Unmoored.

Missed a spot.

Granada, Spain – It begins with perfume.

The Alhambra’s tall, labyrinthine gardens gently whisper love letters in jasmine, rose, cypress and orange.

Bright red pomegranates – granada in Spanish – hang like festive balls on a Christmas tree. It’s one of the best-smelling places I’ve visited in a long time.

Inside, it’s also one of the most breathtaking.

Built primarily by the Nasrid Dynasty between 1238 and 1358, the palace and fortress complex is among the best-preserved monuments of the Medieval Islamic world. 

Modest exteriors belie the explosion of geometric tile, marble and intricately carved stucco inside. Swirls of calligraphy have been etched repetitively into the walls as though a student had to repeat a lesson learned on a chalkboard.

Courting lions.

There's an intense beauty to be found in consistency.

In Islamic architectural tradition, rooms open through arched doorways into central courtyards lined with sharply manicured box hedges and reflecting pools. The serene, liquid canvas of the Court of Myrtles would eventually inspire the Taj Mahal.

Having fallen to Christian conquest, the Alhambra became a Spanish royal court in 1492. As a result, the city is a fascinating blend of Moorish, Gothic and Spanish Renaissance architecture that speaks to 800 years of Andalusian history, religion, community and culture.

Walking into the Hall of Ambassadors, we feel a faint connection.

Here, behind the flicker of a thousand pinpricks poked into the shutters, Columbus received royal endorsement for his journey to the Americas.

It's like the stars aligned. 

A Stone's Throw From the Past.

Up at the crack of dawn.

Cartegena, Spain – Cartegena's Calle Mayor is tiled in blue marble.

I can only imagine how slippery it becomes in the rain.

The naval port’s main street carries you through a history sculpted from millennia. Today, stunning Art Nouveau structures appear to have been pulled from the ground as ornate blinds for the sun.

They flaunt wealth from several mining booms, where silver and lead literally and figuratively shaped the city.

Painted iron railings curl across the fronts of well-appointed apartments – embroidery stitches tying times together. Pots of flowers punctuate the pale yellow and pink buildings with colourful rosettes.

Tucked behind them sits a Roman theatre built in the dying years of BC. It’s still being unearthed.

Farther down the street, hollow facades are held up by steel frames. Their former insides are being turned upside down in an attempt to expose even more of crooked lines that have drawn the city’s history.

The sun breathes late-season warmth onto our necks as we reach the top of the hill in Parque Arqueológico Molinete, where ruins as far back as the city’s founding in 227 BC are strewn like discarded chicken bones. 

A sign tells us this was a rough red light district by the 18^th century and somewhere you wouldn’t have wanted to be. Now, feral cats scamper over crumbled walls and past small, painted houses the municipality has built for them.

More than 2,000 years later, the hill is still home.

Time Tapas.

Something's fishy.

Barcelona, Spain – A perpetual motion machine twists behind the thin, marble bar at La Plata.

He smiles, spinning the spigot of a barrel set atop the fridge.

Without so much as a splash, house-made red wine falls in a graceful arc into thimble-sized glasses. It's a perfect dive.

As he has for 50 years, Pepe Gómez moves effortlessly, serving small plates of fried anchovies. Washing glasses. More anchovies. Wiping down the counter. A plate of sausage. Tossing out smiles and jokes with regulars. 

And mentally tabulating bills of the growing crowd, which spills out onto the darkened street.

Based on faded photos on the wall, it seems little has changed since the small, corner establishment opened in 1945. It feels like you could be stepping into any one of them.

Still six tables. Still four tapas on the menu. And still a crowd celebrating the end of the day.

Set amidst the wallpaper of tourist shops hawking cheap trinkets in the Gothic Quarter, a moment of authenticity.

Feeling Familar.

Searching for a pot of God.

Barcelona, Spain – The towering sandstone forest of La Sagrada Familia is bathed in a warm glow of ambient colour.

Flames flicker on the floor. Sunrise stretches over branched ceilings.

It's as though all seasons are present at once and you can't help but look up – to gawk, even. When I last stood on this spot 30 years ago, it was the site of a gift shop and of continuous construction.

Now, it's a place of prayer in the world's tallest church.

And, next year, after 144 years, the chisels are rumoured to finally stop – construction of the basilica will be complete. 

Walking around the south side, though, I have my suspicions.

Having received one of the earliest entrance times, I step outside and have the entire front of the building to myself. 

I'm lost in the enormity of the moment.

Intricate carvings appear to crawl from the stone. Seasonal fruits in reds and oranges adorn the spires, dotting the sky with colour. A green cypress tree, reminiscent of Christmas, is decked with 21 doves. Delicate bronze trumpets, muted and turned green, are pressed to stone lips.

I may not be the slightest bit religious, but I'm still awed.

And humbled by Gaudi's vision.

Small Plates of Barcelona.

3.14 tapas for the price of one.

Barcelona, Spain – The blue dot on the map doesn’t budge.

It just winks, apprehensively.

Despite confidence we’ve hopped onto the right train from the airport, our lips are curled into question marks. “There’s only one way you can go,” I tell myself. “And there are other tourists aboard.”

And yet, we seem to be circling farther north.

Suddenly, we arrive at Passeig de Gracia station and hurriedly grab our bags. Stepping out into a bustling Barcelona evening, the blue dot finally careens across the screen, marking our real location. 

The GPS has awoken from its slumber.

We wander through the Gothic Quarter, which has come alive for Halloween. Men in top hats and long, dark coats lead ghost tours through jagged alleys lit at crooked angles in cigarette yellow. In a small square, a full choir of buskers breaks out in a beautiful rendition of Let it Be.

We settle into a table in an adjacent square for vermut de Reus and tapas, both exhausted from the day and equally giddy at the prospect of patatas bravas, octopus parmentier and a shimmering plate of Jamón Iberico.

Two buskers swing by the table, crooning Valero, expectantly holding out cups between bites.

It's a warm welcome to Barcelona.