Our Thanksgiving Day started on the Spanish Costa del Sol in the little town of Nerja, a seaside village with a long black sand beach and a backdrop of towering, arid mountains. We had stayed for a few days in what appeared on the surface to be a German retirement home, but on closer inspection was merely the off-season crowd escaping Northern Europe’s frigid temps. The weather hovered in the upper 60s, with the water temperatures in the mid 50s, which was fine enough for Hannah to spend the better part of two days body surfing, while Kel hunted sea glass and Lindsay took on the lethargic demeanor of a comatose iguana basking in any available sunshine.
On the way to the coast from Seville, we did a quick stopover in Grenada, a town where the Spanish Christians and the Moorish muslims collided over the centuries. Islamic culture still has a strong presence in the food, the street vendors, and certainly the architecture. Much of the heritage of Spanish tile comes from Islamic temple design, where, instead of images of saints and sorrowful Madonnas, they used typography and mosaic patterns to celebrate art and faith, believing that any attempt to recreate man’s form was disrespectful to their creator.
On the way to the coast from Seville, we did a quick stopover in Grenada, a town where the Spanish Christians and the Moorish muslims collided over the centuries. Islamic culture still has a strong presence in the food, the street vendors, and certainly the architecture. Much of the heritage of Spanish tile comes from Islamic temple design, where, instead of images of saints and sorrowful Madonnas, they used typography and mosaic patterns to celebrate art and faith, believing that any attempt to recreate man’s form was disrespectful to their creator.
We wandered the Alhambra, a Muslim palace that spanned acres of land on a hilltop overlooking the city. Interior gardens featured trees hung heavy with fresh persimmons and the architecture created a geometric puzzle that amazed us all. It was a place to whisper, where the intricate tile around us reverberated with the gentle acoustics of bubbling fountains and reflection pools.
Before we departed we wandered the alleyways of the market in search of deals. I found my way into a stall full of ornate hand-painted chandeliers and leather goods cured and stitched in the leather markets of Fez, Morocco. I took photos and haggled my way to a deal on a great new computer bag. The owner asked my if I “took the photos.” “Yes,” I said. “I take the photos.” He grabbed my hand and off we went down a side alley. We came to a large iron gate, which he promptly unlocked, and then he led me into a serene velveted-room full of hookah pipes.
It was his tea room. He needed interior photos for his website. Would I take a photo for him? He could pay me in Arab sweets, which I was relieved to find were actually...Arab sweets.
I set about taking a few photos while he went off to the kitchen to cut up some of the most delectable honey and pistachio treats I have ever tasted. Eventually Kel wandered in and we sat with him and ate desserts and talked of his home in Bagdad and the old regime and the new one and ISIS and George Bush and Shiites and the fact that if he tried to return home to see his family he would probably be killed. Here we were, unexpectedly bridging some sort of socio-political gap over a plate of sticky treats.
He offered us a hookah pipe, but I feared the kids would walk in and be forever scarred, so we bid him a friendly farewell and left in the comfort and conviction that regardless of the corporate politics of governments and religions, at the end of the day most people the world over are trying to simply support their families and go about their days doing good. And, in some cases, making damn fine desserts along the way.
Before we departed we wandered the alleyways of the market in search of deals. I found my way into a stall full of ornate hand-painted chandeliers and leather goods cured and stitched in the leather markets of Fez, Morocco. I took photos and haggled my way to a deal on a great new computer bag. The owner asked my if I “took the photos.” “Yes,” I said. “I take the photos.” He grabbed my hand and off we went down a side alley. We came to a large iron gate, which he promptly unlocked, and then he led me into a serene velveted-room full of hookah pipes.
It was his tea room. He needed interior photos for his website. Would I take a photo for him? He could pay me in Arab sweets, which I was relieved to find were actually...Arab sweets.
I set about taking a few photos while he went off to the kitchen to cut up some of the most delectable honey and pistachio treats I have ever tasted. Eventually Kel wandered in and we sat with him and ate desserts and talked of his home in Bagdad and the old regime and the new one and ISIS and George Bush and Shiites and the fact that if he tried to return home to see his family he would probably be killed. Here we were, unexpectedly bridging some sort of socio-political gap over a plate of sticky treats.
He offered us a hookah pipe, but I feared the kids would walk in and be forever scarred, so we bid him a friendly farewell and left in the comfort and conviction that regardless of the corporate politics of governments and religions, at the end of the day most people the world over are trying to simply support their families and go about their days doing good. And, in some cases, making damn fine desserts along the way.