Hammaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhm
Several weeks ago, Krista, the team lead, pinged me on Skype. “Would you like to go to these baths while we’re in Granada?” Um, yeah.
And today we went. Ahhhhhhhh. A tall, slender, dark-haired Spanish woman showed us each room: cold, hot, steam, and medium (not hot, not cold). And the most important thing, “Silencio!”
We slipped into the medium pool first. She was correct, it wasn’t hot and it wasn’t cold. It was perfect for leaning back, lounging, and completely forgetting all cares in the world. After many minutes, I left the medium pool and entered the hot pool. After a few minutes, the heat was too intense, so I exited and poured myself a cup of mint tea, relaxing on a marble slab and sipping the sweet, minty liquid in the tiny plastic cup. I braved the cold pool for a matter of seconds, then headed back to the medium pool.
As I laid there, I drifted in and out of consciousness. I stared at the ceiling, rounded, with cutouts of stars shining down on me. I listened to the choruses of Arabic music softly coming through the speakers, taking me back to the time I spent in the Middle East, so many years ago. A faint spice smell filled the air – cinnamon? anise? – I never could place it. I stared at the columns rising from the pool of water, elegant rows of alabaster rising to the ceiling, reflections spread across the tranquil pool. I wished that cameras were allowed in the tranquil spot; I wanted to capture this serene image forever. Alas, they were not. Archways met my eye, cascading from the pool room where I was, to the showers, to the massage rooms.
A man massaged my back with rose oil and strong hands and arms, then escorted me back to the baths. I entered the steam room, breathing the damp steam in, relaxing on the marble benches. The steam was so thick, you couldn’t see anyone else in the room, you could only hear muffled whispers. It added to the mystique. Hearing, yet not seeing.
This routine continued – steam room, warm water, hot water, cold, repeat – for an hour an a half before the attendant rang the bell, informing us our session was done. We dressed and went outside into the chilly afternoon. No words were necessary to describe how relaxed and happy we were. We simply looked at each other, smiled, and said, “Ahhhhhhhhh” in unison.
Churros y Chocolate
“Cinco churros y cinco chocolate caliente,” I ordered.
The waiter looked at me quizzically. “Cinco?”
“Si, cinco. Por todos.”
A moment later he returned with five cups of rich, steaming, thick, velvety hot chocolate. And two platters of churros, piled high. We all stared at each other. We had assumed that an order of churros equaled one churro. Evidently, an order of churros equaled multiple churros. We laughed, and dug in.
Silently, we dipped our churros in thick chocolate, making sure to fill each nook and cranny with delicious chocolateness. We mostly ate in silence, enjoying the richness of the combination, somewhat amazed we were sitting beneath a Tiffany lamp in a Churreria, a restaurant whose purpose is to serve delicious, elegant logs of fried dough. After we had each eaten as much as we could, six lone churros remained on the plate.
I asked for the check, and was ever so grateful that the waiter had ignored my request, and brought us only three, not five, orders of churros.
churros and chocolate
Afternoon at the Alhambra
The pathways were lined by legions of slender towering cypress trees, dark green tips meeting the deep blue sky in stark contrast. The hedges, so neatly trimmed, sharp edges lining the gardens. Orange trees, with bright citrus orbs peeping out from so many green leaves. A magnificent view of the city showcasing tiny buildings lining the hillside. Opaque white fluffy clouds floating against a deep blue sky. Beautifully patterned stone paths greeted our feet. We wandered in and out of shaded gardens, relishing spots of direct sunlight, then slowly meandering on. At every turn there was a gentle trickle of water, making me suddenly feel calmer, more serene. We oohed and aahed at courtyards, at arches, at views. We stopped for long moments, staring at the views before us.
Our ticket for the main palace had a time stamped entry for 16:30. We got to the line at 16:15. There was no one in line, no other tourists in sight. We approached the ticket taker. “No. Not time.” We shrugged, then sat down on a bench nearby, basking in the sunshine. I was drifting into sleep when the others said, “It’s time” and we re-entered the line.
