Westworld Alberta

the longevity of its vigorous citizens, many of whom live to a century or more. And there is not one public fountain but many throughout the town, most of them bearing the words of Frederico García Lorca, Granada's beloved poet, playwright and activist who was mur- dered by fascists during the civil war. Mar y Meade, the Englishwoman who owns the apartment we're renting, has been living and teaching English in Lanjarón for 20 years. She joins us for morning espressos on the rooftop terrace, that wonderful feature of most Spanish apartments, to give us an orien- tation in local social dynamics. "e courtyard has ears and eyes. It knows when you wake up, when you have lunch and when you go to sleep," she says with a laugh. The sky is a deep blue, but a brisk wind sweeps down from the lofty Sierra Nevada. Below town the crumbling ramparts of a cas- tle, another monument to the Moors, seems glued improbably to a rocky outcrop. EARLY ONE EVENING I WALK WITH ZOLA to buy bread and cheese before strolling to the central plaza. Old folks huddle on benches in the fading evening light socializing, gossiping and discussing politics. I spot a cluster of teenagers and adults on mountain bikes up a side street. We wander up to investigate and meet Fran "Gato" Ruiz, sleeves rolled up, hands blackened with chain grease, working in a cramped, low-ceilinged shop not much bigger than a closet. Fran owns the only bike repair business in town. I ask him if he rents mountain bikes. He says no, but he's going to Granada early the following morning and offers to rent one, and then take me for a tour of local trails. "We meet in the plaza at around 11, si?" says Fran. I'm happy to indulge his generosity. The next morning, I meet him as promised. After adjusting the seat on the rental bike, I am soon following him up the steep cobbled streets of Lanjarón, feeling like a guy who has spent too much time in tapas bars. We pass the institu- tional-looking Hotel Balneario with its legend- ary mineral baths. Beyond that, a dirt road leads out of town, ascending with unrelenting steepness toward a Sierra Nevada peak called Tello. I pause on a switchback for a breather and gaze into the deep Rio Guadalfeo valley. On distant ridgetops, modern windmills are lined up like science fiction giants. Fran speaks very little English but my Spanish has improved to the point where I can converse with him, even dabble in political dis-

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