Welcome to the Big Lodge

It was nearing eight o´clock, and daylight was fading fast. We caught the last bus from Granada to the small community of Orgiva at the base of the Sierra Nevada mountains. It was here that we were told to look for the community of Beneficio, tucked neatly into a valley three kilometers from town. This was all of the knowledge that our group - consisting of three Aussies, two Yanks and a Kiwi - had at hand when we set out on our mission.

We jumped off of the bus just outside of town upon the advice of an old Spanish man in a straw hat setting in the seat in front of me. He was obviously accustomed to fielding questions in broken Spanish regarding the whereabouts of the commune just outside of town. Beneficio exists because of this type of oral tradition. No signs mark the entrance, and there is no website to find directions or a map. You need to ask.

A small cafe with a burro posted as a sentry stood at the end of a rocky path into the darkness. It was here we bought water and a few supplies before heading off into the unknown night. I have since walked down this path from Orgiva to Beneficio numerous times, yet none seemed take quite as long as that first night. A small stream trickled through the valley dotted with fig trees and prickly cacti to our left.

We pressed on until we were confronted with a stern "Privado" sign posted on a chain running across the path. I did not remember checking the "trespassing" box on the list of activities on my traveler´s insurance application. No one was home at the small farm house, so we pressed onward into the night. A thirty minute walk can feel like an eternity when you have no idea where you are, nor where you are heading with the faint light of the moon serving as your only guide.

Moments after passing the deserted farm house Cuzz, the Aussie surfer with a sense of adventure to match his semi-Mohawk-Butthead haircut, spotted something moving off in the distance. It was a man in tattered fatigues and a long beard. His face was dotted with piercings that seemed to glisten in the faint moon light that was guiding us down the path. In the spirit of kindness and generosity that permeates the people of Beneficio the man gestured for us to come forward and gave us directions into the dark eucalyptus forest towards the community of Beneficio.

We came upon a small gravel parking lot packed with old VW vans and small fires patrolled by dogs nearly as unkempt as their owners. A grizzled Czech man wearing no shoes strained to remove the lug nuts on the rear tire of his ancient Mercedes ambulance turned mobile home. Faint drum beats tapped away rhythmically in the distance.

We followed the beacon of the djembe through the forest into a clearing where a massive tepee glowed orange against the black starry night. The African rhythms pouring out of the Big Lodge, as the spiritual center of the community housed in the tepee was known, filled the valley with a type of energy unlike any I had ever felt before. It was as if I had stepped out of the twenty-first century and into an alternate universe devoid of time and place. This was the magic of Beneficio.

The tired band of travelers assembled from all points of the globe dropped our packs appreciatively at the door of the tepee. Shane, the natty´dreaded Kiwi chef and master of the campfire Chai tea, was the first step into the small opening of the great canvas lodge. As none of us had lived in a community of this type before we had no knowledge of the customs or traditions with which we were to be expected to adhere. No shoes were allowed in the Big Lodge. Our gracious gift of a bottle of wine was tactfully declined as alcohol was strictly forbidden within the spiritual center of Beneficio.

The scene inside of the Big Lodge that first night will be forever etched in my memory. Twenty-six people sat with legs crossed, some holding flutes or guitars while others straddled large ceramic drums covered with hides stretched taunt to keep the mystical African beat. One song bled seamlessly into the next as the collective energy of the people in the lodge poured forth from their souls into the rhythms of their fingertips.

A German woman bearing a large steaming pot and a kind smile was followed by her two children into the smoky lodge. Four long blasts from a conch shell echoed through the valley telling everyone that dinner was served. Felix, an old Mexican man with a thick beard and gnarled short fingers stained black from the embers of his camp fire, entered shortly after as if he knew before the conch was blown that it was time to eat.

The host of the meal dished out a vegan feast of brown rice and lentils accompanied with a salad of fresh vegetables dressed in lime juice and garlic. Each plate was passed around the circle in a clockwise fashion. Cuzz, who was famished from the long hike, hooked into his meal immediately before everyone had received their plates. This was quite the social fopaw. Rookie mistake. The kind young German girl of thirteen years politely introduced us - in perfect English as she spoke four languages fluently - to the ceremony of dining in the Big Lodge.

