Illustration by Brooklin Holbrough
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I like to explore the world with a quartet of lifelong travel enthusiasts. My husband, Ian, who’s a great tour guide and his cousins, the always fashionable Hilary and Sam, true foodies. On this trip we were in Granada, shopping in the busy Moorish markets, dining in small restaurants and drinking in open-air bars. We drank plentiful amounts of cerveza, vino and indulged in tapas such as grilled prawns, paella, fragrant Spanish meatballs, tortillas and grilled cuttlefish.
One rainy morning, we stepped out of our hotel in search of good coffee. As we turned right on the narrow, cobblestone street, Hilary pivoted and almost lost her balance. Arms flailing and feet slipping, she caught herself just in time. I reached out to steady her but I, too, started slipping on the treacherously wet stones.
This was the day we were going to see the Alhambra, the ancient Mosque and Palace of Granada. But it was wet, and both Hilary and I had packed only sandals. They were worn, comfortable and, we thought, perfect to amble through the gardens and buildings of Alhambra but we hadn’t expected wet weather.
Taking baby steps and clutching the arms of our more sensibly shod companions, Hilary and I stepped carefully down the marble sidewalk, which the rain made as slippery as a skating rink. We were soon comfortably seated in a café, sipping life-affirming coffee.
Googling “shoe stores near me,” we found one within a block of our café. It looked perfect. With much laughter we worked our way precariously down the wet street and found the shop. Hilary chose running shoes with a soft silver sheen. I fell for a pair of simply gorgeous sneakers with contrasting designs of matte and shiny gold.
Back on the street, we both relished our sure-footedness and did a little dance, kicking at the air to show off our sparkly new shoes.
We had tickets to enter the Alhambra at two o’clock and reached the grounds at 1 p.m. There was no reward for early birds and we found ourselves at the front of what would become a long, long line. Hilary and I entertained ourselves (and others) by breaking out in dance steps as we flaunted our new footwear. Ian and Sam looked on in bemused silence.
Once inside the grounds, we admired the orange, pear and myrtle trees, interspersed with majestic fountains, marble archways and rose gardens. We were awestruck by the rows of white marble columns and domed ceilings, intricately crafted with inlaid tiles and scriptures from the Quran. Although the Alhambra was first built upon ancient Roman ruins by the Islamic invaders of the seventh century, it was the rulers of the 13th and 14th centuries who truly perfected the grandeur of the palace and surroundings.
Brimming with the beauty of the Islamic and Spanish Renaissance fortress, we headed back to the trolley. It was raining again and we used our knapsacks as umbrellas. When the trolley arrived it was jam-packed and people crowded in the aisle.
“There is room for you!” the driver assured us in Spanish, and on we hopped.
We were making our way down the aisle when the bus lurched forward and we grabbed the rails on the back of the nearest seats to save ourselves from falling.
Suddenly, miraculously, two spots opened on the bench beside me. I glanced at the other passengers, looking for an elderly couple or pregnant women who might want the seats.
Hilary sat down and tugged at my shirt until I grasped the situation.
“Oh,” I realized. “It’s us, we’re the elderly people.”
I glanced at our image in the mirror beside the driver. We were both dressed in bright, colourful cotton pants purchased the day before in the Moorish Quarter. Our hair was messy and wet. We wore shiny shoes, designed surely for millennials. Here I thought we were just two couples, touring Spain and having a blast, but what others saw were two grey-haired, goofy old ladies, too fragile to withstand the jostling of the crowded bus.
Suddenly I felt as fragile as they perceived me to be. I felt old, tired and used up.
Then Ian caught my eye and winked. His smiling face brought me back. I know who I am, I know that the life I’m living is as golden as my new shoes.
Chuckling to myself, I sat back and pondered the next leg of our journey – a road trip to Seville. Perhaps we could pick up a couple of pairs of castanets and some more shoes. Hilary and I could give our interpretation of the flamenco. After all, Seville is the birthplace of this dramatic Spanish dance.
Jo-Anne Barton lives in Oxford Mills, Ont.