Trip Report: In Search of Flamenco

	Return to Guides & Trip Reports Stanley Moss visits the Andaluducian cities of Seville, Granada, and Ronda in search of some authentic Flamenco and a little rejuvenation. January, 2005. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I looked in the mirror and saw a burnt-out case. I saw a man consumed by a demanding year of business, family and an unrelenting schedule which had taken its toll. I was worn down, worn out, and in need of spiritual renewal. I asked myself if it was possible for a 56-year old executive—who had long nursed an unfulfilled fantasy of trekking in southern Spain—to go there, roam the legendary cultural places by day and seek out the gypsy flamenco by night. Did the authentic and traditional still exist in Andalucia, or had it all disappeared, drowned out by the mobile phones, internet and rap music? Had modern life’s endless intrusions wormed their way into the peñas of Sevilla, and the grounds of the Alhambra? I needed to find out. If that classical world endured, I would use it to soothe my heart and invigorate my mind. Andalucia holds incredible allure. From afar, flamenco has been dear to my heart, but I wanted the real thing, first-hand, up close, in the land where it originated. I held hopes of seeing Farruquito dance, learning the names of the up-and-coming singers and guitarristas. Ten days is not a long time to fulfil a dream, but it would serve. Locating lodging was the easiest part. A simple email to www.innsofspain.com was soon answered with a list of properties fitting my unique criteria: grown-up accommodation, Sevilla, Granada, Ronda, authentic and traditional. My British Airways round-trip ny-Madrid-ny came to us$466, with a connection through Heathrow. I grabbed a single veteran rolling case, threw in a black suit and two white dress shirts as camouflage for the flamenco performances, added sturdy walking shoes, and looked faraway to my destination.
	Sevilla Sevilla, a flat city on the banks of a river surrounded by mountains, has 600,000 citizens, a modern place which has rebuilt itself over past half-millennium since the expulsion of the Moorish rulers. Outside the walls of the old city, the new city churns with energy and activity, a maze of construction sites, gaudy new homes, part of a region in motion. There are trees heavily laden with oranges on every block of every street, oranges which people don’t eat because of auto pollutants. Inside the oldest districts’ street plan which abuts the river, another ambience presides: an easygoing passion, a contented coexistence with history, and the preservation of flamenco. There are reputed to be over 300 flamenco venues in the city alone, with the Tirana neighborhood across the river a haven for small clubs called peñas, a word which doesn’t easily translate. Perhaps the best definition is ‘place where like-minded people congregate.’ Two clubs you might visit if brave enough are El Bollo and El Mantoncillo, where the passion and hearts are true. Perhaps you will hear the guitarrista Martin Chico, a name I heard mentioned more than once. To get into the mood of things I installed myself in La Casa del Maestro, an inn which had once been the home of Niño Ricardo (1885–1980 a legendary gran maestro de la guitarra. I was ready to execute Plan A, sleep until 11 p.m., at which time I would venture out. I made sure the concierge knew I sought the real thing. I mentioned a place called El Arenal on Calle Rodo near the Plaza de Toros and she scoffed at me. ‘Don’t go there,’ she admonished. She would make a few calls and see what she could find. Go have a nap, she said. She would find me a place to go. Flamenco I slept, but my mind was abuzz with vertiginous anticipation. It is inadvisable for the uninitiated to walk from the old quarter across a dark bridge and into Triana after 11 p.m., searching out smoky clubs whose names and locations one does not know. When I appeared at the reception desk at the appointed hour, she had located a starting-point for me on this side of the river, La Carboneria (Calle Levies 18, telephone 95 4 21-44-60), but she warned me to be prepared to wait. Sevilla speed, she reminded me, is slower, and flamenco takes time to happen. You go, order a drink and eventually something happens. This particular establishment was known to feature younger performers and the entertainment might begin—if I was lucky—before midnight. Against her advice, I left on foot from the hotel, trusty street plan in hand, puzzling through the labyrinth of cobblestone streets with surprising precision. By 11.30 p.m., I found myself facing another dimly lit door, which led into a smoke-filled and cavernous bar thick with what looked to be a motley student crew, and a bevy of ex-pat English speakers sporting British accents. I was the only person wearing a suit. Off to the left of the entrance another dark portal deposited you into an empty-metal-frame-patio kind of place, corrugated aluminium roof with long communal tables, a bar on one side, a tapas stand on the other, and a low stage at the front. The Cockney barman was less encouraging. He felt that the entertainment would start at a vague point in the near future. I asked for a glass of red wine, and he advised me to opt for the tinto, which proved surprisingly agreeable to the palate, a Tempranillo from ‘somewhere in the north.’ Who were the performers? Those people sitting over at that table in the corner, none more than 25 years old, three men and a rather big woman. I sent drinks over to them, and took a place midway down an empty table, and sat sipping my wine. Time passed. Nothing happened, except the flamencos raised their glasses to me from afar. More time passed. I revisited the barman. Eventually, he said. A young couple meandered in and sat at the table a few seats down. They said nothing was happening tonight in Triana, but something ought to happen in this place. Eventually. I interrogated them, writing down every shred of insider information they imparted, and we bought each other drinks and tapas, the worst I tasted in Spain, especially execrable after the taparias of Segovia. We ate them all. Then a miracle occurred: the room filled, every seat, every table, with people standing at the back and in the doorway, and conversation hummed throughout the room. The performers took to stage, and the enormous woman had now donned a gaudy dress, gigantic red polka dots à la Minnie Mouse with ruffles, and she stood at the front staring defiantly at the crowd. A skinny man at her right sat tuning his guitar, a long-haired guy in a black shirt nodded amiably, and a bearded man in a chair next to him seemed to be lost in thought. Some cosmic exertion of psychic energy occurred and the noise level dropped, and the woman began to dance, stomping her feet, swishing her abundant backside, strutting and weaving and she turned absolutely beautiful, taking command of the room for all of her dances, each more spirited than the last. The show went on, yet the bearded guy never danced, sung, said a word, only did the palmas all through the performance. Finally, the guitarist played one emotional solo, the woman spun around and suddenly it was over. More than an hour had passed invisibly. Time to move on, to a tiny bar called La Andaluziana on Calle Garcia de Vinuesa, where everyone is a flamenco. The same drill: we show up, order drinks and wait for something to happen, eventually. It is not long in coming, as a portly, tweed-suited middle-aged man with a thick moustache breaks into song, spontaneously accompanied by a guitarist, and he sings with passion and conviction and emphatic motions with his hands, his expression changing to punctuate his lyrics, and I cannot understand a single word of what he says, something about his cousin, perhaps something about his heart. Cognacs are offered, as are more songs, this time from another man who sings to the tweedy guy, and a kind of dialogue between them happens, exchanging verses from across the room. The guitarist stays hidden behind a half-wall. Tears well up in my eyes. More cognacs are consumed. At approximately 3.45 a.m. a group of middle-aged women appear. They are well-groomed and well-attired, prosperous and confident. They obviously have been out for a girls’ night, and have now their husbands. The ladies have an obligatory drink, reunite with the singing men, we all say our goodnights and the place empties, deserted. I am alone again. I stumble out into the vacant street tottering, absolutely ignorant of where I am, where my hotel is, where my passport is, where my money is, and struck by the utter craziness of this trip, and I laugh out loud at myself, drunk somewhere in the middle of Sevilla at 4.15 a.m., a giddy, inebriated moment of delight at my folly and good luck. The street sweeper in the plaza I happen upon is understanding: he has seen this before, potted foreigners unable to stand upright in need of someone to hail them a cab, and as he looks to his left a taxi magically rounds the corner and though I do not remember how, I am soon safe in my comfy little bed, with the room spinning around, still chuckling at what fate has already delivered. The next day I breakfasted alone at 11.45 a.m. on bread and little wrapped sweets from the bakery of Ines Rosales of Cidra, a nearby village; local ham and cheese; more of that strong coffee; fresh squeezed orange juice; local olive oil, butter, pate