After the plates were distributed everyone joined hands in thanks for the bounty before them. A gentle hum began with one person, and everyone followed suit filling the air with deep vibrations that reverberated deep into your being. At this moment I forgot everything from the outside world. The latest Gallup Poll shows that I could not be further from the dog and pony show election madness taking place back in the states. The sense of guilt I had been burdened with for abandoning my country in her deepest time of need was suddenly, if only temporarily removed from my shoulders. As Felix was keen to say: "Hay un energia aqui."

After giving thanks the hungry band of travelers dove into our plates and quickly finished our first meal in Beneficio. As soon as the lentils and salad were finished the circle dropped their plates and picked up their various instruments. The joyous tempo of Italian folk songs filled the room as anyone not holding an instrument could not resist clapping along with the beat. Time dissolved from existence as the music continued long into the night. This was an evening I will not soon forget.

Mystical Hari Krishna chants echoed gently through the corridors of my mind as I fell asleep in the flickering candle light of the Big Lodge. That night my dreams were filled with the memories of the person who walked blindly down the dark path and hopes for the future bathed beautifully in light. Felix is right. There is an energy here.

Lost and Found in Granada

7:22 pm. A hum of motorcycles wanes off in the distance. Below lies the city of Granada bathed in the diffuse light of a setting sun. Your view is only impeded by the Sierra Nevada - mountains, not pale ale - and the limits of your imagination. A bottle of cheap Rioja makes its way cheerfully through the group perched in front of the gypsy caves on the Sacromonte Hill. Few words are spoken as to not disrupt the natural splendor transpiring before our eyes.

It is quite easy to find yourself lost in Granada. 7:26 pm. The sun ducks behind a terribly inconsiderate cumulonimbus. A small break in the clouds allow a column of light to pierce through the sky. The rays are made solid by the collective smoke of the small fires dotting the valley. White buildings capped with scales of red tile are bathed in the types of sepia tones that make photographers hard.

Cut to the year 711 A.D. Islamic invaders make their way across the Straits of Gibraltar with designs of colonizing Europe. They settle for the Iberian peninsula. The fertile valley at the foot of the Sierra Nevada becomes the center of their European empire.

Return to the present. I understand why they stayed here. The days in Granada are long and bathed with sunshine. Nights are cool. The view afforded by every step you take burns an indelible image of beauty in your most appreciative retina. The foreground is lush with lavender flowers and wild rosemary. A middle ground is formed by the ornate Alhambra complex sprawling down the hillside paying homage to the city´s Moorish past. Distant mountains provide the background in this naturally occurring masterpiece.

Washington Irving came here to visit in 1829 and became lost in Granada. He stayed long enough to let the secret out with his Tales of the Alahambra. Now the city has become a haven for Flamenco guitarists, artists, writers, paragliders, photographers, and anyone else in search of adventure. I now understand that one does not become lost in Granada, yet found there.

Hills of Priorat

I Awake to old men laughing in the street after leaving the first floor cafe underneath my terrace window. Second floor room. Enter cafe below. Bartender serves as desk clerk. I exchange my key for cafe double and one euro. This is a double espresso with a big packet of sugar if you are to order this in Ohio.

Transportation is an issue now. Tour, tasting, and lunch scheduled at 11:30 in the mountain village of Gratallops. It is now 9:00.

Cut to 1:30 am the evening previous. Walked to train station. Night desk clerk informed me no trains run to Gratallops. Suggests taxi, or potentially bus station. 25 minute walk to other end of Tarragona. Back to bus station. I was here at 4:00 pm. No bus to Gratallops. Walk back to my hotel/cafe on La Placa de la Font.

Return to 9:15 am. Two hours and fifteen minutes to get to Clos de L´Obac. Go to Hertz to rent a a motorcycle or car. 40€. This would shave two days off of my trip. Return to train station across the street to check departures. I am running out of options. Speak in polite Castillian Spanish to ticket agent. A train runs south from Tarragona to Zaragoza at 10:00 am. It stops at Pradell, just 5 km from Gratallops. Sold. Have 45 minutes to kill.

Call Carles Pastrana, my contact at Clos de L´Obac. Arrange to be picked up at Marca Falset station. Pradell stop is an isolated grain elevator far from the bodega. I am wearing a green shirt and tan pants. Carles asks what color my shirt is, but fails to enquire about the tan pants.

Proceed to kill 40 minutes. Internet cafe to check email, blog responses, NyTimes.com, ThisModernWorld.com, and MyEuropeEggTimer.com - otherwise know as my bank account - to pass the time. Leave for train station early. I have been burnt before. The "Layover in Madrid" taught me this lesson.

