“I’m going to Granada tomorrow, and I’ll join you guys in
Seville day after.”
The response was just silent nodding, and nothing else.
There were no explanations sought, which frankly was a relief.
Next morning, we headed to the Madrid railway station to buy
our respective tickets. One thing you should know about Spain, France and
Italy, is that in these countries the Eurail pass doesn’t entitle you to hop on
any train like the swing in your playground. You need a reservation for almost
every train, and we were hoping to get them at the last minute. Unfortunately,
we couldn’t; and after a few drowsy minutes of walking and talking around, we
realized that buses are still an option.
After confirming that bus tickets were readily available to both
Seville and Granada, it was time for us to part ways. Up till that moment I was excited;
finally some freedom! But when my one of my friends hugged me goodbye, I honestly
felt a little scared, like I was a soldier going to war, with misery lying
ahead. One might argue it isn’t a big deal, as I was joining them back in a
couple of days, but it was. My day out in Malmo was just a day out – I always
knew that I was going back to my friends by evening. This was me venturing out
into a new city, making my own hostel reservation, and sleeping in a dorm full
of people I don’t know. I was by no means a seasoned traveler – this was just
the second week in Europe for me - and this took some courage I admit.
It was around 7.35 am, and the bus was scheduled to depart
at 8 am. There was a restaurant at the bus station, and I could only groan at
the menu again. There was no time to lose, and the boccadilo came to mind. To my surprise and dismay, it took me ten
minutes to get the waiter’s attention. He was absorbed in catering to the ladies
sitting to my either sides. I paid and waited for my sandwich, and the clock
ticked faster. At 7.50, I made attempts at telling him that my bus leaves in 10
mins, give me my goddamn sandwich. But as Murphy’s Law would have it, he didn’t
understand English – and my sign language wasn’t effective enough. This time I
didn’t wait for anyone to come forth and take pity – I asked one of the ladies.
And by 7.58 I grabbed my sandwich and ran like the wind, because it’s not
India, and 8 am means 8 am. Huffing and panting, but more importantly with my sandwich – I boarded.
 |
| The entrance to the tour |
There was no liquid courage, and I kept to myself for the
whole journey. The first thing I saw once I got off the bus at the Granada
station, was a tourism counter with bright Apple monitors. In my quest for
randomness, I had done close to zero research before setting out. The
Alhambra, a palace and a fortress, was the most popular point in the city.
The guy at the counter was good at what he did, and I found out the fortress
was off limits but there was a tour close to the palace. Panoramic colorful
shots of this tour were on display on the screens. When I asked if I could go
on my own, he went – “You could, but see these roads?” A series of insanely fast
clicking and zooming later, he continues – “How they twist and turn? It’s very
easy to get lost in there.” Two minutes later he was taking down my reservation
for a cycling tour worth 30 euros, because tourist and gullibility equal cha-ching.
After checking into my hostel and taking a nap, I left for
my grandiose cycling tour. I missed the right stop and was already getting
late, so I ran the last half mile or so, enthused and excited. But the cycling
tour had only one applicant, so I was forced to switch to the walking tour. And to my shock, they didn’t return any euros:
it cost the same. Walking tours all over Europe are mostly free. But time was
running out, and the sun was beginning to set, so in the earnestness to make my
trip to Granada worthwhile, I took it.
There was only one English speaking person in my group, a
French woman whose English speaking pace could give the Sloths from Zootopia a run for their money. The
guide smiled more than the average Air hostess, as she droned on about the
origin of the city, relation to pomegranates, and how the architecture of the
city culminated from the Arab-Christian animosity. It was interesting to a certain
extent – about 20 minutes, maybe. The roads weren’t as labyrinthine as I was
led to believe. But the walk is definitely one of a kind, and the sunset view of the Alhambra was beautiful.
Before starting the descent back to the city, I saw another
tour guide, just standing in her blue-outlined shades, short blonde hair with pinkish
streaks – just lost in herself. My tour guide came to her with the slow French woman
and made a joke on Italy (which meant the cool guide was Italian), to which she
continued giving her impassive, indifferent look. So obviously I ditched my
original guide, introduced myself to the other, and walked back with her. We conveniently
put the history of Granada aside and talked about ourselves.
Later I walked around the city, which turned out to be more
posh than I imagined. The Italian guide had given me directions to a
value-for-money tapas bar. Tapas, simply put – is chakhna in Spanish – i.e. food you eat
while drinking. The food and wine were delicious, but I can’t say it didn’t feel
odd to be the only guy sitting alone at a table. It was time to call it a day,
and I went back to my hostel. The room was twin-sharing, unlike most dorms
throughout Europe which have 8 to 10 beds on average. The other bed remained vacant,
and so did most of the rooms in my corridor. There was no sound or sign of
life. That night I missed my friends. If you want to travel alone, there is a
way to go about it, as I discovered later with practice.
There is nothing of note from Seville I want to write about,
where I spent my next couple of days, back with my friends. But I’ll remember
it for introducing me to the best pizza I’ve ever had. (Italy couldn’t compete
since I couldn’t visit)
We headed back to Barcelona to board our much awaited flight
to Ibiza. I didn’t think the biggest party place on the planet would have much
in store for someone who doesn’t like parties, but my friend sold it to me by
showing pictures of the beaches during the day. So we reached Barcelona airport
before midnight, waiting for our early morning flight, and planned to sleep in
the airport itself.
After dozing off somehow in the uncomfortable seats, with
dreams of sunshine and beaches in our heads, it was finally time to fly! People
were clad in beachwear already, at the airport itself. Goodbye grogginess,
hello excitement!
Only while getting in line for boarding, I discovered that my
wallet was gone. Goodbye wallet.
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