Holidazed and Confused

I concoct a false sense of nostalgia between each cobbled stone of this aged landscape, as I cautiously navigate the hostel’s treacherously steep street. Through the cherry-scented sheesha haze I catch a glimpse of my two newfound friends; sidewalk shopkeeper and trader of finest Moroccan wares, Mohammed, and local pensioner, Pepe. We pursue a conversational middle ground, only to find entertainment in our failings. I manage to convey my background in music and, on a whim only the freedom of traveller and retiree can afford, Pepe offers to accompany me on a quest to find a traditional Spanish luthier.

Mission accomplished, the humble guitar maker, whose ancestry lies in the craft, sits at his workbench surrounded by nylon string, unsettled dust and dormant rosewood soon to realise its purpose. I’m standing in what appears more spectacle than point of sale, but the keeper won’t let me take his picture - something about cameras capturing a piece of the soul. I fear for the thickness of my Facebook album if this is a common Granadian sentiment. We say “adios” (I almost say “ciao”) and continue wandering the streets, Pepe’s cane the slow-paced metronome to the dulcet tones of 3pm in the city.

‘Suddenly’ things take a bizarre turn as Pepe ushers me through a door into a place I doubt features on many ‘Top 50 Things To Do’ lists. Neither of us acknowledging the oddness of the situation, he strolls up to the counter and mutters a few instructions to the assistant. I’m left to reflect on the moment, as I find myself sitting alone in an independent Spanish opticians, the formidably enchanting Alhambra towering over me, waiting for an 82-year-old stranger to have his glasses tightened. Before we leave I grab myself a bottle of lens cleaner and we call it an afternoon well spent.

That evening, at the invitation of Pepe, I take my seat in a large underground cellar of sorts, wincing at the possibility of encountering some form of droplet. I’m doing the box-ticking thing, however the man who is fast becoming my unlikely travel guide has failed to mention that it will be him headlining this particular flamenco show.

Perception changed, I wait for the ferocious final strum and rush over to congratulate the ‘new’ Pepe. I reach for my camera, dismissing the guitar craftsman’s urban legend, and our farewell ends with one click and the bittersweet joy of knowing that my nostalgia for this typically peculiar adventure will be that much clearer.