This evening, while I finished a jog down the hill towards Diagonal and back through to my neighborhood, I turned onto a narrow, dark street, cluttered with cars, mopeds and a few residents, shielding themselves from the recently cold wind on their way home. With little room to move, I ran along the sidewalk, running sideways as I squeezed past a teenage boy who ran towards me after darting out of a local bakery. A few steps past him, a small, compact young woman emerged from the bakery, holding a phone tight in her fist while she shook the other by her face. She waved towards me to stop and I saw that she had tears down her face, yelling in a whisper, He’s robbed me, he’s robbed me.

I turned in the direction of her fist and saw the boy running towards a moped running on the corner, driven by a friend. I did what anyone would have and run for him, yelling for him to stop but of course he didn’t. I made it three blocks of blank stares from passers-by before the bike disappeared around a corner. I caught up with a pair of women picking a few spare bills that had fallen from the boy’s pockets and told them where they’d come from. We walked back together while attempted to explain what had happened. We found the woman waiting by the bakery, still crying, calling who she could but knowing the money was gone.

She quickly explained that the boy had come in and shoved a large knife in her face, demanding the safe, but the small operation had nothing more than register. With little time, he waved her back with the blade and left he register drawer bare. As she explained what had happened and the women who had accompanied me reassured her that there was nothing she could have done, I watched this woman’s face – it was unmoving, paralyzed by what had happened, frozen in a forced, tortured anticipation. She finally stopped repeating the story of knife the boy had used to force her into a corner, looked to the open door, the street busy with neighbors returning home and asked, Why didn’t anyone see it? Why didn’t anyone come?

I thought of this a lot tonight, but especially when I read a comment from the grandson of a man and woman who spent much of the Spanish Civil War and ensuing years under Franco crippled, mentally and physically, by what they had experienced. They carried the weight of their pain and loss heavy on their shoulders until the day they died while the man who had created the world they lived in died in his sleep, comfortable in his bed, content in the knowledge that his path had been the righteous one.

It made me think of tonight because it reminds me first of how powerful fear can be and how selfish and cruel it can be to use it as a weapon. In all likelihood, this woman will find it difficult to work alone again, flinching at each boy who enters, fragile when she may have once been strong, shaken at the movement of a customer’s hand, a pitted stomach as she turns to lock the door at night – all because someone needed to show her he was stronger in order to take what he wanted/

It also made me think of the responsibility of such actions. While I cannot begin to imagine what this boy has experienced in his life to lead him to shake a blade in the face of a woman for a few euros, I know that he will sleep better than she will tonight. It is indeed an obvious statement, but it is so painfully unfair that those without choice are doomed to carry the weight of fear and intimidation on their shoulders until they find a way to shift it away or remain there until it crushes them, while those that create that hollow environment of pain get to walk away, content that their course of action was the right one, because it was the one that worked. Although the guilt and fear of being caught may one day suffocate them, tonight, they’ll sleep well, warm and comfortable in the beds their actions have bought them.

I arrived back in Barcelona on Monday the 28th of September and had started to get things situated when I noticed the far-reaching preparations in motion for the country’s first national strike in a decade. While ostensibly aimed at those workers who are a part of labor unions, many I knew planned to either take off or half-ass their way through the day, blaming the minimal transportation system for the slow-down. A bit frustrated at the target of the strike – the restructuring of the country’s contract system, which I feel is fully responsible for the nation’s 45% unemployment rate for under 25s thanks to the favoritism it shows to older workers over the young – I decided I would at least head out to see what the argument was all about.

