Americans look like a bunch of boot-tootin’ drunken hillbillies compared to the Spanish. While we parade around with red white and blue on our faces double fisting PBRs, they don velvet uniforms and march with staffs bejeweled with fake crystal, ornate flags of gold, blue, silver, and red raised high.

The trail followed a river into the heart of the front range, across bouncy bridges and into a mixed landscape of desert rock, grassland, and thick deciduous forest ripe with fall leaves. On our way back we all took freezing waterfall showers and let the sun dry us as we came back out of the higher elevations and into the delicate heat of Granada.

Last night I saw a toenail moon illuminating a thick strand of ocean and I knew I was in the right place. 

There is a strange juxtaposition between the ancient architecture and the glass clad shops buttressing them, complete with tourists hastily following little red flags on sticks.