Woke G up around 0700 to give her time to wash her hair. We walked to bus station buying some chocolate wafers on the way. There we met our fellow passengers on the Sierra Nevada service: a Dutchman from near Amsterdam who confirmed the trick handlebars on Koninginnedag bikes. A couple of Swedish girls, one who had just finished 14 weeks learning Spanish in Cadiz and was travelling with her friend.
Also on board was an Indian couple who were doctors in Brighton. They extolled the Agra, almost claiming it as theirs even though they were from Bombay. National pride perhaps. According to them all work stops twice a day in hospitals when Neighbours is broadcast in the UK. They got 15 days leave a year plus make up leave for weekend work. All in all they were very decently paid by the NHS.
The road wound its way up to the Velata ski resort which is only about 20 km southeast of the city. There wasn't much to see outside the bus because of the mist. We reached the ski resort and the bus stopped. We thought this was the terminus of the service so we got off. We discovered this was a mistake as the bus started up a little later and ascended further. The driver had said nothing; he supposed quite reasonably that we had wanted to disembark at the resort.
It was cold and windy and there was little open, only a bar. The Indian couple gave up and probably hitchhiked a lift down. The Dutchman headed up the road. We followed to see how far we could get. All around us were white peaks. This range contains the highest point of continental Spain, Mulhacén, at 3478m. But the highest point in Spain is Teide in the Canary Islands, politically in Europe, but geographically in Africa.
We gave up after a few hundred metres and returned to the bar. We found the Swedish girls there. We had bocadillos of lomo a la plancha, tortilla española, cerveza and café con leche for lunch there. While we were there, the Dutchman returned and reported on his foray. He had reached an arid plateau and tried to ascend the peak but it was too hard. And he had heavy hiking boots. So maybe it was just as well we didn't try.
The Dutchman was a set builder for a theatre festival. They were touring with an extremely confronting play called The Law of Remains. He would follow the play to Barcelona but wasn't sure if he would continue with them to Vienna. We spoke Spanish with the barman until we discovered he was from Manchester, working on his vacation.
We got back to Granada around 1800. At an art gallery we found an exhibition of paintings and objets d'art from the 100th anniversary of Van Gogh's arrival in Arles in 1888.
G and I shared dinner at a Chinese restaurant. It was ok but too salty. The spring rolls were called pan de chino on the menu. The tea came with a sugar sachet again. It was a Friday night so the streets were full of revelers when we finished. The bars were all full but after a couple of rounds of the centre we managed to find a quiet one where we had tapas of bread, cheese, and tuna, and a couple of beers each. We got back to the hostal at 0030. I showered, and read a bit of the newspaper before retiring warm and snug under the blankets on a cold night.
A graffito that I saw on a bus stand read ¡Ni un puto taxi! (Not a single f*cking taxi!). Now puta (whore) is of course feminine but to make it agree with taxi which is masculine, the graffitist had to change the gender to puto. His grammar teacher would approve. I found that amusing.
Also on board was an Indian couple who were doctors in Brighton. They extolled the Agra, almost claiming it as theirs even though they were from Bombay. National pride perhaps. According to them all work stops twice a day in hospitals when Neighbours is broadcast in the UK. They got 15 days leave a year plus make up leave for weekend work. All in all they were very decently paid by the NHS.
G and I shared dinner at a Chinese restaurant. It was ok but too salty. The spring rolls were called pan de chino on the menu. The tea came with a sugar sachet again. It was a Friday night so the streets were full of revelers when we finished. The bars were all full but after a couple of rounds of the centre we managed to find a quiet one where we had tapas of bread, cheese, and tuna, and a couple of beers each. We got back to the hostal at 0030. I showered, and read a bit of the newspaper before retiring warm and snug under the blankets on a cold night.
A graffito that I saw on a bus stand read ¡Ni un puto taxi! (Not a single f*cking taxi!). Now puta (whore) is of course feminine but to make it agree with taxi which is masculine, the graffitist had to change the gender to puto. His grammar teacher would approve. I found that amusing.
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