Furry Wombat

The backstreets were hungover this morning. A young red and yellow Spanish football jersey carted away some kegs. I headed out to the mercado for higos, pan, and to the farmacia for something for H. He’s all worn out–was worn out even before out departure– and his throat hurts. At the farmacia, I pointed to my throat and indicated that I would like a spray. I walked out with Anginovag. All of the possible root words are all wrong in English; perhaps it indicates something more appropriate in Spanish. Regardless, it seems to have helped.

My Spanish is quite poor. I have only a single box in my head for romance languages, so French phrases (my only formal language training) come to mind instead of Spanish. Je voudrais…. no no no. Should have refreshed with some Spanish tapes before the trip, but there wasn’t time. It’s all been rather last minute. Luckily, folks here are friendly when you smile sheepishly and mangle their language. Sigh. so American.

H still has work to do, although I’m usually the one to get in trouble for working on vacation. He has a meeting this Friday in Madrid– the excuse for our trip here, along with my travel to Tennessee immediately before (right next door to Spain, compared to my usual digs)– so, he is working away this morning.

A short history lesson from Granada: 1492 is the year that American school children learn that Columbus headed off across the Atlantic in the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, but it is also the final year of the Reconquista, when Ferdinando & Isabel completed their conquest of Spain and ejected the last Moorish ruler in Andalusia; it is also the year that marks the beginning of the Inquisition. A trifecta. The brutality of it is shocking and still, unsurprisingly, human.