the Alhambra, Granada

Spain

In April we had another Spanish adventure, this time accompanied by our old friends Bob and Gwen, where, amid fragrant orange trees and dark cork forests and thousands of patchwork hills of olive trees, we were once again awash in olive oil and rioja.  In Andujar Maurice fought the law and the law won, a parking misunderstanding to the tune of three euros.  Trying to drive to our Granada hotel, we barged into the city’s do-not-enter-unless-you-want-a-ticket zone…several times…the three passengers each bombarding the driver with their own set of agitated instructions, eventually forcing the poor driver to navigate a pedestrian-only lane by the stream, thus requiring shoppers and strollers to splat themselves against the wall as we barreled by; we finally parked and took a taxi to the hotel (which is what Maurice wanted to do in the first place).  Another day we drove high into the mountains, then climbed a rocky trail higher still for a look at primitive paintings made of soot, iron oxide and animal fat in the Pileta Cave, lantern lit and very insecure of footing (so you know it was great fun).  Then cheerio!–we ducked into Gibraltar, a little spot of England on the Med, with fish and chips, red telephone boxes and the department store Marks and Spencer, purveyors of my favorite chocolate bourbon biscuits.  We took a taxi tour around the Rock, and at one of the stops a large macaque monkey unexpectedly jumped on my head.  Did you catch that?  A large monkey.  On my head.  I’m not sure why the Spanish want this place back.  That evening I took an extra swig of the post-prandial, pour-it-yourself homemade hooch the restaurateur plopped down gratis on our table. Our military space-available trip home on a C5A was the most comfortable flight we’ve had in decades; not only was there legroom but so few passengers were aboard that everyone could lie down on a row of seats for a snooze. Keep reading