and chorizo. Fortified, I went forth to the banks of the river Guadalqivir. On the water teams of scullers rhythmically transited the stretch known as the Canal de Alfonso XIII. Next I explored Sierpes, the flamenco street and its surrounding district, where one discovers entire stores dedicated to the minutiæ of this arcane science. What appears to be one of the better dress shops is Maria Rosa (Cuna 13, telephone 34 954 22-21-43), whose windows are worth a cursory glance simply for the blaze of colour and variety of garments presented. If you are in search of the ubiquitous flat-brimmed hat called alternatively sombrero de ala ancha, Cordobès, flamenco or Sevillano, look no further than Sombreria Maquedano (Sierpes 40, telephone 34 954 56-47-71). Sustenance can be taken at La Campana (Sierpes 1 y 3, telephone 34 954 22-35-70) where coffee and overly rich cream pastries provide the needed sugar jolt to continue one’s odyssey. My last night in Sevilla I attended a performance at Casa de la Memor-ia de Al Andalus, a conservatory of traditional flamenco whose entrance is left of the Hotel Alcazar (Calle Ximénez de Enciso 28, telephone 34 954 56-06-70). Performances every day at 7 p.m., sometimes a late show, in the patio of a converted 15th century Jewish house. Front row seats are desirable, so be in line at least a half hour early. The most prom-ising of young flamencos dance, sing and play in this two-storey-high open-air space, where roses climb a trellis to the roof and tiled benches line the walls. I spent my final night sleeping at Alcoba del Rey, a boutique hotel of only 11 rooms, in a converted 13th century sultan’s palace. Its Moroccan-themed luxury proved an excellent preface for the next part of my journey, and set the tone for Granada, where the Nazarin sultans held court for 800 years from a legendary citadel called Alhambra. Beyond us the Sierra Nevada Mountains loomed. What flamenco now would present itself? After all, the gypsy caves of Sacromonte remained to be seen.
	Granada Granada, population 400,000, a university town with 60,000 students, sits on the banks of the Rio Darro, and at dusk peacocks call along the river. On the terrace of my lodgings, engrossed in conversation with the lady innkeeper about the thousand different water sounds at the Alhambra, I try a glass from a flask on the table and yes, it is sweet and delicious and good. The inn is hidden on a side street of the Albaicín (there are many alternate spellings at play here), and when I invite her to recommend a local restaurant she says she will ‘bring out some food’. I sketch on the terrace as the light changes, and she brings out a silver tray with asparagus, salchicon, pabo ahumando, olives, chicken breast with herbs, sheep cheese and bread and opens a bottle of 1997 Enate, the red Galican wine following me around Spain like an old friend. Around midnight I dine at Carmen Mirador de Aixa (Carril de San Augustín, 2, telephone 34 958 22-36-16) on local cheese served on a cracker with thick gazpacho and olive oil, a scramble of codfish and shrimp, oxtail, and finish it off with orujo, the sweet version of a local digestif. While the food is exceptional, it is the unimpeded view across the valley to the Alhambra, illuminated at night, which demands your attention. Save for the addition of a few strategically placed floodlamps, it is the same view as 500 years ago, another of those time-travelling moments of timeless realization. Later yet my hosts take me to a downtown flamenco bar I will never find again, reached by steep and twisty dirt paths between old buildings, through a low door and into a smoke-filled three-leved basement space which cannot have been renovated for a hundred years, crowded to the walls with people smoking and drinking and talking to a background of recorded flamenco at serious volume. The Alhambra In the morning I breakfasted at my inn, and walked the easy distance to the minibus which goes up the hill to the Alhambra. I bought my admission ticket keyed to a given hour for entry, and began the hike to the highest point, Generalife, the summer palace of the sultans, through a labyrinth of gardens and terraces, with a profusion of water courses and fountains. It is a surrounding of luxury, design and seclusion unlike any other place I can recall. As the innkeeper promised, water sounds were everywhere, especially memorable on a famous stairway, with burbling streams inset into the banisters—many of the 500-year old hydraulics still function. I imagined the courtiers who once wandered here, but it was too distracting a vision and time was my enemy, so I allowed gravity to reluctantly guide me downwards to the Nasrid Palaces. There one ornate room succeeded