Six weeks later I was still happily frolicking around, having moved into the heart of Granada and a gorgeous Greek man. Day time siestas to keep us up all night, the parties were everywhere. After dinner, we would go to this dark candlelight bar named Bohemia, filled to the brim with old posters, books and jazz. We ordered all kinds of coffee cocktails to get ready for the night. Late live music, absinthe, dancing, many little streets turning the dark city into a labyrinth. I would get lost all the time, it was a part of living in Granada.
I met people who lived in caves. Flamenco dancers, artists, musicians, gypsies. I saw myself moving there, going for drinks with new friends, never finding my way back home. My six weeks there, seven summers ago, are like living polaroids when I close my eyes. Vivid memories, all with a golden glow of bright sun, seeing the world through sunglasses. No worries on my mind, days gone by in slow motion. Meeting new people every day, every night a new reason to celebrate. Endless energy, we were never tired. The world was at our feet.
Going back to Granada for one rainy day in February felt strange. None of my friends were there, I couldn't seem to find any of the places that shine with happy memories in my mind. It felt deserted of the good times I spent there, yet flooded with tourists. Do you believe sometimes it's better not to go back to a place that sparks with magic in your head and heart? In order to keep the memories alive, you have to visit them, instead of the actual place? It messes with my head sometimes, thinking: was this all just a dream?