The palace, so unassuming on the outside, was magnificent on the inside. Glazed tile in deep blues, greens, and yellows lined the walls. Faded blue tile peeked up from the floor. Ceilings offered intricate wood carvings. Views of the city appeared through intricately carved windows. Fountains met us at every turn.
Each time we entered a new part of the palace we stopped in our tracks, amazed by the beauty before us. How did they make such incredible architecture? How did they carve such intricate designs? How did they coordinate work teams with no smart phones?
We walked back to the city, quietly reflecting on all the beauty we had seen.
How to Read Email When You’ve Been Married 53 Years
Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad!
Bourbon Street Beckons
“Titties. Ass. Beer.” The barker saw me walking with the five guys. “You can come too, lady.” Southern hospitality. Nothing like it.
Walking down Bourbon Street
We walked into a bar advertising a ridiculous special. 3 drinks for the price of 1? 5 for the price of 3? I can’t remember. Beau walked up to the bartender. “Could you make us 5 of the most ridiculous tourist drinks possible?” Her reply? “Double?” Why, of course. Minutes later we had stadium cups full of sweetness, in all colors of the rainbow.
A Rainbow of Tourist Beverages
At one intersection, sipping our ridiculous tourist drinks, we glance to the right, greeted by a looming shadow of Christ. It appeared as though he was coming back from the dead to haunt the revelers on Bourbon Street.
Christ over Bourbon Street
With half an hour before our dinner reservation, we decided the most prudent course of action would be to order beignets and cafe au laits, of course, at Cafe du Monde. We sat down, placed our order, and moments later were greeted by steaming pillows of fried goodness dusted with powdered sugar. A fresh beignet is like a taste of heaven. The powdered sugar simply melts in your mouth, along with the steamy hot fried dough. Ahhhhhh.
Beignets and Cafe au Lait
We made our way to Arnaud’s and were seated in the Jazz Bistro. The trio approached each table, taking requests, or, in our case, playing their favorites. After performing Hallelujah I Love Her So for us, complete with spinning bass and knocking, they moved on to the next table, embarking on What a Wonderful World.
Hallelujah I Love Her So
Our dinners came, full on New Orleans style – alligator sausage, frogs’ legs, fish with crab, gumbo. Completely stuffed, we insisted we couldn’t have dessert. Until we saw the flames at the nearby table. Bananas foster? Why, yes, please.
Bananas Foster. And Flames.
All in all, a remarkable, memorable, evening on Bourbon Street.
Team Social Takes Bourbon Street
The Near and the Far
I told the cab driver, “We need to make two stops. One at the Verizon store, then the second at a house on Napoleon Ave.” The taxi driver nodded and started off. While Justin was inside the Verizon store, I told the taxi driver the exact address of the house: 2203 Napoleon Avenue, cross street Loyola. “Cross street Loyola? That’s not possible; that’s far away.” I shrugged. “Maybe. It could be far away. That’s the address I have.” “No, it must be close by.” I questioned his logic. Theoretically, a destination could be far away from the airport.
Justin came back to the cab and we set off once again. We came to West Napoleon. We cruised up and down. The cab driver stopped. “West Napoleon, right?” “No, I think it’s just Napoleon. Cross street Loyola.” “No, Loyola is too far away.” Once again, I wondered why he thought we couldn’t be staying at an address far away from the airport.
“Okay. Let me call my co-worker.”
“Hey, Mike, where is the house? On Napoleon, or West Napoleon?” “Umm. I think Napoleon. Let me check.” Wait. Wait. Wait. “Yep, Napoleon, cross street Loyola.” I conveyed this information to the cab driver. Exasperated, he said, “But that’s so far away! You didn’t tell me that.”
In my head, I thought, “You’re a cab driver. I thought that I could give you an address and you would take us there.” Externally I said, “Could you please take us there?”
More exasperated, “I gave you the near-by fare. That was to here. The address you’re telling me is far away. That’s the far-away fare.” I thought for a moment. “Could you please take us there? We’ll pay the far-away fare.”
He thought for a moment. “Okay.”
We arrived at our destination. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought you were going near, so I told you the near-by price, but you were really going far.”
I’ve never had a taxi driver explain the fare in near-by or far-away terms, and was simply happy we arrived safe and sound.