another, far too many details to take in, garden followed courtyard followed room filled with mosaics and wood reliefs, ceiling filigree, unimaginable opulence. Finally I stopped, sat, and sketched for an hour in a long courtyard with a reflecting pool. I made a list of tile colours which seemed to repeat from room to room adding an abiding continuity to the changing motifs: light blue, dark blue, green, ochre, Arabic white. I made my way over to the Alcazaba, a complex of battlements and fortifications at the west end of the promontory, where I climbed to the top of the highest tower and viewed the surroundings in the brilliant afternoon sun, looking down on the Albayzin. I had somehow passed five and a half hours in a dream state. I considered that the sultans ruled for 700 years, from the highpoint of their cultural achievement to the eventual decadence and corruption that led to their decline and expulsion. Time is the great equalizer. The Alhambra survives as a celebration of their highest achievement. I had waited 47 years to visit this place and it had been worth the wait. I prowled the narrow alleyways of the Mercado Morroqui, ducking into tiny shops filled with kitschy flamenco souvenirs, and tatherias for sweet tea, served in thin glasses. I could have been in Rabat or Casablanca.Around midnight I sat down for dinner at Meson Alegria, (4 C/Moras, telephone 34 958 22-67-69) a place where the locals go. There was the traditional plate of roasted green chilis, grilled lamb served on thin cut potatoes French fry style. We drank a wonderful bottle of Rioja called Azpilicueta, a bargain at €16,40. Then we drove up to the windy heights of Camino del Sacromonte yet again, to La Buleria, the club where every flamenco with ambition must perform at least once. It was late, and the place was jammed with young people well beyond inebriated, seated in a tiny room dense with smoke, bellowing songs at each other, pounding on tables. The scene was claustrophobic, deafening, humid, hormone-charged. A woman did a decidedly lewd dance to the applause of those assembled. I was introduced to the owner, and handed a healthy glass of scotch. He looked distastefully at the crowd, displeased at the inauthentic conduct. ‘Gypsies are weird,’ he said simply.
	Ronda Down a rocky pass where the strata stood upright and true vertical, the earth in upheaval, past hundreds of sheet grazing on a steep hillside, and into upland alluvial plains, leads one to the city of Ronda, which is perched above a chasm, and has a famous bridge. Rilke had been here, Hemingway as well, and Orson Welles is buried in a graveyard of bulls on the outskirts of town. Ronda is birthplace to a distinctive style of bullfighting, not to mention the most beautiful bullring in Spain. Once a year the family of Ordoñez returns to preside over the Goya style bullfight, all pageantry and costume in the traditional style. The rest of the year the Plaza de Toros is a museum in glorious preservation. There is more to see around Ronda than one day permits; other quirky museums (Museum of the Bandit, Museum of Motion Pictures, the Mondragon Palace) and within striking distance are prehistoric cave paintings, remains of a Phoenician settlement, a Roman amphitheatre, well-preserved ruins of 13th-century Arab baths, old bridges and a long stretch of medieval city wall intact. Two fine and different dining experiences characterized my stay. The first, Doña Pepa (Plaza de Socorro 10, telephone 34 952 87-47-77) had all the formality and authenticity of the corrida, with memorabilia on the walls of a Beaux Arts palace, red tablecloths, dark wood and tile work, attended by super-pro waiters who have seen it all. A procession of local ingredients paraded like a bullfight: some sweet aperitif before the meal, bacon-wrapped dates, chicken rolled with herbs in a pimento sauce, local sheep cheese, smoked duck, brilliantly flavored cherry tomatoes, and at the conclusion Helado de Aceite de Oliva—olive oil ice cream, the chef’s specialty. A visit to the area called ‘Specialties’ at www.dpepa.com will be of interest for its stratospheric tour de cuisine. Another night without reservation I stumbled upon Casa Maria (Ruedo Alameda 27, telephone 34 952 87-62-12) and into the very personal world of chef Elias Vega, whose family-run restaurant in partnership with his charming wife Isabel Alba is a true gem. Vega prides himself on his wine selection—a vintage guide for Ribera del Duero and Rioja is printed on the back of the restaurant’s business card—and he features a wine of the week. My confidence thus inspired I tried his special Rioja and it was superb. He happily customized a full meal for me: soup of noodles, egg, broth and vegetable, followed