Notes on a Voyage to Spain

by Devyn Wray-Scriven (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Spain

For the past year or so, I’ve been applying to anything I found that could get my writing some exposure. This is how I came upon the Cambridge Writer’s Workshop. The workshop had two retreats - one in France, the other in Granada, Spain. I chose Spain. Granada is a quaint bustling province located in the southern part of Spain. It’s rich in history, steeped in the heritage of Moorish occupation and Castilian imperialism with Islamic and Christian tradition both sewn into the fabric of a mountainous terrain. The geography is astounding. I got notice of my acceptance in early June and so the planning began. This was my first trip out of the country. I had no clue what I was doing. I sought advice from the organizers and friends that travel frequently. However, my fledgling efforts at booking my accommodations coupled with the fact that I’m a stereotypically dumb American having no concept of worldly things like the metric system and military time and degrees in Celsius would come to bite me in the ass — more on all of that later. I’m a terrible packer. And I have a lot of clothes. I need options. I know that I can get out of hand with this affliction so I enlisted one of my sister-friends, Nikki, a professional packer that travels frequently. I knew she would give it to me straight. She warned me that it’s best to pack with the expander in mind. “Expander?” “Yeah, you don’t want to pack so much on the way out that you end up using that extender part of the suitcase that’s built in to give you extra room.” It’s that built-in piece of fabric with zippers that, much like its name, extends once you stuff your bag to maximum capacity. I was all set. And then, she left. I gathered some additional options that we’d vetoed and stuffed them into the extender part of my rolling Liz Claiborne that I never knew existed. It’ll be fine. I can’t not be my most fabulous self in Spain. I booked my ticket to arrive a day early to avoid missing orientation. I booked my first Airbnb towards this end and settled on a luxurious loft located in the heart of Granada. My hotel was a mere 20 minutes away from the loft. Everything was coming together. I didn’t realize how ill-equipped my luggage would serve to be until I arrived curbside at JFK airport. Other travelers were zipping out of their taxis and hopping up onto the curb smoothly. Not me. My trusty old Liz Claiborne dated back to the early aughts. She was full and heavy. I had to tilt Liz for her to budge. By the time I got to the check-in counter, it was clear to me that Liz was not the move. It was okay though. I’d be taking taxis to my airbnb and to my hotel. It would all be just fine. I thought. The airport concierge I approached informed me that I’d arrived in Granada just in time for a strike. Yep, a taxi strike, because of Uber. All the taxi drivers in Spain had united on the very day I landed in defiance of the behemoth. You’ve got to be kidding me. The concierge suggested I take the bus at first, but upon looking at my luggage, shook his head in agreement of my needing a cab. He was happy to help. We walked back out into the heat. I was weary. It was hot. There were some degrees in Celsius in the 30s on a screen in the airport. I didn’t know what the conversion was, but I felt like I was melting. I was in dire need of a shower. A cool beverage. Sustenance. And “la huelga de taxis” was in full effect. Ay Dios Mio. The concierge would soon hand me off to two gregarious Spanish taxi drivers eager to help. I was off and ready for what was next. Little did I know that there would soon be a tragic encounter between Liz, the cobblestoned streets of the old world and myself like none I had ever known in the United States.