I go to the Abadia

I go to the Abadia

I take the tour and see the catacombs where the Romans burned the Christians. The Gypsies found the remains and the ovens were made into chapels. Sacromonte. I saw the ancient books, the tiny precise writing. I sat in the peaceful courtyard and as always imagined ghostly figures going about their lives. I walked into the hills, delighting in the smell of the Pine. Delighting in the vistas I see everywhere.

I am drawing deep into myself. I do not go to the flamenco class. I stay locked in my room listening to whatever this is. Such a small space. Always cold, even with candles burning all night. I have put myself here, in this place. Where cries and whispers and memories emanate from the stones. Everywhere the print of history.

I walk to the Alhambra feeling like we have some business together. I walk through the tiny cobbled streets and it is so familiar. Like there is a time warp I could just step into. The complicated, intense feeling of this place. Dark Catholic foreboding. Fierce Gypsy passion. Arabic brilliance.