hostel rambutin...

was the most heavenly hostel on earth.

It was filled with bohemian men with long hair and drums and guitars. It had a long, lilac adorned porch facing the Alhambra, a spectacular moorish castle jutting out over the hillside. We watched the sun sink into the valley and as its copper rays drifted lazily over the porch, we ate a communal meal with good bread and cheese and lots of red wine to wash it down.

There was unlimited wine at the Hostel Rambutin, and a copious amount of other relaxing substances as well.

Every time a joint was extinguished, someone would go inside, get some more hash from the large jar in the kitchen, come out, and roll another. Every time a bottle ran dry, someone new would call out for one of the managers.

"Put it on my tab," was all you had to say.

On our first night, Bonne and Lorena were exhausted from staying awake for 24 hours, and they turned in after a good bout of conversation on the porch. Now the ratios were in my favor, and I stayed up playing rummy with three dashing men. One of them was Canadian, with a rustic, woodsy vibe, and he and I got increasingly antagonistic toward each other in a pleasant way as the game progressed. The other two smiled knowingly, and kept ordering more bottles of wine to egg us on.

I would be hard-pressed to think of any better way to spend a night than up on a hill in Granada, playing cards with pirates.

When I finally went up to bed, I saw that Roberto had called. "This," I scrawled in the dark in my diary, "is LIFE."

The next day, Lorena and Bonne and I went across the village and up the hill to the Alhambra, and there is nothing I could ever say to do that day justice. The Alhambra was the most beautiful place I have ever seen. 

           

    


We came down the hill to get ice cream and wander about the alleyways as evening set in. We had tapas, and listened to street music, and drank copious amounts of red wine. I was getting tipsy and impatient to go back up the hill to see the Canadian. In fact, I believe I remember running through the thorny field in front of our hostel.

Half an hour later, I was curled up next to him on the veranda under the stars, and we were talking about the nearby gypsy caves, and I was telling him very pointedly that I wanted to go explore them.

"I'll go with you," he said, "Right after I finish this joint."

That phrase, by its very nature, is one that should not be trusted.

It was a large joint, and by the time he finished it he was practically comatose. Then a band of people came up the hillside and onto the veranda, which was bad, and among them was an alluring gypsy woman, which was even worse. She had long black hair and piercing green eyes and a guitar, and I knew right then and there that there was no getting the Canadian, or any man for that matter, off the porch. I sulked and went inside, where Bonne was whirling around in a happy daze to Karma Police. Lorena had disappeared with a German.

"I'm going to bed!" I growled. And even though the sky was still clear and filled with stars, and the music was still pulsing far away in the gypsy caves, and bands of frisky vagabonds were running around the hills, I left Granada for another time and crawled into my lower bunk.

The next morning we had a large breakfast with the Canadian and the gypsy, rolled our last joint, and set off, regretfully, down the hill.

"Good-byye!" We cried, waving, as we passed the porch. We were somewhat high and very emotional. "Good-byye!" We said again. The crowd on the porch was smoking, reading, and relaxing in the morning sun. They looked at each other, then at us. "Bye," they said, a couple giving an impassive wave.

We just couldn't seem to restrain ourselves. "Good-byyye!" We yelled a third time. This time, we didn't get an answer. And to this day Bonne, Lorena and I break into giggles and re-create that moment when separating from each other, so vivid is our memory of bobbing down the hill in a line, bidding heartfelt farewells to nobody.