First Impressions of Alora

As I boarded the Renfe train at the central train station of Malaga, weighed down by all of my possessions, heading 50 kilometers northwest to Alora, my stomach started doing flips and turns for the first time since I’d arrived to Spain. I hadn’t the slightest idea of what to expect and the farther and farther the train went into the intestines of the countryside the deeper I fell into disbelief. Here I was on the other wide of the world, alone, with a big black suitcase, a backpack and a guitar. All I had left of home were the photographs in my wallet and the remnants of its odor on my clothes.

As the train chugged away like a lazy caterpillar, leaving me standing alone on the train tracks, I looked around myself at the endless voluptuous mountains, the immaculately blue sky, and the velvety green hills and valleys. Were it not for the noise of the airplane passing above me, I’d have felt like I was dropped into another time.

I got on yet another bus and headed up the steep and winding streets that led up to the village of Alora. Some kind of devouring emotion overcame me and I burst into hot tears sitting tightly between two strangers at the back of the bus. The beauty of the landscape overwhelmed me, the remoteness of the village petrified me and I felt like a loose feather that the wind had blown far, far away.

The bus dropped me off in the middle of the town next to a little meat market on a narrow cobblestone street. The locals around me stared at the sight of this stranger, a foreigner, with her life packed into a few bags with nowhere to go and no clue where to look. As I dragged my heavy suitcase behind me and lugged my backpack strapped to my back, a kind and smiling stranger stopped me to ask if I needed help. His name was Mohammed and he was a Muslim from Morocco. He carried my stuff and took me to an internet care to look for the place where I’d be staying. He told me his birthday was coming up the following week and every time I thanked him he’d say, “No pasa nada, Jasmina” relieving me of any indebtedness and filling me with even deeper gratitude. He was every so kind and left me his number for any future needs. He even called a few days later to check how I was doing and to see if I needed any help with anything else.

The next locals whose hands I fell into were so gracious and giving as well. I’d found a young woman on the internet named Flores who lived in Alora and asked her if I could stay with her for a couple of days until I got settled and found my own place. She opened up her home and her family to me. Her mom, an old woman who didn’t speak a word of English, but instead a rapid and Andalucían dialect of Spanish, let me in and instantly started telling me stories. She showed me the room they’d made up for me to stay in and gave me fresh towels, sheets, and a little magazine about Alora. She then took me on a little walk around the top of the village and told me stories about the weather, the history and the life she’d had in Alora. In the evening, Flores came home from work and her mom cooked us a dinner of friend eggplant with honey and salmon pizza. We ate all together in the kitchen as Flores and I got to know each other in a mixture of English and Spanish.

The next morning I got on the train and headed back into Malaga to look for a place to live. The helter-skelter of the city life of Malaga was a stark contrast to the tranquility of my secret little village. After a day of searching and looking at apartments in the city I was exhausted and disheartened. The city had left a bitter, dirty taste in my mouth – like that of bad chocolate – and I got back on the train to head into the plush interior of the valley of Guadalhorce and to my village.

I searched around the village some more that evening and settled finally for a little, temporary, one-bedroom bottom floor flat, at the end of a narrow downward-spiraling street. Faster than a magic trick I found myself in the little apartment with all my belongings and a big empty space to fill with life. I panicked at first when it hit me that I was living all alone in this village in the middle of southern Spain. For the first time in my life I was completely alone with no one to tell except my guitar and my journal. I knew the day would come and I knew it was something that I had to learn at some point in my life, but I didn’t realize that it would hit me quite so suddenly – like a breathless dunk into a freezing cold mountain stream. But soon enough you get used to the temperature and you let the water unclog the pores of your prickly skin instead of gasping for air.

So I started to unpack. I hung up my green hammock from Ecuador on the white wall to give the bland room color. I spread my beach sarong across the table to make it mine and I filled up the big brown armoire with my colorful dresses and sweaters. I hesitate to put my pictures up still because the place feels temporary and I hope to find a better one in the next month; at least a more colorful one with an oven that I can bake in.

I took myself out that first night for dinner at a local pizzeria and realized as I sat there ruminating over my glass of vino tinto that I had no idea how to dine alone. As I waited for my pizza margarita to come out, I realized that I didn’t know where to divert my eyes, what to do with my hands, how to sit in my chair. I had never eaten alone at a restaurant before. I didn’t know if I should look at other people or if I should read a book. So I did a mixture of both, sipped my wine and slowly ate my entire pizza, tasting every bite. I never realized before how little attention I’d actually dedicated to the food I was eating – always distracted by the conversation or the people I was with. It was quite a fulfilling and delicious experience after I got over the fact that I had no one to share it with. And so with a full stomach and a full mind I went back to my new home and fell asleep to the sounds of the street beneath my window – kids still playing outside at midnight, the clicking of canes as old men walked their dogs, and even a horse galloping by carrying two teenage boys.

I awoke to a bright sunrise, a crowing of roosters and a dinging of bells marking a time that was at least twenty minutes off from the actual one. I spent the day exploring the winding streets, peeking behind corners, talking to strangers to practice my broken Spanish and buying local olive oil and fresh baked bread to fill my empty kitchen. I played my guitar for a few hours by my open window and remembered how much I’d been craving this time back home in the madness of my busy college life. Time. Time to bake, time to think, time to play music, time to read, time to let my muse come over me and time to let y daydreams run wild. My imagination had been suffocating under the rocks of a busy life.

I decided to go on a run up above the village, on top of the mountain. It was the most incredible run – the air was intoxicating, unpolluted and fresh, the trail was steep and rugged, the view down below was surreal. I felt like it was just as scenic still life painting beneath me, and like I was looking down below at the world from some kind of heaven. Short olive trees with bright green olives surrounded me and a tall rocky peak still towered over me. Wild flowers infused my senses from all around sending a whirling smell into my nostrils. I didn’t know which of my senses to pay the most attention to.

I took pictures of the village by sunset that evening, made myself a fresh meal of tomatoes, avocados, bread and olive oil and sat in my rocking chair reading Hemingway for hours.
And now I sit atop a mountain overlooking the valley down below, the hot afternoon sun shining on my back. An ancient Arabic castle and the ruins of a fortress sit atop the mountain with me. The sounds of life down below are distant – bells, dishes clanking, dogs barking, and of course roosters crowing. A plane rumbles by overhead, streaking the blue sky, reminding me of the modern epoch I’m in. Could this be real life?