Sigh

People visit Granada for one reason, and one reason only. And it's not the free tapa you get with each drink—a once widespread tradition now limited to a handful of cities. (Although, for the thrifty Dutch that may be a very compelling reason to rush off to the nearest travel agency and book a last-minute holiday.) No, it's all about the Alhambra, “the most exciting, sensual and romantic of all European monuments”, according to the Rough Guide to Spain. A subtle qualification, given that the Alhambra is an Islamic work of art, the epitome of a way of thinking, feeling and believing wholly at odds with the direction many modern-day European politicians would like the continent to take.

Nowadays, Andalusians are proud of the mishmash of cultural influences that make up their identity. They point to the gypsy roots of flamenco or the region's numerous Mudéjar churches and monasteries, constructed by Muslim artists under Christian rule. But strolling through Granada is a good way to remind yourself of the fact that people didn't always have the same happy-go-lucky take on these matters.

When Granada was still a Moorish stronghold, the city boasted no less than fourteen caravanserai, places for merchants and their camels to sit back and relax after a strenuous journey. Now only one remains. Cross the street and you enter the Alcaicería, in Moorish times a maze of alleyways lined with tiny shops where you could buy various sought-after products, such as spices, silver and silk. After half a century of Christian rule, Philip II, never a man of compromise, decided playtime was over and kicked out the entire lot. What you see today is a late nineteenth-century reconstruction built to lure tourists hungry for a bit of exotism.

Eradicating every trace of things Islamic hadn't been part of the original plan. When, after an eight-month siege, Granada finally fell in 1492, King Fernando and Queen Isabel went house hunting and decided the Alhambra would do. They rearranged the furniture a bit, hoisted one or two of their banners, and that was it. More lasting damage was done by their grandson, Carlos V. Those rooms full of geometrical patterns and floral decoration made him feel slightly woozy, so he demolished an entire wing of the palace and replaced it with something sensible: a humongous Renaissance building, all straight lines, columns, circle-in-a-square floorplan—the lot. And, whether you like the aggressive contrast or not, the place actually has its merits. Nice touch: the construction of the thing was funded by imposing an extra tax on Granada's Moorish population.

As I walked the streets of Granada and explored the rooms and gardens of the Alhambra complex, I kept thinking of Boabdil, the last Moorish ruler. After years of plotting and backstabbing he had finally assumed power, and then, just because they felt like it, los Reyes Católicos Fernando and Isabel marched in and told him to take a hike. It must have been a bitter defeat, for, with the capture of Granada, the Christian Reconquest of Spain was complete. Boabdil handed over the keys of the city, packed his things and headed south, on foot, for the Alpujarras mountain range. On a hill a few miles south of the city he looked over his shoulder and let out a sad sigh. That sigh led to his final humiliation. Legend has it that his mum—on the back of a camel, I imagine—started bitching and snapped: 'Don't cry like a woman for what you couldn't defend like a man'.

More than five hundred years later I stand on the top of the same hill, now appropriately known as the Puerto del Suspiro del Moro. I look back to Granada and sigh. I think of my mum, click my right foot into the pedal, then my left foot, and head south for the Alpujarras.