Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Alhama de Granada, Spain

Sweet Home Alhama

Jamón from Heaven

I held tight to little Cruz with one hand and our carry-ons in the other as we stepped off our flight from Tunis into the bright Madrid morning. I lifted my face to the warm Spanish sun, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply. A warm spring breeze tugged at my headscarf as Cruz pulled on my sleeve. Mama, do you hear that? He whispered. I can understand the voices!

He was right. For the first time since Peru, six months ago, we were surrounded by people speaking Spanish—a language we could all understand. I smiled down at him, stifling both laughter and tears. Not only were they speaking a familiar language, but men’s and women’s voices were intermingling freely, and at equal volumes. I lowered the headscarf to my shoulders and with it a weight I’d been carrying for the past three months in Tunisia. Though still thousands of miles from our little adobe in Santa Fe, it felt like we were home.

Our first stop was the Renault office to pick up our new set of wheels. Jason had purchased a Kangoo—a no-frills, four-door, diesel-powered economy car—for our four-month stint in Spain and Portugal with the agreement that Renault would buy the car back from us upon our departure. This would be the first time we had our own car since The Big Field Trip began nine months ago, and we were all as excited as New Mexican jumping beans.

The lanky, cadaverous Renault office manager welcomed us and struggled to keep his droopy eyelids open as he handed the keys over to me, indifferently. I found it hard to believe that he wasn’t as giddy with excitement as I was, but I played it cool. As Señor Cadaver slowly nestled into the swivel chair behind his screen, resigned to help Jason plot a route south into Andalucía, the kids and I stole away in search of our new wheels. We found our Kangoo immediately, parked at the front of the lot. It was a thing of beauty, what with four wheels and all. The kids squealed with excitement and, perhaps due to nine months of relying on public transportation in the developing world, they even forgot their ancient ritual of arguing over who had to sit in the middle. Instead, they flung open the back door and eagerly filed in.

As they busied themselves in the back seat trying out seat belts and cup holders and window cranks, I slid in behind the steering wheel. I sat with my eyes closed for a few moments, taking in the new car smell and the scent of my new freedom. Suddenly, I was in the driver’s seat. Suddenly, I could stop and go anywhere I pleased. Suddenly, I could dress however I liked, with nothing to consider but the weather.

I opened my eyes and, in a fit of lucidity, stripped off all the superfluous layers still holding me captive. I flung the headscarf and long sleeves to the side and bared an undershirt that hadn’t seen daylight in three months. I looked down to find pasty-white shoulders that I hardly recognized; the bronze I had worked so hard to achieve two countries ago, in Brazil, had long since faded. It was more flesh than any of us had seen in the past three months combined. I stole a glance around the parking lot half expecting to find a crowd of men sneering at me, but nary a man in the place had even turned his head! Least of all Señor Cadaver, who was now standing in the parking lot handing Jason a map and bidding him a disinterested farewell. Jason jumped in the passenger seat, and we were off like a prom dress.

As we headed south on Highway A4, Jason shot me an impish smile. We rolled down our windows, and I let my hair down. Road trip! The kids hooted with excitement and rolled their own windows down as well. And then up. And then down again, enthralled by the hand-cranks. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of Bella’s newly-bared pasty-white shoulders. I did my best to swallow a grin.

Runways and hangers soon gave way to a surreal landscape of rolling golden hills, which for some reason reminded me of my childhood home in Kansas. Minus the hills. On top of one hill in the distance, Cyrus thought he spotted a huge, black bull. Check it out! Toro! He shouted. At first we thought our eyes must be playing tricks on us. I mean, I realize this was Spain and all, but spotting a gargantuan toro in your first fifteen minutes is a little much, isn’t it? A little too good to be true. Like seeing a tornado—or the world’s largest ball of twine—immediately upon crossing into Kansas. Still, as we drew nearer, the bull kept standing there looking just like a bull. When, finally, we were close enough to see it in all its glory, all ten of our eyeballs confirmed. Sure enough. It was indeed a massive black bull, complete with horns and a hearty endowment. True, it was made of metal, and it had apparently been erected on the hilltop to make the landscape look even more Spain-like, but it was indeed a bull. Over the course of the next hour the kids tallied five more majestic, macho, metal toros. And so the counting began.

In each country thus far, we’ve all agreed on some iconic symbol of the culture to count during our stay. In Peru, we started off counting llamas, until we quickly realized that only Jason could retain numbers that high. Instead, we settled on Peruvian hairless dogs (which, though infinitely more repugnant, were thankfully less plentiful). In Brazil we counted sloths—one point for those found in treetops and two points for the domesticated variety that would let us hold them. Tunisia we kept track of the number of times I got run out of mosques. And, here in Spain, we have agreed to tally the number of hilltop bulls.

I laid on the horn and hollered as we passed into Andalucía in order to honor an age-old road-trip tradition that, back stateside, always marked our passage from one state into another. Startled by the sudden outburst, perhaps, Cyrus (who has a bladder the size of a GI Joe canteen) reminded us of one of the downsides of car travel with children: there are no restrooms on-board. At his request, we pulled off the highway for an urgent mid-morning pit-stop at the closest gasolinera.

