Returned from ...

... Granada!

As Gilles had planned, I didn't find out where we were going until the moment we stepped onto the connecting flight. Or at least I didn't know that I hadn't really found out where we were going until the moment we stepped onto the connecting flight. On the way to the airport, keeping up the ruse by dropping a few more misleading clues, he'd led me to believe that we were headed to Bilbao – which would have been great, too, but ... Granada!

What did we do? Not much. Well, not much if that includes starting our mornings with chocolate and churros as the church clocks struck noon, one after the other in a seeming lack of agreement about the precise moment of the hour's commencement; strolling narrow crooked little ruelles in the afternoon heat, hugging the walls to soak up the shade and absorbing the city's mix of Catholic and Muslim cultures; sipping sweet mint tea while dipping in Arab baths, alternating between hot and cold pools; marveling at the might of military and royal power in the Alhambra's forts, palaces, and gardens; taking tranquil and lazy siestas in the gracious haven of our wooden-beamed hotel; venturing out under the sunset for sangria and tapas on our favorite terrace; and finally dropping onto cool cotton sheets long after polite nightspots in Switzerland would have closed. (And among all that not much, not a moment was found to ruminate on what can handily be shoved under the all-encompassing umbrella of "trying to conceive"!)

Needless to say, les horaires espagnols, and all their implications, are sorely missed today. But there are memories, and there are photos – a few here, if you'd like to see. And as always, there is the happiness to be home again, spending time with this little black face and catching up on all of your goings-on.

the best part of waking up ...

the Alhambra, as seen from across the valley.

its summer palace.

arabesque detail.

Renaissance architecture to ground the Moorish.

the name Alhambra: attached to more than just
a world heritage site.

what is Spain, if not Spain?

all the faux-Moroccan tourist tchotchkes
one could care to find.

white houses clinging to the hillside.

towards la catedral.

was I allowed to buy the same pair of souvenir shoes
as Gilles? no, I was not. (and I will proclaim my continued
jealousy for as long as he will continue to wear them.)