I’m a bit of a wreck this morning. My throat and head cold are much worse and the
water in our bathroom is still cold at 9am. I am aching from both the cold
and yesterday record climbs. I am emotionally raw too. The relationship between Mike and I has been warped out of shape by yesterday’s events and I doubt it will return to its original shape. Deep down inside he’s a good man, but not that good of a friend. Perhaps he will change as a response to my outburst but his pattern has been to avoid inter-personal problems instead of resolving them. I am not sure I can rely on him. He’s too much of a loner and lacking in most social skills. I find myself wondering if I should give it a go alone, but I am not ready for that leap yet.
Mike leaves to visit the post office and go for a stroll on his own. I leave a short while later, glad to be on my own at my own pace, given how sick I feel. We are usually at peace while looking at the sights, where physical prowess and endurance isn’t involved, but we don’t need to chance another fight at this point.The cathedral is closed for repairs so I tour the Royal Chapel and later I check out the university. Then I stroll through the city streets getting a feel for the place. I had high hopes for Granada before I left, higher than for any other Spanish city, but it’s a bit of a disappointment. It is not as elegant or relaxed as either Sevilla or Cordoba, which have nicer parks and avenues. This place is hillier, more congested and dirtier. It is located in a geographical bowl surrounded by mountains that trap air pollution. The 3000m Sierra Nevada to the south-east are barely visible because of the smog.
After dinner Mike leaves for a walk without me again. I use the opportunity to check out Spartacus listings for gay clubs. One club mentioned probably never existed. The street it is supposed to be on consists of high rise apartment buildings that aren’t that new, none of which ever could have housed a club or any other commercial establishments. The only club mentioned that does exist is Blanca y Negro. It has no windows. Entrance is gained by ringing a discreet doorbell. I am let in hesitantly by an older man who resembles a car salesman. It is a quiet lounge and there aren’t many clientele. Now that I am here I sit the long bar and order a drink. An over-dressed woman in her late-20s sidles up beside me and asks if I care to buy her a drink. No I don’t, I say, but she takes this to mean I don’t care. The bar tender pours her a drink anyway without waiting for her to ask, and without checking with me.
Her very expensive drink is on my bill, along with my 800 pesados beer – the two being equal to the cost of a night’s accommodation. I choose not to make a scene about it when I leave. I am not sure why I am concerned about appearing polite in a hooker bar that only wants to rip off its clientele at every opportunity. It must be a Canadian thing, but I ask to be let out before I finish my beer. The proprietor pimp takes his sweet time letting me out, just to bug me I suppose. I seriously consider throwing out the pages of my Spartacus Guide after this. If the listing there aren’t outdated, it’s because they were totally invented out of thin air.
I cruised around Triumfo Park on the way back to my room. It is manicured, well-lit and full of young, straight couples walking hand in hand. I make eye contact with one young man in his twenties walking alone. He circles around and for a few awkward but exciting moments we walk beside each other as if we are friends. I break the ice, asking if he speaks either English or French. He is caught off-guard and says no, but it turns out he does know some French.
We both struggle with our feeble knowledge of French vocabulary and each other’s pronunciation, but gradually our conversation starts to flow. After 90 minutes we are chattering like birds. His name is Javier and he’s 23, a law student. He has a lover named Francisco who is five years older, his first lover. They have been together six years. He shows me his commitment ring.
Amazingly, he knows no other gay men in Granada. I ask him about gay clubs but he has never been to one here. He lives a very closeted life and in constant fear of being found out. He says he cannot imagine the freedom of living in an open relationship in an accepting environment. I tell him about my involvement in the gay lib struggle in Toronto, and the changes that have happened in recent years. I mention too, that our struggles in Canada have been largely championed by gay lawyers. He agreed that fighting that battle is huge responsibility, one I am sure he is not ready for yet, but I hope I have sown a seed that gets him thinking about other possibilities for his life.
After our talk, he tells me he feels very close to me with a touch of admiration in his voice. He says he wants deeply to be my friend. He is lonely, and I am surprised by how much loneliness rises within me when he says this. It is strange how cycling with Mike has left me feeling like I haven’t been in contact with other gays for many weeks. We make plans to meet at a statue in front of the university at 10 am the next morning and he seems excited that I agreed to it.
Laryngitis is setting in and I feel the pressure of a chest cold building as walk back. It is 12:30am when I get in. I don’t sleep well.
PHOTO 1: front of cathedral
PHOTO 2: Granada Cathedral
PHOTO 3: south portal of cathedral
PHOTO 4: tower of cathedral from lane
PHOTO 5: workman and donkeys
PHOTO 6: Ave of Catholic Monarchs
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