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Published: November 19th 2006
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I’ve already got one foot in Morocco - or at least, half a stomach. With its
teterias and
baklavas and spiraling spits of
kebab meat, Granada’s proving to be a lip-smacking launching pad into North Africa. Johanna marvels at how many meals I can score from the same doner
kebab stand in the Plaza Nueva, and Anne-Sophie hardly helps matters one night when she cooks up a massive pot of
kuskus. The Arabic influence in this town is even more than I’d expected - the bright sandals and woven rugs in the shop windows, the wrought-iron lamps with colorful, prismatic panes. There’s also a very
kif-like smell piping from many of the cafés and bars. José explains that Granada is probably the only place in Spain where you can roll a joint in front of the cops and not even hear a stern word. He says it with the air of someone who’s had plenty of first-hand experience.
The girls take me around the city: to the old
gitano quarters of AlbaÃcin and Sacromonte, to the look-out points where ragged bands of hippies puff smoke rings at the imposing walls of the Alhambra. They batter me with hospitality
at home, then get me all liquored up on a night around town. Another fact about Granada I’d somehow overlooked is that, with its sizable student population, it’s got some of the rowdiest nightlife in Spain. Until a law was passed a couple of years ago, its bars would stay open till 7am (they now close at a more modest four). More recently, some of the city’s student groups organized a
superbotellon: a Herculean bout of outdoor drinking that drew 30,000 tipsy revelers into the streets. Johanna, tidily summing up the difference between the Spanish and the French, describes a similar gathering in France at the time, when 30,000 students were also drawn into the streets - to protest an onerous labor law passed by the government.
On a Saturday night, though, it’s awfully good to be in Spain. We move from one tapas bar to the next, pressed shoulder to shoulder with our
cañas and
copas wobbling. Somehow we find ourselves in an English pub, where large packs of British and American college kids are groping by the bar and speaking in badly accented Spanish. It’s the first and, hopefully, the last time I’ll witness a lengthy
air guitar solo to “Freebird” in Spain, though there’s still a soft spot in my heart for young American students drunkenly screeching the words to “Sweet Home Alabama.”
At the bar I make the acquaintance of a rowdy pack of Spaniards. “Where you from, man?” one asks loudly, wagging a finger in my face. When I tell him New York his face lights up. “New York!” he says, squeezing my shoulder. He turns to a friend and says, “New York City!” Then he turns to no one in particular and says, exultantly, “New York!” If you’ve never had the good fortune of traveling as a New Yorker abroad, you can’t fully appreciate how many foreigners consider us an entirely different species than the average American - an almost mythical beast, as will soon become apparent.
I’m handed a shot of something by a tall, sloppy drunk. He locks my neck in an affectionate vice grip as I knock it back. “New York,” he says. “When you fuck, everybody fucks.” I’m not sure what to make of this, so I smile, thank him graciously and agree. “Everybody!” he says with greater emphasis, adding poignantly, “
American Pie!”
They introduce
me to a young, carbuncled exchange student from Seattle, thrilled at the novelty of two Americans meeting in - of all places! - Spain. One suspects, as the anticipation swells around us, that this is a momentous occasion - Roosevelt and Churchill clasping hands at the bargaining table to discuss the fate of the Western world. “I feel like we need to drop some freestyles in here,” he says, which strikes me as an incredibly stupid way to introduce yourself. While I’ve certainly thrown my hands in the air and, at times, waved them like I just don’t care, I really don’t look like the sort of kid who walks into a bar looking for even a single sucka to slay with my potent microphone skills.
There’s a growing sense that certain things are being expected of me that I might not be able to deliver. The tall drunk lurches in my direction. “You are the best!” he says, clapping me loudly on the back. “The best!” He gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek and pumps his fist in triumph. Then he kisses me again, closer to my neck. Things are getting very uncomfortable. One of the
guys continues to commend my sexual prowess, making gestures to his crotch and giving me the thumbs up. “I know you,” he says, tapping his temple. “You just fuck!”
It would be crushing to let these poor guys down, to give them even the slightest hint that on an average day in New York, we do anything but wake up, drop a few freestyles, and fuck our brains out. So I give Anne-Sophie a little squeeze and Johanna gives me a peck on the cheek. There are howls from the bar: I am, indeed, the best. They all but lift me on their shoulders and parade me around the bar as we go, and I can sleep soundly when we get home, knowing that somewhere in Granada on this cold November night, at least a few young Spaniards still have reason to dream.
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