by a fish preparation in garlic and oil cooked to perfection accompanied by rice, corn and carrots. After dinner he made a tea and honey and brandy drink for me. Nothing I ate was listed on the menu, everything created spontaneously. El estilo Rondeño es muy austero. A hard day of travel back to Madrid followed, and I checked into a modern four-star hotel in the centre of the city, ordered room service and flipped on the television a show called Los Ratones Colorados hosted by Jesus Quintero, a legend of Andalucian broadcasting. I was astounded at what I saw. For an hour, uninterrupted, he profiled Farruquito, cutting between video clips of performances and face-to-face interview, where the young man talked about his life, the scandal, and how he is dealing with it. In one particularly arresting segment a group of gypsies sat around a table singing to the accompaniment of two guitarists. Suddenly Farruqito jumped onto the table, threw off his jacket and shoes and socks and danced a solo in his bare feet. It was mesmerizing, everything I had wanted in Spain, the last piece of a spiritual puzzle. I had been renewed.
	SIDEBAR: If You Go… The numbers NY-Madrid RT airfare $466 Madrid-Segovia one-way busfare €4.85 Ave fast train RT Madrid Seville €67 Seville-Granada rail RT €31.80 Bottle of 2001 Enate €13.00 Good quality flat-brimmed hat in Seville €115 Admission to the Alhambra €10 Inglés – While one can always locate Anglophones, one may as well abandon all hope, leap in and make a valiant attempt at the Spanish tongue, that is if contact with real people in Spain is what you seek. Outside Madrid the number of English speakers plummets, as one would expect. I tried to use English, French and Italian, largely without success. So take the plunge. Spanish can be quite a recreational language to speak, especially badly. However, please do not add the letter ‘o’ to the end of any English word whose Spanish equivalent you do not know, the mark of the arrogant visitor. Nevertheless, a wacky embarrassment of language will always prove entertaining. Useful words Aseos – the restrooms Ave – the fast train Fino - sherry Jamon - ham Lomo - pork Puerco – pork Ruta – the bus you do not want to take Tinto – the better grade of red wine Venga – literally “Let’s go,” but used very frequently as “Okay.” Taking the Bus – In a nutshell, here are the maxims about buses in Spain: there are no maxims. Buses are cheap, and -excluding the fast train- the quickest conveyance between points as long as you do not take a ruta, which stops at every small town along the way. Buses can leave religiously on time, or not on time at all. You can buy a ticket only at the ticket window or at either a window or from the driver on the bus or all of the above or perhaps only one of the above. You can have an assigned and numbered seat, or there will be open seating. You can board early, or not until a moment before departure, or long after. It’s that simple. Mealtime – One is adrift in a sea of meals, large and small, occasional and infrequent, whenever the mood strikes. No clock is held to the ritual. Only dinner is religiously abided by, with 11pm considered early for this most emphatic of repasts. The ideal dinner reservation is half before midnight, or tastefully later. Wine - In Granada I enjoyed only red wines: a 1997, 2001 and 2003 Enate, all quite robust and agreeable. At one particularly fine meal a bottle of 2001 Protos was served, also brilliant accompaniment to the bill of fare. Tipping – Seems less expected than USA. If you tip a cabbie one Euro he appears very happy. If you leave more than 5% for a waiter he feels well acknowledged. I did on occasion translate straight across cultures and leave 15% on a check, and nobody blinked. The general rule should always prevail: tip what makes you feel comfortable. Smoking permitted, except on buses - If you like to puff, go to Spain now. You have until 2006, when membership in the EU legislates smoke-free environments. People are lighting up everywhere, all the time, relishing the last year of this luxury, and everybody smokes. They don’t mind if you are a nonsmoker. How this will affect the world of flamenco is a mystery, since smoke is such a critical part of flamenco ambience. How flamenco works – Do not go to anything referred to as ‘flamenco’ which is scheduled for 7:30 at a place where you are made to buy bad sangria and mass production tapas for a 1½ hour performance, surrounded by yammering tourists. Instead, head for the Peñas Flamencas, clubs created by fans and cultural associations. The correct method is: you hear about a place, you show up late. You hang around. On a good night, something eventually happens. Flamenco simply happens.
