I didn't fall in love with New Orleans. No, no, this was no accident, no thing that happened to me. There was no victim in the arrangement. I jumped into my love for New ORLEANS. I walked into a fire I knew would consume me. And I have been forever changed.
Both before and since moving to New Orleans, I have traveled a lot. Though it is true, I am mesmerized by places like highland Guatemala, the Corn Islands, Luang Prabang, Hoi An, Jerusalem, and even St Louis, MO, there are very few places I arrive, feeling in some way that I've come home, that floating feeling that carries me on a wave of wonder, and childlike excitement. New Orleans was my first. San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico was second.
And then I came to Granada, Spain.
Of course it's no wonder that I again walked into this flame of desire. Granada has a temperament of its own. Modern city dominates the a portion of the city, but as the city hills wind themselves uphill towards the Alhambra, it snakes through several different centuries, cultures, and traditions before it reaches the top. On the right side of the river Darro is the Jewish quarter, called El Realjo, holding onto nothing but secrets in the walls of its ancient, albeit no longer historically relevant, buildings. To the left is the intoxicating Albaicin, its whitewashed walls snaking around cobblestone alleyways not fit for cars. Every home in the Albaicin faces the Alhambra, squarely perched high above the city, basking in the beautiful Andalusian sunlight during the day, and the glow of the moon and modern lights in the night. It is in the lower part of the Albaicin, as the cobblestone alley pours towards Plaza Nueva, that the evidence of Spain's African culture is still quite present. Morocco is closer than I thought, and at is evident in design. Moorish archways into homes and restaurants, fountains for washing all over the city, falafel and shawarma in restaurants not even hinted with Spanish wine. Shops with beautiful rugs, Moroccan leather, handicrafts, line the street. Arabic lettering.
Even further above the Albaicin is the Sacromonte, known for its cave dwellers. These are not the kind of caves one finds at the beach, but cement homes built into the ground, with a window to let the light in. It's no wonder, as Spain is extremely hot. In all of these areas, people dance flamenco. I'm no historian, and have not studied this form of dance, but the little I know is fascinating. It
is also the part of my trip I am now weaving together the places I have been the last 15 months, the place that I am from. Flamenco is said to have begun over 3000 years ago. As people and culture moved throughout Europe, and as Islam spread from the Middle East to Africa and the Iberian peninsula, it was further influenced by the Gypsies, the Jews. It was never ever mentioned, and never ever shown on a map, but I could NOT get past how similar some of the poses were to Apsara dancers of the Hindus during the time of Angkor.
It is not coincidental that each of these places that I am enamored with- New Orleans, San Cristobal de Las Casas, Granada, is Spanish by design, a living cultural history spanning centuries. All were the sites of great wars and oppression, of different religions, languages, and customs. And all have a creative mysticism a city can only acquire through years and years of oppression and revolution.
I'm wondering now if this moment is the precise moment that invites my entire year of travel and self reflection to finally come through into something I have known all along.
I don't fit in.
And this is not a bad thing. It is just an aspect of me I have always had to take into consideration when embarking on a journey, whether it be personal or professional. I cannot put confines around my thoughts and ideas, because they simply don't fit me. When I do, I find myself aggravated, depressed, and rebel against myself.
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