I headed out of the house shortly after noon to see what had occurred during the earlier “student” rally – with a larger, grown-up march planned for the evening – biking around the police barricades and detours that turned three blocks into 15. I arrived at Plaza Universitad to find a handful of overturned dumpsters, large swaths of graffiti slogans aimed at everything from capitalism to the general shittyness of the current government – or really any government – and mostly importantly, a burned out police car, surrounded by riot police. I suppose I expected some level of disobedience during the early session but the sight of the charred police cruiser, surrounded by trash blown from the overturned containers, cast a distinctly eerie shadow on the scene. This was supposed to be about protecting the rights of the working class – how could burning a police car lend any support to that particular fight? I was explained later by a journalist friend who had been on the scene when it began that the police had surrounded the crowd on three sides. The most “revolutionary” of the three labor unions active on the street that day then filled the third side with a violent push, leaving little escape for those stuck in the middle. From there, things went bad.

Sadly enough, the burned out police car became the image of the day, overshadowing much of the other coverage and doing little to spotlight the debate of the day.

The streets shut to traffic, I walked down the middle of the road towards Plaza Catalonia where shops and especially banks had been pelted with rocks and adorned with pointed insults at their role in the globalization of the world economy – Starbucks, la caixa, vodafone – they were all part of the problem. When I reached the plaza, I saw that the north side had been blasted with waving flags and painted with accusatory slogans – This Crisis Does Not Exist without Capitalism appeared in Catalan in towering letters on the old stone facade. The building – a bank left empty five years ago – had been overtaken by members of the most “revolutionary” union as well as a group known for skirting rent by seeking out empty units around the city to squat in. This has turned into an especially dour problem as even if you find a property you live in occupied, the existing laws make it next to impossible to oust the squatters in anything less than a few months.

Running a series of pirate radio stations from the site, the squatters gathered a crowd of supporters outside where they received orders from a single man armed with a crackling megaphone on a second story balcony. While they waited, the group seemed calm – pleasant even. Some juggled, while others started short, clapping chants against capitalism, Zapatero and the state in general. Responding to a short announcement from above suggesting they go on a brief, peaceful excursion, the group moved as one towards the Ramblas. Dressed in layered t-shirts and billowing pants, most moved in a soft cloud of spliff smoke towards the far side of square, growing noticeably more antsy as they moved. I rounded the plaza on the far side, thinking I might get a few interesting photos, moving against seemingly oblivious groups of German and American tourists.
I walked behind the group for a few minutes, thinking the mass presented an especially menacing presence when crammed in such a small space as the Ramblas. It was then that I started hearing smashing glass.

On the two lanes that run along side the walking area, I saw members of the group quickly fill with anything they could move from the Ramblas – barricades, giant potted plants, mopeds – creating obstacles to the heavily armored blue trucks that carried the riot police up and down the road. With the police busy trying to move the barricades and make their way back towards the crowd who were walking in the opposite direction, the group began pouncing on anything they could, smashing booths, store fronts, overturning dumpsters, lighting trash, screaming insults at those who had made the unfortunate decision to go for a Frappacino at that particular moment. The crowd cheered as a lanky, hooded kid’s kick proved the final straw for the steel door separating starbucks from the world.

By this point, I had moved ahead of the group and started to see the effect of their movement. Shopkeepers, big and small, frantically pulled shutters closed as they approached, appearing genuinely terrified about what would happen. From behind, the armored cars finally caught up with the wave, which promptly shifted direction into the narrow streets of the Gothic neighborhood. Watching the crowd move quickly into the tiny streets, I heard more glass smashing and decided to move around the group instead of with it. I took empty streets until I met up with the crowd again just before the cathedral where they were setting up another barricade, this time with the addition of fire. I watched a small hotel doorman who resembled Manuel from Fawlty Towers attempt to save a heavy sign that had been taken from his front door and added to the fire chased back into his place.

It was at this point that the first bottle hit the ground, aimed at a small group of riot police who had arrived and about the time, I thought it might be good to start keeping my distance. I walked towards a busy, four lane road that divided the gothic and born neighborhoods, watching the crowd quickly move across. Perhaps wary of the crowd moving so close to both the police station and department of labor, a line of armored police vans rushed the group, sending them sprinting into the maze of tiny streets on the far side.

