Street art Museum of Casa de los Tirros Teenagers hanging around on a quiet plaza Crowd in front of the Iglesia de Santo Domingo Sorrow-stricken queen Helping each other down a road Hills of eastern Granada at night The hall of my Pension Munoz
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I want to avoid going back to the guesthouse, as I fear I would collapse until late in the night, and I feel it will be cold there. I pop into a café decorated in lavish rococo style imitations, to enjoy a warm drink and a cake. That puts me back on track - I just hope that the night will not finish me off. As much as I am actually fine, I am still careful, knowing that I am not at my best with just 4 hours of sleep per night in the last three days. Warmed up and reenergized, I head east towards the river, always so attracted to bodies of water in any city. I pass by the Casa de Los Tirros, a mildly interesting museum of the life in the few past centuries, and also the host of a photo exhibition of Granada photos. Many topics chosen depict the local life and beliefs, making this visit an interesting insight into Andalucia. Night has fallen on Granada, and all seems so quiet and relaxed. Some teenagers hang around in groups on the public squares, while I am drawn to the spires of the Iglesia de Santo Domingo. In front of it, a huge crowd is busy talking after some ceremony has taken place inside. The dark church feels very Catholic in this gloomy hour, full of centuries of history, but also of guilt and heavy feelings, as represented in the sorrow-stricken face of a queen's statue. As if to confirm the mood, music of religious chanting arises from the loudspeakers as I make my way out. All the same, I think that there is no hour to see beauty, no hour to relate to people's beliefs. Further away, I move along a narrow cobbled street along a closed park, winding all the way down to the river, in an area still reminiscent of its Moorish past. Two old women oscillating in rhythm down a street catch my attention - I cannot tell who is supporting who, as they walk down slowly, in what seems a timeless ritual to them. Eventually, I reach the small canal, which falls short of my expectations of a river, yet still gives charm to the area with the bridges that leap over it. By the canal, I turn around and see a small church in front of dimly lit houses on a hill. I tell myself that all cannot be photographed of course. My feet take me home.
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