	SIDEBAR: Spain Lodging La Cazalla Tajo del Abanico Apartado de Correos 160 29400 Ronda (Andalucia) Spain Seclusion, quiet, isolation, beauty, comfort. If you are prepared to endure a 10-minute ride on a steep unpaved road into a pristine canyon only a stone’s throw from the center of Ronda, then La Cazalla may be the retreat for you. “The road is a handicap,” the owner says, but she is wrong. The road is a symbolic barrier between you and the everyday. For an oasis so near to the rich history of this legendary Spanish city, the discreet 5-room inn created by Maria Ruiz is the closest the intrepid traveler will come to 5-star ecotourism: no television, no phones, no children, surrounded by unspoiled landscape. Prepare to be gratified by natural delights, among them -in season- hawks who nest in the crevasses of sheer limestone walls, a profusion of wildflowers and native vegetation, and incomparable silence, broken only by the interruption of water burbling from fountains, waterfall and creek, in counterpoise to the call of birds, who flock to the sanctuary of a place where no hunting is permitted. The residence itself is constructed over the shell of a small house dating back to Roman times, but Maria has added two levels of gracious Andalucian comfort built into unfinished stone, preserving the natural contours of the gentle hillside. Each room has a view, modern-but-simple appointments in the traditional style, and a splendid bathroom featuring artisan-quality mosaic work rendered in the signature añil blue. A broad stone terrace overlooks an elegant pool area. Do not go in search of overbearing luxury. La Cazalla is a low-key retreat, best used as a staging base for day trips to the old city, or nature walks which the canyon easily provides. Maria’s son, Rodrigo, acts as chef, serving a breakfast of local fare in imaginative presentations. Dinner is charged separately, by special arrangement, but well worth the indulgence. Guests bring stacks of books to La Cazalla, and spend leisurely hours catching up on reading by poolside. Here you create your own activity, here you control your own pace. The absolute privacy and intimacy of La Cazalla offers travelers the very thing that Maria Ruiz sought: spiritual retirement. Rodrigo repeated the Spanish expression, “La vida son dos dias.” This would be the ideal place to spend your own two days. Highly recommended. Hotel Jardin de la Muralla C/. Espiritu Santo, 13 29400 Ronda (Malaga) Spain One of the most charming and entertaining aspects of Jardin de la Muralla is the eccentric Jose Maria Orozco, who personifies the archetypal Spanish innkeeper one might encounter in the pages of Cervantes. Sr. Orozco’s gregarious, outgoing manner and happy outlook add an air of informality and playfulness to this beautifully converted 15th century home situated at the southern end of Ronda’s old quarter. The inn is a perfect starting point for walks among narrow streets, visits to quirky museums and shady plazas, and an easy stroll to the precipitous path into the gorge for a dramatic view of the Puente Nuevo. The hotel itself boasts unparalleled vistas of old city walls and the cathedral, which the property adjoins. A wonderful terraced private garden overlooks an expanse of hills and countryside. Gazebos, fruit trees, a splendor of flowers, gently sloping lawns, pergolas and a private swimming pool mean exclusive access to a verdant refuge, restricted to the use of the inn’s guests, who will never number more than 12 people. Because the garden does not face a highway or street, the ambient sounds of birds and rustling leaves may be your only companions. The inn is furnished traditionally, with unique objects both antique and contemporary, in a typical and comfortable hacienda style. Bathrooms are modern, tiled, spacious. A parlor with a grand piano sits just off the entry courtyard. The breakfast room is serenaded by canaries chirping, emanating from the kitchen, where Jalal, the agreeable majordomo, busies himself brewing strong coffee and baking signature cookies in the Moroccan style. Indeed, the innkeeper so loves animals that he has set aside one room for those traveling with a dog. This would be an ideal hotel booking for a party of 8-10, since it combines the comforts of home with the privacy