I moved towards the police station and saw a group of four or five police men run towards the station, huddling an single prisoner into the doors before anyone could get a look at him. All told, 43 people were arrested in connection with the actions of yesterday, more than half of which were not Spanish citizens and most of which had long criminal records. They would be the ones that would conduct a separate march, parallel to the massive union turnout along Passig de Gracia, and would keep the police and fire department busy by leaving piles of burning plastic dumpsters in their wake and throwing items at the police – who responded by firing plastic back into the crowd.

By the time, I arrived back at Plaza Catalonia, the occupied house had been raided by riot police, a process that would ultimately take four hours to complete. Along with the burned out police car, the image of the building’s front door now filled in with a make-shift brick wall, became the defining photos of the day.

I returned to the center for the larger march that night, witnessing the sprawling crowd shuffle down the avenue, divided according to union and profession – teachers here, mail carriers there. They chanted along to scattered drum beats and staticy sound systems fastened to small trucks. As my friend predicted, the end of the official march brought the protesters from earlier in the day back into the streets where they burned and smashed their way towards the Gothic center, followed by a surreal collection of tourists and teenagers snapping “I was there” photos against a background of riot police and hunks of smoldering piles of melted plastic and trash.

At the end of the night, we walked down towards the cathedral to find the church plaza looking like a urban war zone. Stone tiles had been ripped up, glass walls smashed and massive planters overturned. Before we finally headed home, we found a clearly inebriated man sitting at a collection of bar stools and table, charred from fire, enjoying a beer and a smoke in the middle of an empty four lane road.

It was made clear to me last night that the most active members of the violent groups were the same ones who turned up no matter what the reason – Barca wins, break shit. local election, break shit. great outdoor concert, break shit. But I could not help but think how sad and pathetic the whole thing was and how this celebration of the working man only served to make the genuine demonstrators look like thugs by association and make for damn sure that the working man would have plenty to clean up the next day.

And I tried to do just that, walking straight from the bus station, past a non-descript collection of boxy front line buildings that manage to make the overdeveloped Costa del Sol look charming.

Speaking to a taxi driver outside the ferry terminal, I was told that there had been no decrease in tourism or in the number of passengers making the trip across the strait, but viewing the scant handful of passengers who took the trip with me, that seemed hard to believe. Then again, despite all the signs both at home and abroad, he refused to believe there was an economic crisis at all – an opinion he told me he would hold until he came home and there was no dinner on his table.

Opting for the fast ferry, clocking in around an hour and 15 minutes versus two and a half, I strolled through a non-existent security detail, stopping only to stamp my passport, and onto the boat. Jets roaring, we glided out of the harbor, past Gibraltar and into a stream of what appeared like every shipping vessel imaginable. Hulking ships heavy with towers of shipping containers, low-slung repair vessels, satellite-covered rescue and exploratory boats – we eased by each on our way southwest, a tiny, ragged red and green Moroccan flag flapping from our rear.

While neither coastline seems more than a stone’s throw from the middle of the strait, the distance would appear to be clearly daunting for anyone made to make the journey in anything less than a small cruise ship, not least because of the rising waves and rapids produced by the continual stream of larger ships. As big as our ferry was, our trip was filled with a rather sick unease and we were lucky enough to in calm weather.

Stranded on the rear deck due to a general inability to handle sea travel from inside a boat – something about the horizon rising and falling in the window – I watched as we arrived in Tangiers, looking much the same as it did the first time I came here a decade ago. The front line had added a few glitzy hotels, cafes and beachside restaurants but the maze of homes, roofs covered in satellites and antenna, packed onto the hills rising up from the water, looked exactly the same.

Like the Spanish coast, Tangiers seemed soaked through from weeks of rain, making the improvements I had seen to the port area and front line I had seen in past visits appear worn down – abandoned to the elements. Small parks were overgrown, construction sites submerged in mud and more than a few beachside attractions were now empty and up for sale. Walking the boardwalk in search of a bank machine, none of which seemed to work for my particular replacement bankcards, I thought for a minute that the economic depression to the north had taken its toll here. I had only ever visited Tangiers during the spring and summer so maybe it was the overcast sky but something seemed off. This dour impression lasted just about as long as it took me to get to the central marketplace.

