![]() ![]() A contractor, he grudgingly remarked, “Old heritage is all very well, but a man can no longer put up a board, much less tear down a brick in his own home, before the city inspectors come running to check that it’s done right.” With a clap and a stomp he finished, and everyone cheered.Īfter we left the cafe, Antonio, a local we had met in the cafe, took us to see examples of Moorish architecture. ![]() He kept the rhythm by softly clapping his hands. “Give us a song.”Īs if only waiting for the invitation, Pepe came over and began to sing. “ Oye, Pepe!” shouted our new acquaintance, to a slender, sharp-featured man. My husband, a flamenco aficionado, asked a regular about the singer and the conversation immediately turned to the popular dance form. Inside, flamenco music poured from a cassette player. The sound of laughter, music and plates clanking from a cafe attracted our attention. ![]() It was an old woman, emptying a bucket in the gutter. All the men turned their heads, including the old man. Two girls in tight-fitting skirts-one orange, the other bright green-leisurely swayed by, arm in arm. “Welcome to the Albaicin,” he said.Ī ball rolled by, with a child in pursuit. ![]() An old man, leaning on his cane, raised his head. This old Moorish quarter is a cluster of whitewashed houses and winding streets.Ī horseshoe arch, piercing the remnants of an ancient wall, opened into a long, green plaza. Searching for the spirit of Irving’s tales, we walked up to the Albacin. ![]()
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