As Cyrus made a beeline into the station to find the baños, Jason consulted the Kangoo manual to determine which type of petrol to use and how in the hell to open the gas tank. In the back seat, Cruz and Bella started up with the old familiar bickering routine about who gets to set by the window next and, after a few minutes of squabbling, swore never to speak to one another again.

Since this was apparently going to be a lengthy pit-stop, I decided to distract them with a little walk. The three of us ambled behind the station, which was on a hill overlooking the village. There, we were surprised to find a long trail of Spaniards who were all dolled-up and smiling like they’d just been released from a flamenco funny farm. Hair pulled back tight, heavy make-up, ruffles and polka dots. The colorful, tipsy crowd was making its way down the road toward the center of town where a make-shift carnival had been erected, complete with an amusement park, a Ferris wheel, and blinking lights in more colors than I knew existed. The whole place looked like a clown had thrown up on it. As far as I could tell, we had arrived in time for the village’s annual feria.

Bella and Cruz began jumping up and down and hugging each other excitedly, apparently on speaking terms again. Mama! Mama! Can we go? Can we go?

I’m not one to pass up a good party—especially after three months in a dry land—so I bid them ask their father. They skipped hand-in-hand back to the Kangoo shouting as Cyrus walked out of the station (looking relieved) and Jason finished topping off the tank. Papa! Papa! There’s a fiesta out back and Mama says we can go, if it’s okay with you!

We started by visiting one of the carnival booths to get the kids good and sugared-up. With churros and hot chocolate in hand, we attempted to get lost in the crowded streets of the village, until we realized the village only had two streets. Nevertheless, we meandered wide-eyed for hours, breathing in the sweet festival air, gawking at beautiful ladies fancied up in their finest fiesta gowns, and dancing along with the crowd to the Andalusian music, which reminded me of the Malouf music I had been studying back in North Africa. Minus the dancing.

Eventually, we wandered into a neighborhood taberna where most of the town folk seemed to be gravitating. It was inside this dark, smoky tavern that it fully hit me how far we were from the Muslim world. Not only was I not the only woman in the bar, but people of both sexes were intermingling unapologetically. And in short sleeves. Not to mention the fact that wine was flowing like a river, and the jolly proprietor felt no apparent need to draw the curtains in shame. Andalucía, I decided, was my kind of place.

To top it off, pork products were literally falling from the sky. Pork, which is strictly forbidden by the Islamic religion in Tunisia, is a delicacy we had not savored for three months. Now we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by dozens of huge cured pig legs. They were suspended from the ceiling by their hooves, over the heads of bar patrons, lending a savory aroma to the air and dripping a slippery sheen onto the wooden floor.

Our jolly barman lowered one of the legs of jamón from the ceiling as he struck up a conversation with a mother and daughter ensemble in matching red-carnation-print gowns. Don Jolly clamped the leg of jamón to a vice grip that had been mounted to a greasy wooden table near the bar, then skillfully carved paper-thin slices of the delicacy onto napkins as he went on chatting. He topped each slice of jamón with a salty hunk of local manchego cheese and began passing the savory treats around the tavern. Don Jolly then returned to the bar to pour a glass of Rioja for Mama Carnation. As the pungent combination of jamón and manchego melted on my tongue, I closed my eyes and suddenly the rest of my life flashed in front of me. It was a wonderful life—full of music, carnations, and jamón—in which I eventually grew old and wise, living out the remainder of my days, perfectly content, in this little tavern.

But, alas, when I opened my eyes, Bella’s sugar buzz was wearing off, little Cruz was ready for a nap, Cyrus had to pee again, and Jason was anxious to push on—south toward the home he had rented for our first three weeks in Andalucía. We finished our jamón, thanked Don Jolly, loaded the kids back into the Kangoo, and hit the road again.

We followed the highway south into the province of Granada. As Cruz drifted off to sleep, golden toro‑capped hills were replaced by fields of blood-red poppies and whitewashed stone farmhouses. And then the olive trees. Endless groves of olive trees. Thousands of knotted, twisty olive trees had been planted in neat rows—years ago, or maybe centuries. The groves created precise checkerboard patterns that stretched on for miles. From the back seat, Cyrus read the Andalucía section of our guidebook, which claimed that the olive groves of Andalucía form the largest continuous man-made forest in the world. Somehow this was not surprising. What better place for huge man-made bulls than in a huge man-made forest? We come from the Rocky Mountains and are no strangers to woodlands, but these forests were like none we had ever seen—orderly, manicured, civilized. Rather than the wild and woolly woodlands of the American West, the forests of Andalucía beg you to throw down a picnic blanket and pop open a bottle of sherry.

The olive trees continued on relentlessly throughout Cruz’s nap, blanketing the hills in a mesmerizing patchwork of varying shades of green. Groves were interrupted occasionally by spectacular hilltop villages that jutted above the surrounding countryside, straight out of the tales of King Arthur. What may very well be the most beautiful and unsung of these tiny medieval hilltop villages has since become our new home.

