Perhaps the reason they live this way has to do with safety in numbers. Historically, these towns had to be defended. Or maybe in this region, where the dominant agricultural products come from trees rather than barns, it makes no sense to plant buildings when you could plant olives or almonds or oranges or whathaveyou. It has been lovely this week to hike along the ridges, looking out across several valleys dotted with ancient stands of produce. The views are old views, probably not much different than they appeared three or four centuries ago.
We are here celebrating our birthdays, 18 of us who mostly were born in the same year and then graduated from college together. It’s true that gathering in Albuquerque would have been simpler for most of us than getting to Andalucia. In the American Southwest we might have found similar landscapes. If we were really lucky we could even have rented a farmhouse similar to the one we’re enjoying here, where we wake up late and buy wine and cheese at a nearby market and set no goals other than to take one siesta per day.
But there are no postcard towns near Albuquerque like Iznájar, the tranquil hilltop village that presides over a nearby reservoir in this part of southern Spain. We climb the narrow streets of Iznájar, passing exquisite doors, courtyards, and plazas decorated with colorful tiles and pots. At the top we find the Arab castle-turned-church that dominates this fine photo taken by John Beach and the neat watercolor by Jay Mead, both of our group. We can see for miles. Swallows circle. Below, a cemetery clings to the side of the hill, its inhabitants stacked atop one another in the style of post office boxes.
We feel unplugged. Our lives here require no broadband connection. For a few moments we can concentrate on the picturesque, the flavorful (who knew that anchovies could be made to taste delicious?), and best of all, each other. We luxuriate in strolling the squiggly alleyways that seem only to exist in Europe, reverting to a pre-email era when to stay in touch we wrote… postcards!Our viewpoint affords us a point of view we rarely seek out anymore, that of ourselves as teenagers. Old pals who reunite often become again the age they were when they first met. Surveying the olive hills that stretch to the horizon, we know without a doubt that we will live forever, that our friendships will never fade, and that if we ever return to this hilltop, the view will be unchanged.