All goes well. Carles, clad in a faded yet crisp denim shirt, arrives at Marca Falset train station. We engage in spirited discussion concerning the progression of new grape varietals introduced to Priorat, the role of wine critics in his work, and his "open the bottle and let it speak for the wine" philosophy of winemaking. This was the characteristic I admired most in the winemakers I met in Priorat. They viewed their work as that of an artist or philosopher in the medium of grape.

Much as Rodin searched to derive ideal nature of the human form from an unhewn piece of marble the sincere artist winemaker attempts to chisel away to the ideal form of a certain grape removed from the vine for a given period. A craft, centuries old, passed down through the generations by the region´s inhabitants.

Carles was passionate about his wine. "If you make shit wine and critics convince people that shit wine is best and everyone buys it, it is still shit wine." His wonderful 2001 Miserere proves this theory to be true. This was no shit wine. Dust flew from the wheels of the truck as we navagated a tight corner on the way up a steep hill on the way to the bodega. It was in the tasting room of Clos de L´Obac where I was introduced to a young man in a grape stained white t-shirt, sun-scorched arms and purple hands. He had just returned from picking grapes on the finca.

I bid farewell to Carles and headed off down a dusty road with the young man in the grape stained t-shirt. We quickly became friends. I asked him about life as a winemaker. He asked me about life in the United States. This is a common question. The most common question, however, always concerns your opinion regarding the outcome of the upcoming presidential election. For a moment I thought about how I should be back in the United States.

The road led further into the rocky slopes of Priorat to the small picturesque village of Porrera. It was here that I learned the unkempt grape picker who brought me into town was the owner of Cellar Juan Simo. I ended up sorting grapes, making wine, tasting wine and telling stories with he and his six man crew until far into the night.

Cut to 1:15 pm as Gerard Simo and I pull into the small village of Porrera where Cellar Juan Simo and Vall Llach were located. Gerard gets a call on his mobile informing him that he is to meet a wine collector from the US on the village square. His name is Jerry an he is from Cincinnati. I lived there for a time as well.

A television news crew interviews a man in his early 50s wearing jeans and work boots in front of a dry riverbead crossed by a small stone bridge in the center of town. Cincinnati Jerry and I exchange small talk as we wait for the mayor to arrive. Cincinnati Jerry works for GE. We are introduced to the mayor - and winemaker from Vall Llach - after he is finished with his television interview.

You can tell Salustiano Alvarez is the mayor as he says hello to everyone on our way to lunch. We are treated to a traditional Catalan three-course meal. A hearty soup with lentils, chorizo, and lardons is followed by tender pork ribs with roast peppers and a rich tomato sauce. Salustiano proudly discusses the local fare of his city and quickly exchanges the red table wine for a bottle of his 2003 vintage. It was a nice meal finished with roasted nuts, flan, and strong cafe with ample sugar.

A most pleasing excursion followed our meal. Salus, Cincinnati Jerry and myself travel into the mountains where Salus checks the Garnacha to determine if they are ready for harvest. The view is incredible. The steep rocky slopes give life to 80 year old vines straining deep into the earth for the little water allocated to both flora and fauna alike here in Priorat. Salus collects a small plastic bag full of grapes to both taste in the truck on the ride back and examine in the laboratory at the bodega. Cincinnati Jerry and I collect photographs that we will save longer than the wine.

The crew from Juan Simon had still not arrived back from the finca when we returned to Porrera. Jerry returned in his rental car after we share a cafe double with ample sugar. As I finished my cafe the gang stormed into town with a tractor pulling a trailer full of grapes. They washed down the sun with a cold Estrella Damm. A few minutes of rest and we were ready to return to the Bodega and crush the Garnacha.

Over the groan of the auger pushing the stems away from the lucky grapes that make their way past the careful hands of the selection table the crew trade macho jabs at one another to pass the time. As an old man enters the room the number of "mierta" grapes that are thrown on the floor increases drastically. It seems that Gerard´s octogenarian uncle still has some clout in the quality control department at Cellar Juan Simo.

When the work was done and the sun buried deep behind the steep, rocky Hills of Priorat I sat down for an Estrella Damm with the six men who pulled the grapes from the field. This was the time that made traveling worth while for me.