Alhama de Granada is a picturesque town of 6,000 people (plus five tourists, at present). The village (which, by the way, didn’t make the guide book) is perched on the edge of a breathtaking gorge carved over centuries by the Rio Alhama. The town’s name is derived from the thermal baths located here, which in Arabic are called al-hammam. They say Alhama’s location between Granada and Málaga gave it strategic importance for the Moors, who also had a fondness for the hot springs. In 1482, the fortress town was taken by the Catholic Monarchs who chased the Moorish Sultanate out of town and built a cathedral on top of their mosque. Today, as a result, church bells ring through the town instead of the call to prayer that had grown so familiar to us in Tunisia.

Jason negotiated with the owners and got a great deal on our home, which is a four-bedroom, four-story ancient dwelling in the Moorish Quarter, just one block from the old mosque (which, as I mentioned, is now under the cathedral). Our bedrooms are stacked above one another, each with a window overlooking the narrow cobblestone alley where old women and flower boxes hang from crumbling windowsills. Cruz and Bella run incessantly up and down the narrow staircase that winds from floor to floor, arguing about who is the king of our little castle. I can’t even begin to guess how old the house is. It’s chock-full of wooden beams, plastered walls that are two feet thick, low ceilings and wooden windows that let in precious little light. It’s so dark and cool and comfortable that Cyrus could sleep all day, if it wasn’t for the church bells.

Our landlords, James and Lisa, are British ex-pats who live across the alley with their two young boys, Clement and Luca, and their gargantuan mastiff, Sassan. James and Lisa have taken us under their wings, showing us around town, guiding us on hikes along the river, and even offering to let us piggy-back on their internet. They insisted on the later, in fact, explaining that to get our own service hooked up for such a brief stay would be an absurd undertaking. Getting service would first require, Lisa explained, that you succeed in finding the internet office open at some point during your stay.

She was probably right to be so cynical. Getting used to the siesta culture of southern Spain has been a bit of an adjustment. We’ve learned that siesta begins like clockwork at eleven o’clock each morning when shop owners lock their doors and head home for la comida—the main meal of the day. Unlike clockwork, however, the siesta seems to stretch on for an undetermined number of hours thereafter. Basically, until the store owner is damn good and ready to go back to work. This can sometimes happen in late afternoon, other times in the early evening, and occasionally not until the following day. If you really have to get something done, we’ve learned that there is only one guaranteed business hour, which falls somewhere between ten and eleven o’clock each morning. (This is assuming, of course, that it’s not another bank holiday. Or the morning after a soccer match.)

In deference to the siesta tradition, therefore, we heeded James and Lisa’s advice and strung a ten-foot internet cable from their window to ours, high above the cobblestone alleyway. I spend most mornings banging out translations—hanging out the window with my computer, along with the flowerboxes and the old ladies. The view is superb; fortunately, it doesn’t rain often.

Our arrival in Spain marked the official end of our first year of homeschooling, and the kids are fully celebrating summer break. Cyrus spends the days devouring one book after another, while Bella and Cruz divide their time equally between our home and that of James and Lisa. Bella loves taking Sassan, the mastiff, on long walks (or vice versa), while Cruz prefers to fly back and forth through the alley with Luca and Clement, both of whom have superhero Underoos. Clement is known by most villagers as Spiderman, and Luca is rarely seen without his Superman costume. Cruz, lamentably, does not own any Underoos. Undaunted nonetheless, our resourceful young lad has successfully devised his own superhero alter ego, and has even added a proper Spanish flair. He transformed my Brazilian sarong into a cape and Bella’s bikini top into a mask. Each afternoon he can now be seen flying through the alleyway with Luca and Clement shrieking ¡Viva, Super Manchego!

Jason is making us all proud by delving wholeheartedly into an exhaustive study of the Spanish cuisine. By study I mean that he has endeavored to hit every bar in the village to take advantage of their free tapas. Tapas, which can literally be translated as tops or lids, are small appetizer plates—anything from a simple dish of olives or almonds to a more elaborate creation, depending on the tavern and the hour. They say that tapas, which traditionally come free with each drink, may have originally been intended to serve as a lid keeping flies out of your beverage. You can still find tapas throughout most of Spain, though Andalucía is one of the few regions where they are still free, and Jason is taking full advantage.

Each evening, he and Cyrus spend hours in our little kitchen trying to recreate some of our favorites: fried calamari with lemon aioli, pinchos of pork, grilled potatoes, tri-pepper salad. Oh, and don’t forget the grilled asparagus wrapped in jamón, which may be the tastiest of all. Honestly, though, how can you go wrong with anything that’s wrapped in jamón? In fact, I recently told Jason that, if for any reason I should fail to make it home from this harebrained adventure, he has my permission to wrap my body in jamón and leave me here, among the poppy fields and olive groves of beautiful Andalucía.