Inside, the narrow streets were quietly bustling and more modern than I had ever seen them. Streets were blindingly lit by refurbished and reformed cafes and shops that had replaced the single-bulb aesthetic with gleaming white tiles, glowing glass display cases and, most importantly, luxury items. While there were still more than a few closet-size repair shops, just big enough for a man and his tools, items stacked from floor to ceiling, there were now just as many shops you’d just as likely find in the old towns of Marbella or Malaga. Frankly, it looked a bit like a mall.

What was more surprising, however, was the general lack of noise and frantic energy. When my brother brought me here ten years ago, we did not make it ten feet from the ferry before a mass of self-certified guides, drivers and hostel owners descended upon us. Despite our protests, half followed us as far as the port exit, a quarter continued their offers into the old town and more than a few continued for an hour after exiting the boat. These mean were, more often than not, joined by vendors, yelling “amigo” as they jumped from their small stores, pottery and local clothing in hand. Getting through the marketplace was an obstacle course of denials and haggling – admittedly enjoyable but exhausting all the same.

Last night, I walked the length of the marketplace no less than three times without a single word, not including the single appeal for change and a whispered offer for “buen chocolate”. It seemed strangely calm for a city with such a trading history but it also seemed to reflect a higher quality of life. The beggars were gone, the tragic glue-sniffing orphans absent, the crumbling booths were now replaced by shops that looked transplanted from shopping centers to the north. Maybe it was just the weather.

I settled into a room at one of the city’s oldest hotels – the Continental – located just above the port. I had stayed there before and was offered an enormous room for next to nothing so I thought I would try again. This was a mistake that will not be repeated. Rustically elegant, covered in tiles mosaics, and offering a sprawling balcony overlooking the strait for people to take their mint tea, the hotel has its history, shown in the slew of portraits of famous visitors that lined the walls – the most recent was Francis Ford Coppola surrounded by friends on the balcony.

I opted out of the first room offered to me after the front door hit the bed but took the slightly bigger second one, situated on the front side, out of sheer exhaustion. As tired as I was, I figured I would just pass out immediately so why bother with the room. This was a mistake.

At around midnight, the guard dogs from below began yelping, alternating barks so there was rarely a moment free of noise, which echoed across the open port. A bit later, a rooster joined in and I momentarily had fond memories of a book I read when I was young, where a dog, a rooster and I am certain a goat joined forces to sing. Then I just wanted them dead. This lasted until around 3.30 am when I convinced the night watchman to give me the keys to an interior room where I slept until 7.30 am when the cleaning staff began their rounds – two knocks and they were coming in. They were already angry at me after I had asked for towels the night before so I am certain that me scampering in the darkness to slam the door shut on them did not go over well.

Today has been a day of rain and travel. I boarded the afternoon train for Casablanca where I now sit. Having slept the first two hours on board, I only got a glimpse of the countryside before night fell. Due to Morocco’s singular time zone, shifting between one and two hours difference from Spain, the sky is pitch black by 5.00 pm. I am scheduled to be picked up by a friend of a friend named Sharif – something I am hoping occurs on time as I am currently watching a single old man through the window fight the cold rain that appears to now be flowing horizontally.

Tomorrow, Casablanca.

So, after four cities, three flights, a dozen screaming babies, a bus and a terrifying experience when a fellow passenger began screaming and shrieking just moments before touching down in Malaga – an issue with the pressure and his nose, but still – I was back in Marbella.

Thanks to the help of some old friends, the loss of my license and cards was not much of a problem. I was picked up from the bus station by one, who at eight months pregnant, was still zipping around town like she always had, and supplied with an excess family Mercedes. As impressive as that might sound, Mercedes has a very wide variety of models in Spain and mine is less sporting luxury and more moving small furniture.

