I have learned from my travels that you can have relationships with places in much the same way that you do with people; you can be shy acquaintances, friends, indifferent brethren, enemies, tumultuous lovers.... with a city. For example, I merely shook hands with London and felt that it had a cold, firm grip. I think we will forevermore be one of those permanent acquaintances who share a mutual respect and speak well of one another, but we both know we don't have any intention of spending time alone together. Bruges on the other hand is like one of those sweet-natured, charming friends from way back, who you move in with during college - their little, repetitive habits and phrases quickly drive you up the wall, but you can't help but love them still.
Granada is a perfect example of this personification. Granada is that friend you meet under some slightly unordinary circumstance (in a coffee shop, at the pump in a gas station), you hit it off, exchange contacts without seriousness, and you get to know them unhurriedly, patiently. You hang out when you both have the time, just to talk about nothing in particular (and this could go on for years), until the day you realize that this friend you've always taken for granted is actually your best friend. Even though they aren't part of your wider friend group, even though you don't see one another everyday, somehow it seems that you've known this friend your whole life, and you love this friend because within its city limits, it makes you yourself.
All of this is to say, I don't know if anyone I leave behind when I leave this place will know just how much I will love and miss them. I don't know if I could ever make them understand what a huge, life-changing impact they have had on who I am and how I see the world. Granada itself won't be aware of my absence. The bitter decorative oranges will go on ripening, rotting, and falling into the gutters; laundry will continue to blossom from window railings, dogs will go on pooping on the walkways; its citizens will slip all over the smooth, tiled pavement with each fresh rain; la Alhambra will still stand in all its knowing austerity.
Seemingly every time I visited the famous mirador de San Nicolás this year, someone new would tell me how president I'm-not-exactly-sure-which-one (Clinton) once described the sunset over Granada as the most beautiful sunset he'd ever seen. That's great Clinton had aesthetic taste, but I don't care about that. I don't need for anyone to point out to me what a wonderful place this is.
Maybe Clinton didn't even notice the swallows - hundreds of swallows, that cut through the sky above the city as the air burns warm, gold and pink each evening. But I have, I have seen that light storm of swallows, dancing in wide, circulating curves to accentuate the arch of the sky. I must have been here before, because it feels as if I have always known and understood the beauty that is this place.
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