Romancing Andalucia

It may have seemed so cliché but think about it, there I was in the European Summer of 2009 with my three best friends from high school, finally doing what we had mulled over in the twelfth grade. This was it. After years of study and endless shifts at the pub, it had arrived, that ‘Euro trip’ with the boys where the mood would flow, alcohol consumed and ladies engaged.
Imagine my irony when the end of our time together would become the catalyst for this trip. After two months of shacking up in hostel bed or hotel room, sometimes clueless, wondering whether or not it was even my room, awakening in what became a daily drunken stupor. Two months of hangovers, tourist sights, nightclubs, drugs and alcohol, I was sad to depart Milan and my three best friends.
We had the time of our lives and looked forward to going home and boasting about our ‘Euro trip.’ But for me my next stop was the south of Spain, my European adventure was just beginning. The inner ‘geek’ in me was ready to be unleashed on the streets of Andalucía. Eager to soak up a city rich with plots, colonisation and history.
Southern Spain and I immediately fell in love. After four years I had studied their language, learned their nuances and now I was here in Andalucía, the old Moorish dwelling of Spain where the influences of Morocco are everywhere in their architecture and narrow cobblestone streets.
My first afternoon in boiling Seville where the temperatures soared above 40 degrees Celsius, a local shopkeeper tells me in musical Spanish that “old Moroccan families still keep the keys to their long-lost houses in Andalucía.” Explaining the monuments and palaces around the city that scream Northern Africa.
An area of Spain I took great interest in during university, Andalucía was home to a brilliant civilisation at a time when Europe was considered barbaric. The Moors, a race with a mixture of Berbers and Arabs moved into Southern Spain in the early 700’s and within a decade they began to conquer the Iberian Peninsula. Eventually however, the Spanish regained control of their own land and despite trying to eradicate anything remotely Moorish, much glorious architecture remains. It was hard to believe that architecture and monument alone would be motivation enough for me to visit somewhere, but Andalucía is definitely an exception to my rules of travel.
Andalucía, more than any other state in Spain has continued to embrace the mark that the Moors once left behind. In a country notorious for domestic strife, little did I realise what existed outside the glitz and glamour of Madrid and Barcelona. Venturing the streets of Andalucía saw me visit Seville, awestruck by the Mezquita Gardens and the Torre del Oro, which translates loosely to the ‘Tower of Gold.’ This great compound was once the largest mosque in the world after the Kaaba in Mecca, showcasing the grip the Moors had on Spain.
But it was in Granada, where the monument and motivation behind my travel lived, the commandeering Alhambra Palace. Home to the King of the Moors and ironically this was a place where Arab and Jew coincided, living harmoniously amongst one another, something I struggled to fathom in today’s world. Personally, the Alhambra Palace under all its splendour was a peaceful and serene place where I felt all my European travels culminate at once. It’s not very often that one has an epiphany when they travel, but wandering the halls and private quarters of the Alhambra seemed to put me at ease with myself. After spending two months chasing busses, consuming alcohol and worrying about the after-effects, the Alhambra was that release where I simply enjoyed and enveloped everything from the sights and sounds of people scurrying about to the plain natural Granada air, a real throwback to an era that has been lost in the sands of time.
It was here in the foothills of Granada that my ‘Euro trip’ came to a close. The Alhambra Palace, with her stone red walls and long towers glowing in the evening sun, this was a remarkable sight. An architectural wonder, I couldn’t help but be encapsulated by its symmetry, oozing specifics and grace in Islamic Moorish design.
Entering the Palace, I felt like an imposter, manoeuvring my way through the ‘Gates of Justice’ surrounded by decorated gardens, water features and pathways leading me to all avenues of history and culture. The palace, filled with its archways, lead through arcaded courtyards and pavilions, according to a gatekeeper, he tells me that everything was built entirely of wood and stucco. Technology and application well ahead of its time, the Alhambra is decorated with exquisite arabesque patterns, surrounded by calligraphic inscriptions from the Koran. This truly was a place where culture and history coincide, and I felt at home, for once I didn’t feel the need to yell ‘Calma te’ to anyone or even myself.
As with most heritage-listed sights around the globe, there are many restrictions on tourists in order to help conserve the beauty of such a landmark. However I was able to thank my lucky stars that day, as it turns out speaking ones local tongue proved beneficial. People talk about the arrogance of the French and the unfriendly nature of the English, but the Spaniards really took things to a new level. Smiles were rare, laughter was kept amongst friends and general service was determined on the size of my wallet. However from the moment I set foot in Spain, I would nervously break into Spanish ‘lingua’ and the smiles would spill and the warm nature of Spain came into fruition.
Her name was Jordana, and she showed me a side to Granada and the Alhambra that I can guarantee no other tourist would have envisaged. For the next four nights I was treated to home cooked meals, dining with mixtures of Tapas, Paella’s and other varied ‘Arroz’ (Rice) dishes mixed with a plethora of seafood. The real Spain at my fingertips, I almost felt guilty for the hospitality Jordana and her family poured on me and I was stumped as to how I could possibly repay her. Not a word of English was spoken other than my failed attempts at helping Jordana with her English coursework and I could not have asked for anything more.
Jordana was a young and vibrant Flamenco dancer. Following in her Mother’s footsteps, and together with her Father they all contribute to the local family business. ‘La noche de Granada’ which translates to ‘Granada nights’ was their own thriving Flamenco bar in the heart of Granada town and Jordana and her Mother, Rosa, were regular performers. With the bar full almost every night throughout the Spanish summer, Jordana would perform in front of a surfeit of tourists and local Granadians whom indulged in Tapas and San Gria all night long.
I had only seen Flamenco on the television, but what I witnessed from Jordana was fuelled with passion, love and effort. From the moment the ‘Guitarista’s’ began, the music was almost systematic. Starting off slowly, vocalists and Jordana would work together in sync, never making eye contact with each other; Jordana simply understood the beats and mood of Flamenco. Eventually the beat would pick up, riffs occurring randomly, the real movement can be felt in the distance. The steady hands of Jordana would clap in tandem, but as the guitar began to strike its chords, Jordana’s feet would pound the dance floor; her blood-red frock swivelled from side to side as the sounds of guitars, maracas and bongo drums played on. One could be forgiven for thinking the floor would cave in beneath them, as Jordana tapped dynamically, sending shivers throughout the venue and its keen observers.
Seeing this in motion was a staple of Andalucía, and being in the company of Jordana and her family made me feel apart of this culture, right in the heart of Spain. Tearing up the dance floor that night with Jordana elevated my spirits, almost like someone out of a Robin Thicke ballad.
Attaining restricted access to the Alhambra Palace insides, VIP entry into Granada’s favourite Flamenco bar and ending my days with the Andalucian sunset from Jordana’s balcony. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined such an experience in Europe, but little did I realise just how valuable this became. What started as an adventure with the boys, boozing our nights away turned into a perfectly scripted romance, I likened to a Bollywood film. This was my Europe, and never will I forget a moment from these two months, as I sat patiently on the arduous flight home from London, dreading going back to the reality of Melbourne and my monotonous lifestyle. But to say I didn’t return home with a new vigour and motivation to excel would be a lie. I came home to commence my Masters in Journalism, a new man, grown up, educated and mature. Here I am today, documenting these experiences, these moments that inspired me to chase my dream, to write and inspire others.