Still, happy to be equipped with transportation, I headed out to my home for the coming days – a mountaintop house that had intended to be the centerpiece of a sprawling urbanization overlooking the coastline. They got as far as building the roads to the location, a few streetlights and a hand-full of neighboring homes but quickly ran out of money, leaving my friend’s home virtually alone on the mountaintop.

View Across the Strait

Nearly impossible to classify, this friend was born in Baghdad, educated across Europe and at U- Mass, where he gained a deep appreciation for the Grateful Dead, and lived in Brussels before finally settling in Marbella. Today, he splits his time between his father’s Middle East management training company, writing and playing music and generally being a bitter cynic about the world – a persona that is often subverted by his generous hospitality and his wide-eyed infatuation with Bob Dylan.

As impressive as I find his home to be, getting there can be a tremendous pain in the ass – a challenge made worse by a lack of sleep, an absence of guard-rails, enormous potholes created by weeks of rain and a thick layer of fog that kept me from seeing more than ten feet in front of the truck. Taking it slow, I made it in good time, finding a charged Spanish cell phone and a bottle of wine waiting for me.

Yesterday, I set about gathering last minute items, but had the good fortune to stop by the home of my soon-to-be-mother friend at the moment they were taking a paella off the stove. Invited to stay, I heard stories about each parent’s experiences growing up in Tangiers. While both Spanish, they had both been born in what was then “an international city”, complete with revolving governing bodies from across Europe – a situation that resulted in a tax-free haven of revolving currencies until Morocco came together as an independent nation in the 1950s.

With that image in mind, I will head to Tangiers today by way of Algeciras and a likely slow-moving ferry. I do not need to be in Casablanca until the 4^th so I will likely stay a night before heading on by train.

It must be said, having spent a few days in Spain, I am feeling a bit strange about this trip and the goal of

Arrival

talking to those driven by political and especially economic pressures towards Europe. To be sure, the economic crisis is in full swing in this part of Spain – a situation evident in the lines of empty commercial space and depressing news stories I found in this morning’s paper – unemployment doubles in two years, foreign investors unsure of region, property market rebound unlikely. Even the usually generous woman at a tiny neighborhood bar insisted on payment from a clear regular – “We’re in a crisis! You can’t live on credit.”

Given all of that, I am curious is the motivation to head north from both Morocco and further south is still such a draw. I am sure there are still some jobs to be found but given the historically low wages and competition southern travelers are likely to find, I am anxious to see if the risks they face are still worth the elusive reward.

Looking back at the last ten days spent chasing processions, religion and faith around the south of Spain, I am still left with far more questions than I began with (what does chasing a bull have to do with the resurrection of Jesus – I am talking to you Gaucin), but ultimately a clearer picture of the drama and ceremony of a Spanish Holy Week.

I leave Semana Santa with the conclusion that for those actually involved – those who march each year, masked, barefoot and with weighty thrones rested on their shoulders, these events are more about belonging than the faith that defines them.

Don’t get me wrong – I know many are driven to the streets each Spring are motivated by a deep sense of faith, but throughout my time here, the common theme has been one of involvement, not necessarily religious devotion.

For them, it seems, the events are family and community traditions, fueled by a love and respect for their respective brotherhood and by association, their friends and neighbors.

While they all expressed a deep love for that brotherhood and even the Biblical reasons for their existence, the actual church and its rules and practices appeared more an annoyance than an inspiration, and certainly came second to those they marched with.

This, I suppose, might explain why so few participants I met ever actually attended Sunday mass. They would arrive on time to march through the streets, publically paying penance for their sins, often in painful and unbearable ways, but a weekly service was just too much to bear.

Ultimately, the clearest sign of single-minded religious devotion came not from those spending hours marching the streets, but those they passed. They yelled, crossed themselves repeatedly and even shed tears as they passed…..if this was not true religious devotion; they were certainly putting on a helluva show.

