RICH'S NOTES-PARENTAL TOURISMMay 6, 1999
Hotel Sacromonte, Granada
Sol To Sky
It’s time to mosey. But where to take my parents next? We need something Spanish
and spectacular. Before we left Santa Maria, Javier insisted we cross the Sierra Nevada,
but his 4 year old map didn't show a road. He said, "I think there is a road".
Our map shows an intestinal route, striped red and white and black, broken up and climbing
to the summit at 3482 metres. It is the highest road in Europe.
Central Andalusia is where the European Continental plate and the Mediterranean Ocean
plate collide. All those years of pushing and rubbing have produced some inland and
coastal mountain ranges, the highest and most spectacular being the Sierra Nevada. At 3500
metres it rivals the heights of the Swiss Alps. Spaniards take to the ski slopes on winter
mornings and make it to the Costa del Sol and Europe’s windsurfing capitol of Tarifa
for the afternoon.
The modern, Spanish autoroutes cut clean lines through mountains and over wide bridges
passing treacherous turns and beautiful vistas. The landscape and coastal road east of
Nerja are rough and naked in comparison to the booming autoroute west of Málaga. A
beautiful coastal road hugs the foothills of the wildlife refuge Reserva Nacional de
Sierra de Tejedads.
We pass through the building and population explosions of Almuñécar, and carry on
through the twists and turns towards Salobreña, a white village rising up among fields of
sugar cane.
Climbing the inland road along the steep Rio Guadalfeo river valley, and for
twenty-five kilometres we’re bone dry and creeping among arid mesas and prickly
outcrops. Lanjarón, at the Sierra’s foothills, bottles its fresh water springs
– bursts of runoff from the Nevada’s highest peaks.
At Orgiva, at the threshold of the red and white and black road, we check our watches.
It’s four o’clock and I really want to go up there. I’m thinking it’s
maybe 50 kilometres of slope grinding – something I should save for a morning, and
Sara. She loves Europe’s longest, shortest, highest, smallest anything.
Granada welcomes us with a bustling, vivacious city centre and no hotel room. We mosey
over to the information centre to get our hands on a city map and a hotel price listing.
The list is daunting but we agree on a price range and a general location. We walk the
streets judging each place by its front door. My parents are remembering their noisy,
dingy stay in Seville and want something a little less "Andalusian". We spend a
brief time in the Hostal Paris where the German owner of nine years is friendly enough,
but the 4000 pesetas ($40) price reflects directly on the state of the rooms. Now they see
how good they had it in Seville. We move on passed the graffiti and public drinking and
into an upscale shopping district. We’re waiting to speak to a hotel manager and
witness thirty teenagers, flying down a flight of stairs and lounging in the lobby. My
parents look at me and we exit through a billow of smoke.
Across the street. There’s an acceptable bed and an acceptable view. My dad’s
complaining about the room’s proximity to the street. "It’ll be noisy. I
can’t sleep." Now this other one’s smaller and will barely fit a little cot
for me. My dad’s happy because it’s quiet, but my mom smells smoke. She
can’t sleep with the residual smell of tobacco. The hotel manager is checking his
hair and dusting off his jacket in the mirror. Walking back to the manager's desk, I force
a decision. I don't want to look at any more hotels. I’m negotiating between my
parents, and they decide on the larger room. By morning the only consequence of my
father’s chivalry and potential for sheep counting is that my mother, sleepless,
asks, "Does anyone smell gas?"