of a secure compound, insulated from the intrusions of other travelers. One of the inn’s neighbors has a propensity for playing loud, rock music during the daylight hours, a reminder that the vagaries of the modern world have even reached this medieval city. The best night’s sleep can be had in “The Suite”, a wide room above the garden which encourages dreams of fanciful time-travel to a bygone era. Hotel San Gabriel Marques de Moctezuma, 19 E-29400 Ronda This establishment has a lived-in feel, as if it were here forever, even though the doors first opened to guests in 1989. During the era when the old quarter of Ronda had fallen into disrepair, the 1736 structure was gutted by fire. Restoration took 7 years to complete, a labor of love by the Arnal Perez family. Hotel San Gabriel is operated in an easy-going and professional style by most accommodating staff. The hotel’s motto describes the ethos precisely, “Su casa en Ronda.” This property is perfect for the experienced traveler, delivering comfort, authenticity and great value, beautifully situated. A private part of the building is still in use as a family dwelling; the 16 rooms available feature traditional charm, with modern appointments, including an elevator. Antiques mingle with family pictures, and there is a tiny DVD theatre whose 6 plush seats were rescued from a vintage cinema nearby. The hotel has created a delectable breakfast featuring local specialties, tailored to the preferences of their guests: 2 home-made fruit jams (They might be peach, plum, quince, apple, or pear according to the season), a pimento tomato puree, queso fresco, local bread and butter, fresh-squeezed orange juice and rich thick coffee. You can also try a beguiling local honey. Room 15 has a floorplan straight out of Carmen, with sleeping loft, sitting area and bath all on different levels, a luxurious skylit tub, and storybook views from each window. A descendent of Ordoñez resides in that very room one day a year, for the fiesta at the Plaza de Toros. Horno de Oro 6 Calle Horno de Oro Albaicin, Granada Without question my most memorable and traditional experiences in Andalucia occurred during a stay at Horno de Oro, owned and operated by the Lopez-Medina family. Exceptional and extraordinary in every way, I took advantage of the comfort and shelter of their private home nestled on a side street in the Albaicín district, which has been named a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The home boasts an incomparable vantage point for viewing the Alhambra, a breathtaking perspective from the canyon below, best enjoyed while basking on the rooftop terrace, watching the light as it constantly changes on the fortifications above. It is about the family as much as it is about the house, and the fine art of hospitality. These kind people love their city, which they know intimately. They know it so well that in their company one witnesses the spirit and tempo by which life is truly lived in Granada, with its intoxicating history, its architectural legacy, and the legends that echo over the centuries from the narrow streets. Horno de Oro’s outstanding accommodation gracefully combines the historic and present day, through details like an original cistern dating back to the Romans, re-creations of classic Moorish tile motifs and rescued architectural elements from forgotten nineteenth century buildings, counterposed with modern Spanish painting. There is no elevator, but a climb up the wide wood staircase in the vaulted entry court proves a worthy expedition. Two upper floors contain 6 rooms and suites resplendent with tasteful décor and luxurious baths. Those who seek quality beyond the conventional hotel will find within these walls a parallel universe where the imagination freely wanders. This is a hidden gem, and not for everyone. Be prepared to surrender your presumptions of the modern world, and open your heart to a more classical lifestyle, one which values the pleasures of conversation, the joy of the table, the celebration of beauty, all taken at a slower and more navigable pace. Here one can rediscover the most elemental and sensory essences of existence. A remarkable place to reflect, a welcome destination, in a fantasy setting. Casa de Federico Horno Marina 13 18001 Granada A