By Michael L Weiss | Besorah from the Journey
After days exploring Spain’s golden heartland, our journey brought us to Granada—a city poised between the folds of the Sierra Nevada and the weight of its own history. Arriving under the blistering Andalusian sun—41 degrees Celsius (106 F) to be precise—we found immediate refuge in the cool, quiet grandeur of the Hotel Alhambra Palace, perched like a noble observer just outside the ancient citadel walls. With its ornate Moorish-inspired architecture and sweeping views of the city below, the hotel feels less like a lodging and more like a whispered echo from the Nasrid dynasty. It is here that Granada’s dual nature—the intimate and the imperial—starts to take form.
Granada is a city suspended between epochs: Islamic sophistication, Christian ambition, and Jewish resilience are all inscribed in its walls. It was the final jewel in the crown of Islamic Spain, holding out until 1492 when King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella completed the Catholic Reconquista by taking this city—and almost in the same breath, ordered the expulsion of the Jews.
And yet, somehow, walking its narrow alleys today, what lingers is not only loss, but memory that pulses with life.
As the sun retreated and the heat relented, Granada awakened. The locals emerged like moths drawn to flame—drawn, in this case, to food, laughter, and the light of community. We wandered into one of the city’s many stone squares, where cafes and taverns were throwing open their doors, and the clink of wine glasses competed with the laughter of children playing under ancient lamplight.
We joined them—choosing a simple table beneath a orange tree whose shade had done little for the heat just hours earlier. Now, it was a welcome canopy. Tapas arrived: slices of jamón ibérico, sizzling prawns in garlic, tiny roasted peppers that challenged you to guess which were spicy and which were mild. A bottle of local wine—cool, crisp, and wonderfully dry—anchored the table, and conversation danced around us in Castilian tones.
There’s something deeply poetic about this city’s ability to endure—and endure beautifully. Beneath the tiled roofs and hidden courtyards lies the weight of history: the splendor of Al-Andalus, the heartbreak of exile, the echoes of Jewish poets and scholars, the prayers of Sufi mystics, and the fervor of Catholic monarchs. These aren’t just academic footnotes—they’re felt in the stones, the fountains, the scent of jasmine, and the lingering melodies of flamenco carried on the wind.
Granada’s Alhambra—its crowning glory—remains a breathtaking testament to the heights of Islamic architecture and artistry. Though we will explore its intricate halls, tranquil gardens, and reflecting pools tomorrow, even from a distance it speaks: not only of conquest or loss, but of vision. Of what once was possible when cultures, at least for a time, intertwined rather than divided.
But even as the evening seemed wrapped in serenity, reality returned to remind us of how fragile that vision can be.
As we left the plaza and made our way in search of a taxi, we found the streets unexpectedly clogged—this time not by cars or celebrants, but by a loud and fervent pro-Palestinian demonstration. Chants echoed off the cobbled walls. Flags waved. Police redirected traffic. What struck me most wasn’t the disruption—but the deeper symbolism. Here, in a city that once stood as a model of convivencia—of coexistence between Muslims, Christians, and Jews—we were witnessing the modern fracture of that ideal.
It reminded me that the forces of division are everywhere. That the same city where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella once heralded a new Catholic Spain and expelled its Jews is now home to a new reality: a large immigrant Muslim community, many of whom trace their heritage not to the philosophers and artisans of Al-Andalus, but to more radicalized ideologies. In far too many quarters, that proud legacy of art, science, and interfaith understanding has been replaced with anger, rejectionism, and—painfully—antisemitism.
It is a bitter irony, and not one I note lightly. But to reflect honestly on Granada is to hold its glory and its grief in the same breath.
As the chanting faded behind us and we climbed into the cab, I looked back on the glowing rooftops and the Alhambra rising like a dream in the distance. Granada’s story is not finished. It continues to be written—in the languages of food and protest, of history and hope.
And so we go forward, remembering not only the beauty of what once was—but the responsibility we hold to reclaim its best lessons before they fade.
