Life: Idiotropic

Sunday morning. Kirk and I were happy to find a tiny cramped market that was open. Smaller than my living room, it had all the basics and fresh baked bread. I only had 25 Euros cash with me, so we added as we went along, then saw the really big loaf of fresh bread behind the tiny old lady who worked there with her son. They tried to talk us out of it. "The whole thing?," they asked. "But it's too big. It's 3 kilos!" But I have a big family. "Oh, well it gets better after a couple days." After last night's cheerio dinner, the kids were thrilled to have "real food."

Soon we were on our way to see the high Alpujarran villages nestled just below the snowline in the mountains behind us.

This was the only complete day of sun on our trip and a break for the locals from weeks of rain before. The older people in the village huddled in small groups along the side of the road and occasionally partially in the road. A man stood smoking in our single lane as we turned the corner carefully not to hit him. He didn't move a bit - just stared. An elderly woman in a pink robe mopped the sidewalk in front of her home. A couple walked to church hand in hand. The sun had everyone smiling. There was a lot of waving to neighbors and friends.

These mountains are steep, but terraced, and narrow. Instead of a chain of massive Mt. Hood's, these pikes and valleys form a honeycomb of ups and downs, twists and turns as the road does it's best to follow connecting the peaks as it goes.

The curved left our village and curled around giving us our first view of the white village we'd call home that week. It was then that we heard Tiara's joyful exclamation, "SNOW!" And there it was. A fluffy white peak looking out from behind our village.' Clean and untouched. The kids were excited.

Between Lanjaron and Orgiva the hills were soft and undulating, terraced and planted with row upon row of olive trees. The taller mountains stood high and craggy in the background and just as we rounded the bend near Orgiva, the Med Sea came into view, a stripe of blue barely distinguishable against the blue of the sky.

The drive was a twisty hour consistently up and constantly turning. We passed other white villages, a cave, a beautiful white chapel sitting alone on the cliff's edge with the pastor's website graphittied onto it in green paint, a station wagon covered in bags of oranges - just 2 Euros a bag, and many waterfalls which, curiously, seemed to disappear and reappear at different times of day.

Soon we were driving through Pampimiera, the lowest of this trio of villages. Though the Alpujarras are known for many small white villages, these three are special, both in location and proximity to each other. A traveler can easily hike from one to the other and the views from each are spectacular.

Near Capiliera the road was almost completely washed out from the rains the days before. Mud and rocks covered our lane completely allowing just a car width between the mud and the cliff's edge. As we entered the town a herd of goats bleated on the cliff above us. The kids were excited hoping to see them again when we came back down.

We drove to the top where the houses end, parked and walked down the hill. There's one road that curves through town. The rest are pedestrian. White houses stuck together connected by walls and balconies. Small storefronts selling kilims (Moroccan prayer rugs), pottery, and other souvenirs. A tiny meat market. A handful of restaurants - the best of these villages - to keep the hungry tourists there long enough to buy just one more rug... or two. We left there with 5. Beautiful and simple, our larger rug costs only 28 Euros. Kirk had seen similar ones in Turkey for 300. I insisted on walking amongst the houses, down to the church, and around to the edge where the houses start spilling over as if sliding down the mountain. Looking out upon steep stairways and flat rooftops. The run off from the snow above is carefully channeled here - through planned canals - probably creating those waterfalls that "turn on and off" so easily.

The girls were hungry, so we moved on, driving towards Bubion. Bubion is quieter without as many restaurants. It's also beautiful and doesn't seem as touristy, but there aren't as many places to park either and since we didn't see a host of restaurants to choose from and the clamor of the girls kept growing, we moved on. Kirk was kind enough to stop a few times so I could get photos and I griped about the fact that every view was impeded by either a very poorly placed electrical line, or a very badly placed tree. Either way, it will take serious editing to make those views look good.

Pampimiera is probably the biggest and most touristy of the three, but still a very nice town. We parked in the large parking lot and walked within the pedestrian area to the city center across from the church where we sat to eat at Belezmin. A portly waiter came out, cleaned our table, and brought us a menu in English. We had a giggle over the translation "kid with garlic" but, though interesting, no one chose that. Three got pizzas, two got Albondigas. None was hot. My meatballs were barely warm. Flavorless, blech, but food - real food - and we were hungry, so it didn't matter. A couple stray dogs and three stray cats took turns circling our table looking for a lukewarm handout. The black cat sprayed Kirk's jacket that Elise had been using as a blanket. Gross. Kirk was repulsed to put it on, smell the distinctive smell, and realize what had happened.

The kids were tired after lunch, so Kirk took them back to this amazing exercise playground next to the parking lot and I hurried through the streets taking photos and ducking into shops. I kick myself now - the best prices of our trip were found here. Loved the shops. One sold only things made in Spain by local artisans and his prices were half of what I saw in Seville. I would have bought a few things if I would have known and if we had more room in our tiny rental car.

The streets all end in green lusciousness, the slopes falling away at the edges. No urban sprawl here where the mountains themselves dictate where a town will end. The snow seems so close. Alleyways, railings, and balconies all lined with pots and buckets of overgrown greenery, and half sized wooden doors lend a magical feeling - so silent and serene there just blocks from the "touristy" center. A narrow canal divides one tiny lane so narrow that in places you almost have to straddle the rivulet to pass. A bodega along the path sells jamon serrano - giant pig legs hanging from the ceiling.

There's a tiny chocolate factory, and many shops similar to those in Capiliera selling rugs and other Moroccan imports. Though those things seem aimed more at the tourists, I do enjoy seeing a town void of large grocery chains and fast food restaurants. It's simple here.

The girls had to use the bathroom before we left, so we ran back to where we'd eaten earlier. Inside one wall was lined with hanging ham legs and another held 4 tiny green wooden cages almost touching the ceiling containing one pigeon each. One was Salvador. I asked the man who worked there if he was from Pamimiera. Yes. And he hasn't been to Granada for 11 years. "It's too big and noisy," he said. He'll only go there if he needs to go to the hospital. Pampimiera is just perfect. Small, quiet, and beautiful. Sun, snow, and simplicity. I'd go back - may be not to eat, but to hike the trails and enjoy the views.

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