20th of January rolling. 24 hours since my first swimming competition of the year and the first day in which time and space allow for re-ordering the mesh of turbulent thoughts and transform them into readable ideas.

The last trip of 2018 is a traditional visit to the Portuguese capital. A slightly desperate attempt to lighten the weight of a 2018 of many bitter disappointments and personal losses, heavy with emotions of both sadness at wrong decisions taken and happiness translated through the eyes of my very own mother as she discovered Europe with me.
At the hotel terrace in Lapa, I weep as I witness a golden sunset over the endless hills of ceramic tiles, and at Belem, I indulge in way too many pasteis to soften the blow.

In Portugal, as with every year, I find a short escape from months of challenges. I find comfort in the succulent flavours of their seafood, serenity in the warm smile of my friend’s newborn girl and much needed fresh air in the lush green terraces of Quinta da Regaleira, though, upon arrival in Dublin, weeks of emotional difficulty await at the ready.

Stomach-burning training sets, cold days starting and finishing in the dark of the short wintry days, conflicting thoughts about the new employment and a very solitary Christmas. Yes, the life of the traveller is nothing short of exciting. But what happens when things slow down? What happens when everyone you love lies continents away?.

A period of solitary confinement lasts until the New Year and becomes an opportunity to get rid of all the poison in the blood, to take a step back in order to take two steps forward. Indeed, 2018 presented itself as a challenging one, but also as a year of learning and self-discovery. A year of identifying what works and what doesn’t. A “year of transition” sometimes needed before a “year of happenings”.

And so on the first day of January the mourning stops and, day-by-day, plans crystallise into actions and, as the days slowly become brighter and longer, into new chances of treating myself better and doing what I like the most: sharing the gift of traveling.
Few days into the year and I already see myself leaving the office for the airport and smiling through a conversation lasting all the way to Andalucia. I see myself happily talking about travel memories with my Namibian seat colleague and, once landing in warmer Malaga amidst the wintry clear sky, I see myself once again enjoying it all.

The morning slowly breaks through the foggy Mediterranean sea breeze and, as the motorway titanically climbs up the mountains, the landscape changes from streets lined with date trees at the very best Maghreb fashion, to rocky hill tops caressed by endless olive tree fields that coat the terrain all the way to the distant Sierra Nevada.

Karnattah to the Moors, Granada is as sweet as the fruit that gave its modern name to the city, the exterior of mountainous terrain protecting its colourful centre from the elements in an assortment of textures.
I hurry to the 250 year-old house that is my hotel and the owner, a short tanned local man, introduces the four stories of museum-like Moorish architecture in a passionate accent as melodious and warm as the sound of a distant Spanish guitar.
A water fountain placed in the inner courtyard promises to sing me lullabies as I nap, and the carved Don Quijote in the lobby seems to be ready to become alive as soon as the lights go off.

Andalucia has the magic of time. A pause for a tapa? Yes. A pause for showing a foreigner the city? Why not. It is siesta time anyway.
Armed with a hotel worker with an afternoon off, I run across the Gran Via and dip into the sea of whitewashed walls of the Albaicin where time not only stops but it turns backwards. Back to images of Garcia Lorca writing forbidden and flamboyant plays in the weak wintry sunshine in the decades of dictatorship, to the Reyes Catolicos climbing up the hills and claiming the last kingdom or as far back  as to merchants trading freshly arrived spices from Maluku amidst the smell of rosewater and citrus.

The Albaicin overpowers the senses with pure Andalusian grace. The citrus and freshly brewed coffee win over smell and taste, the cold tiles enchant the touch, the distant guitars played by buskers in narrow alleyways hypnotise the hearing and the flamenco-like flirting of shade and light captivate the sight. At sunset, the youngsters chew on sunflower seeds at San Miguel Alto, and the sun hides behind snow-capped mountains and cups of churros con chocolate.

 

Needing no introduction, it is no surprise that the Alhambra is the most admired site in the Iberian peninsula, in the early morning glowing over the thin mountain air that still passively casts a foggy spell over the narrow streets of the valley.
Atop the hill to the left, the pure beauty of the Nazaries Palaces greet good morning, their spaces carefully crafted in feats of perfect and timeless engineering, with a precision that still mesmerises researchers and visitors alike.  Fountains of water that seem to defy the laws of physics and lush gardens that hang over cliffs with the same grace of a silky abayah. Palatial rooms of hypnotic tile work, and perfect symmetry in the architectural lines of the Lion’s Courtyard. The breathtaking views from the Alcazaba transcend over the ethereal air of the late morning and the scent of fresh oranges mingle with the freshness of the long corridors at the Generalife.

I recharge from the early morning visit to the Alhambra and stuff my face with a Moroccan feast at the Albaicin, leaving Granada in the late afternoon with the happiness of a tourist discovering a hidden gem, and the sadness of someone that lived there for their entire life. I make a mental promise to return.

Down the coast at Malaga, I walk through the city centre in bouts of sweet black coffee and salty Mediterranean air. The night turns atypically cold and dark in Andalucia and the hotel receptionist waves me good night with a smile, a small carton of juice and a packed croissant ‘for my early morning trip to the airport’.

The transition to the new year has commenced. A transition perhaps best compared to both the trips in the Iberian Peninsula that frame it. A transition starting at the choppy and cold waters of the North Atlantic in Lisbon and ending in the warm currents of Andalucia, all done via Dublin.

Happy New Year everyone!