find, certainly authentic, and a great value. This would be an ideal choice for the youthful savvy traveler, brave enough to stray from hotel chains and into a successful concept lodging built as a tribute to Federico Garcia Lorca. Here the Lopez-Medina family has restored an historic building near Catedral and the Mercado Marroqui, next to the proposed site of the new Lorca Museum, walking distance from Albayzin and Alhambra. Great décor, small rooms but utterly comfortable. Classy baths, every one with a different marble artisan sink. New, modern elevator, Wi-Fi enabled. Some rooms whose walls could not be fully restored were reinforced with exposed steel beams, to which amazing artisanal details of welded metal furnishings have been added. The hotel has two desirable rooftop rooms (14-15), the best deal for the money imaginable. Think: your own comfy nest above the old city, where you can see classical Granada from a platform in the sky. And then tomorrow morning there is the Moroccan breakfast… Alcoba del Rey Becquer, 9 41002 Sevilla, Spain I count myself extremely lucky to have stayed at this converted Mujudar sultan’s palace during the first month it was open. One can get a feel for the direction a hotel is headed especially in its earliest days. Alcoba del Rey has a lot going for it, first and foremost the level of refinement and comfort it already demonstrates. You step into a dream of the Maghreb, with expanses of cool tile floors and rough mortar walls, mosaic details. A wide fragment of an antique cast plaster geometric relief loomed over my bed, faithfully restored. Every detail from furniture to tapestries to simple coathooks hails from Morocco. There is something languorous, sultry, and spare about the luxurious bathrooms with their double hammered metal sinks, blue-tiled bathtubs and Hermès orange-scented amenities. That is dangerous, nearly decadent. When I sat down for breakfast in the dining room, I found myself so comfortable I did not want to leave. It may have been the menu which began with café con leche served in a lovely ceramic cup, followed by fresh squeezed orange juice, accompanied by bread, olive oil, paté, orange marmalade, and butter flavored with lomo (a Sevillian specialty). It may have been the low-cushioned couches, the room painted in cool blues and whites with dark wood accents, the trickle of a fountain, or lilting flute music coming from a hidden corner. Yet all of Sevilla lay only outside the door, ready to be explored, and that was the dilemma, to stay or go. The hotel sits at the north end of the old city, literally next to the old Roman walls. I’d very much like to check in again on in this marvelous property, where every room has a story connected to a famous historical figure from the days of the Moors. The hotel doesn’t need to market itself so heavily; even with its small growing pains, the property stands beautifully on its own. Stay at this enchanting secret hideaway while you can, before the world discovers. La Casa del Maestro Almudena 5 41003 Sevilla, Spain For those who seek to channel the ghost of a renowned guitarissta, La Casa del Maestro is decidedly the place. The owners have elegantly filled this historic residence of flamenco Niño Ricardo with fascinating memorabilia from his career, grouped around a skylit courtyard, with interior balconies overlooking a traditional entryway. Only 6 rooms. A small adjoining ground-floor space has high speed internet 24/7. Very comfortable lodgings with terrycloth robes, quality amenities, plus a beautiful bath to complete the package. The Casa’s location is optimal for walking the old city, which can be easily done after a typical Andalusian breakfast, included. A very attentive staff looked after every request with an easy familiarity. This house is a great introduction to the golden age of flamenco, and a marvelous command post for experiencing the city center. One small warning: light sleepers may experience a noise problem; the inn sits on a narrow street, and city life can carry through windows which are not soundproofed; additionally, footsteps and conversations travel well in the interior areas. An inside-facing room helps, but a pair of earplugs is a small concession to make for such a rich and amiable welcome at such an attractive price.