And on that note, I say good-bye to Spain’s celebration of holy week, but not to Spain. Not quite yet. A freelance project has allowed me to stay on for another week during which time I will continue posting and producing videos whenever I run across something truly worth the time.

For now, I am turning my attention to a favorite topic of mine… the current state and future of a region that, for years, has been defined by glamour and wealth, but now faces a pivotal point of change after years of corruption and mismanagement.

As one resident told me the other night, as he described the new government’s efforts to repair years of damage at the hands of municipal villains straight out of a comic book, “We hope this town will one day be a pleasant place to live, because we all know, it will never again be splendid.”

With the week’s largest night of processions behind me, I drove south again to find the energy of the week evaporated in the towns I passed, leaving me struggling to find an interesting way to spend Easter Sunday.

Finally deciding that a hike to the top of the La Cruz peak above the Costa del Sol, where three soldiers, lost in the wilderness had finally found their way and erected a cross there in appreciation, I headed out to dinner in Marbella.

However, halfway through the night, I remembered a village I had read about called Gaucin, situated on a mountainside, just inland from the Rock of Gibraltor.

Gaucin in the Morning

Each year, on Easter morning, the village would run a bull through their streets, offering residents and visitors a sort of mini-San Fermin; the annual running of the bulls that occurs each July in Pamplona.

Deciding this would be a far more interesting way to spend an Easter morning alone, I searched for directions and headed west, leaving shortly before dawn as I couldn’t find the exact time the bull would be released – the earlier the better, I figured.

Driving on the coastal highway in the darkness for about 45 minutes, I exited and followed a two-lane mountain road just outside the tourist center of Estepona.

After another half hour of winding through the darkness, I arrived in Gaucin, a small, white washed village with streets so narrow, I gave thanks for the extra 35 euros I spent on extra car insurance.

Following the town’s small signs, I found the Gaucin’s look-out point, marked by a small garden park and a police officer that told me the first bull would not be released until 10.30am.

Figuring I had time to spare, I took a brief nap and awoke to find the sun rising over the valley below. In the daylight, the terrain surrounding Gaucin appeared more Swiss than Spanish, with steep, green mountainsides covered in blooming yellow flowers.

The valley below gave way to the sea, with a horizon anchored by Gibralter, visible in the distance. Whether I saw the bull or not, the view alone had made the trip worthwhile.

However, heading down from the look-out, I began to question my decision as I encountered street after street sealed shut behind make-shift metal and wood barricades. Stuck in narrow streets, I banged my way through Gaucin, forced to drive backwards after reaching yet another dead-end.
Finally finding a kind old woman equally as frustrated with the barricades, it was explained to me that the town had been sealed off for the running of the bull while I took my nap and would remain so until six that evening.

Me and my now banged and bruised Opal, she explained, were stuck.

Intent on making it back to Marbella in time for an Easter dinner invite, I ditched my car and began searching for anyone who could help, quickly finding another woman, who found an organizer, who found a police officer who agreed to break a barrier for me.

However, this would have to happen immediately as the bull’s release was quickly approaching and the streets would be packed with people for the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, my exit would require driving through Gaucin’s main street, which that morning, was doubling for the release point for the day’s main event.

So, directed by a police jeep, I had to shamefully drive through the middle of hundreds of people who had gathered that morning’s first run.
Equipped with drums and screeching horns, they had no trouble letting me know how they felt about this infiltration, leaving me to feebley smile and offer an apology shrug and wave.

Finally free of the crowds, I parked the car halfway down the mountain and sprinted back up just in time for the arrival of a forklift carrying a large green box, rocking back and forth thanks to its furious occupant.

Getting Ready

Ending up on the safe side of a gate, just beside the box, I got close look at the poor animal’s first appearance, bolting from the box as soon as it was unlocked, barreling down the gated street after a collection of young men and women dressed in red shirts and, of course, running shoes.

