The Alhambra and onward

A rainy morning in Granada and the IIMB jacket and the cap come handy. The Alhambra is located across town from the youth hostel and the German’s bus card too proves useful. I stop for a mobile recharge and trek up the pedestrian access in a steady and cold drizzle, breathing steam under the weight of the backpack.

The Alhambra is ‘one of the greatest accomplishments of Islamic art and architecture,’ says the LP. I can’t quite see what the fuss is about, especially as I decide not to pay and enter Palacio Nazaries, the palace and centrepiece of the Alhambra. Nevertheless, walking around and taking in the gardens and the patio in a centuries-old setting is good fun.

Lunch is back down hill at Tabernas Salinas. The setting is out of a Western movie: all wooden walls, barely lit, old wine bottles resting in the loft... but an adventurous order of smoked fish is barely edible to my Indian tongue and I depart with the complimentary bread in a plastic bag to assuage my hunger on the bus to the station.

A huge map of Andalucia comes free with the guides to Costa Tropica and Costa de Almeria I purchase at the main tourist info centre. Almeria, the town, is located inland and to the northeast and I decide to try Motril (on Costa Tropica) down south from Granada, my first stop on the Andalucian coast.

Motril

Motril isn’t more than 10 km off Granada but the bus goes in and out of every village on the way and takes much longer than expected. Down at Motril, I ascertain the bus schedule to Almeria. I have 2 hours to spare and map in hand, walk towards the beach as pointed to by the directions printed off the Net at Malaga.

The walk turns into a march along an exit to the freeway. There’s little space for pedestrians and cars whiz by. On both sides of the road are automobile rentals, garages and salvage yards. Hoardings of the Nissans and the Peugeots scar the countryside. Everyone in Europe seems to own a car and past their prime, the cars are dumped in the Motrils, away from the pretty touristy towns and cities.

The exit soon reaches the highway to Motril and with no beach in sight still, I’m forced to turn back, and up to the station. I grab a bite and send an offline message informing Bangalore of my whereabouts, as they say, just in case, before boarding the bus to Almeria.

Almeria has no youth hostel. I ask the police at the station directions to Hostal Americano and check in for an expensive night. Two lessons from the day: read tourist guidebooks, even the LP, with just a pinch of salt; and remember that the beaches may be a wee bit away from the town.