Spoke Spanish. Knew the street name. Where it was. How to get there. Oh, yeah, baby. I'm on a roll.
Bueno, mi amiga. Felicidades. (I hope that means congratulations and not Happy Birthday!)
ReplyDeleteGood job! Has hecho muy bien!
ReplyDelete