In person, the animal appeared smaller than those you might see in a bull fight or even those that run each year in Pamplona, but up close, I found it no less terrifying.
Egged on by men pulling on a rope attached to its horns, the bull set off through the streets of Gaucin, sprinting back and forth, quickly changing directions without warning, sending the crowds running in the opposite direction or scrambling up light posts or gated windows.

Occasionally, the bull would pause at which point someone grab the rope and give it a pull, sending the animal into action again – a process that made me more sympathetic to the bull.

This run went on for about an hour, with the bull controlling the trajectory of the crowd, leaving the occasional reminder of his run as he tore away large chunks from the white walls with his horns.

While certainly an interesting way to spend an Easter morning, I could not really understand what letting a bull loose in your town for an hour has to do with the resurrection of Christ.

Happy Easter.

I arrived in Granada, sitting beneath the snow-covered Sierra Nevada mountains, late on Thursday night. I had been told that Thursday would be the best day to visit the former Moorish capital for a series of tragically beautiful processions. I am not entirely sure how, but despite three years spent living in the south of Spain, I had never made it the two hour drive to Granada.

Apparently, I was not the only one to make the same plans as I navigated traffic with about 50,000 other spectators, with crowds making the old town’s narrow avenues virtually impossible to get through. Thankfully, I soon met up with an old roommate who had grown up in the city and knew not only the best processions to see, but exactly when and where to wait for the best view.

After a late dinner of a salad of lettuce, tomatoes, asparagus, kiwi, tuna, salmon and onions, and a platter of a local favorite, slow-roasted pig, we headed out to cross paths with the procession of Silencio. Rare among the hundreds of processions that take place across Andalusia each Holy Week, Silencio involves no bands, little light and just about nothing to be thankful for.

We joined a growing crowd in front of the San Matia church on a street of the same name around 12.30am, taking our place on the ground just beside the brick road. About 20 minutes later, the street, now packed with people, turned completely black as street lights were turned off.

At that moment, the sound of a single snare drum emerged from up the hill, snapping a slow, steady beat. Candles could be seen but no one called out or really made any sound at all.

Soon, as the candles got closer, figures dressed in black robes and high, pointed caps emerged from the darkness, marching slowly with torches, crosses and lamps in the hands. Finally, a single trono, or throne, arrived, seemingly floating on air, as all those carrying it were situated underneath.
The figure, lit only by the surrounding candles and flashes from cameras, was a tragic depiction of a crucified Christ.

Although the procession remained mostly silent, the sound of chains dragging along the street could be heard. Sitting on the ground, I looked to see marchers not only walking without shoes, but also dragging long chains attached to their ankles.

We would eventually come across another procession that night – La Concha, featuring another depiction of the Virgin Mary, but nothing would come close to the drama and impact of the Silencio.

Later on, we left the processions behind and climbed high into the steep, narrow streets of the Sacramonte, which felt like navigating through a Moroccan Kasbah and for good reason. The one time home to gypsy families, the city’s Jewish community and those charged with staffing the Alhambra palace, the neighborhood dated back to the early Moorish period of Spain, still offering little access to modern means of transportation.

What it did offer, however, was the most stunning view of the Alhambra palace in the city, lit from all sides and glowing when we reached the overlook at around 3am. Views aside, what we came looking for were a collection of bars and homes located in caves that once housed gypsy families.

As it was explained to me, those in search of homes had simply dug into the walls of the steep mountainside above the Darro River, continuing to dig further into the mountain as space was needed. Although the gypsy families had long since been moved out and into ghetto-like neighborhoods, as they were in other cities such as Sevilla, their bars and business mostly remained.

Unfortunately for us, we found the collection of bars mostly shuttered as we had arrived the day after the gypsy procession, which had left most of those who would have been playing that night in need of rest. We found a single bar open, with shattering flamenco coming from a single window, but as soon as we walked down the stairs into the white-painted cave, the crowd quickly dispersed, with guitarists packing their instruments in their cases and heading for the door.

I can not be sure we were the reason for their quick retreat but it gave me the feeling that it was probably time to call it a night.