Discover with Saee

A Sunset, a Stranger, and the Alchemy of Travel

I arrived in Granada by train from Madrid, the soft rumble of the rails still humming in my bones as I checked into my hostel. The usual chorus of “hi, hello, where are you from?” echoed through the shared dorm room as I met my temporary companions—strangers for now, travelers like me. 

But I wasn’t there to linger indoors. That evening, I had only one plan: to do what every guidebook insists must be done—to watch the sun set over the Alhambra from the famed Mirador de San Nicolás.

I put the destination into Google Maps and set off. 

The way to the viewpoint wound through the narrow, orange-blossomed alleys of Granada. The air was thick with azahar—the intoxicating scent of citrus flowers—something so sweet and familiar it felt like memory. They call it azahar in Spanish, but I imagine the name carries older echoes, Moorish perhaps, whispered through the stone streets of the Albaicín.

And then, as the slope steepened and the city seemed to fall away behind me, I arrived. Mirador de San Nicolás. The most famous view in Granada, perhaps in all of Spain.

It was alive with people—travelers from across the globe. Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Indian families. Young girls I recognized from my train ride, probably gymnasts, stretching and tumbling to the rhythm of a small group of gypsies playing soul-stirring flamenco. It was chaotic and beautiful. The clatter of languages, the snapping of camera shutters, the laughter and music—it all swirled into a kind of harmony. And before I even turned to face the Alhambra, something inside me swelled. It was emotion without a name, a quiet fullness that rose up to my smile.

And then I saw it.

The Alhambra.

There it stood across the valley—majestic, eternal, cloaked in the warm, golden glow of the setting sun. Its red stone walls looked aflame, and behind it rose the Sierra Nevada, still capped with snow. The contrast was breathtaking—fire before ice, stone before sky. It was a view painted by time itself.

I didn’t reach for my phone. I didn’t feel the need to. All I wanted was to see it. To be with it. I wandered along the edge of the viewpoint and found a quiet corner where a few others sat in silent reverence. I joined them, letting my feet dangle over the stone ledge, watching the world drift slowly into twilight. Below, the narrow streets bustled with life, but up here, it felt like I was in the pause between breaths.

And then… something shifted.

A presence. An energy. A rhythm that seemed to rise behind me—soft but undeniable. My heart responded first, thudding in a different cadence, quickened by something unexplainable. A subtle shift in rhythm, as if it recognized a song it hadn’t heard in a long time. A magnetic pull, gentle but firm, urging me to turn. 

I didn’t turn right away.

When I finally did, I saw him.

And suddenly, the heartbeat that had been drumming so wildly inside me… softened.

A man, maybe my age, in a pale blue shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up, cream-colored shorts, camera bag slung neatly on one shoulder. Wavy hair that caught the last light of day.

He was changing his lenses, focused, calm. He seemed like a man of few words, but there was something quietly magnetic about him—something unplaceable.

I couldn’t place his ethnicity, couldn’t guess where he was from. But I noticed how he understood the Spanish being spoken around him, especially when someone asked him to take a photo. There was something grounded about him, something quietly certain.

I turned back to the Alhambra. Its red stones now deepening into twilight hues. But I could still feel him there behind me. Like a note in a song I hadn’t heard before, but now couldn’t un-hear. Not loud, not intrusive—just… present.

The music played on. The sky dimmed. And in that moment, everything was exactly as it should be.

I turned my gaze back to the Alhambra just as the last light of the sun began casting its molten gold over the fortress walls. The sky deepened into shades of crimson and rose, brushstrokes of fire softening into twilight. That strange, gentle pull—like a beautiful heartache—lingered behind me. He hadn’t moved.

But I’m not someone to romanticize things beyond reason. I wasn’t foolish or fanciful enough to think he felt the same magnetic thrum I did. Maybe it was just the perfect vantage point. He had a professional camera, was changing lenses with an ease that showed experience. People approached him—tourists of all kinds—and he smiled politely, clicking photographs for them. They all returned with thanks and bright expressions, telling him his photos were wonderful. He said little, but his presence said plenty.

Still, I found myself glancing back once or twice, not with expectation, just… curiosity. A need to soak in that quiet presence again. It was a nice feeling—rare and fleeting. One I had only known once before, during a train ride between Chennai and Bangalore many years ago. But that’s a story for another time.

Then, just as I turned again toward the Alhambra, something shimmered in my peripheral vision—above the tiled rooftop to my right. I looked up. And there it was.

A crescent moon.

Stunning. Haunting. The most delicate sliver of light suspended in an indigo sky. Clouds drifted past it lazily, and once, a small rocket—or maybe a jet—left a silver trail of smoke just near its edge. My heart was torn between three worlds: the golden Alhambra surrendering to night, the moon rising like a quiet miracle, and the steady pulse of someone standing silently behind me.

That was how I watched the sun set over the Alhambra. In a trance between time and light and heartbeats.

By 9:30, the sky had deepened into a rich velvet, and I knew I had to leave. I’m not bold. I don’t walk up to strangers, especially not ones who seem to carry entire stories in their silence. My confidence has never been the loud kind, and with women from all over the world—glamorous, magnetic—surrounding the viewpoint, I felt even smaller.

So I turned around. Stole one last, quiet look at him.

And walked away.

As I made my way back down the hill, the crescent moon followed me, peeking out between rooftops and swaying magnolia branches. I took deliberate detours, turning into alleys that led nowhere, just to prolong the magic, to calm the rhythm of my heart that still danced in some strange melody. I smiled to myself, touched by something I didn’t quite understand.

The next morning, disappointment crept in when I realized I had forgotten to book tickets to enter the Alhambra. They were sold out for months. A rookie mistake. But I told myself, at least I could walk around its grounds, let its presence be enough.

So I wandered through Granada again, through lively plazas, where I caught an impromptu flamenco performance that lifted the mood instantly. Then along a stream of water that whispered stories in its rush. The path to the Alhambra was in full spring bloom—wild poppies, lavender, tall grasses catching the breeze.

At one point, I wanted a photograph of myself there. I hesitated but finally asked a striking woman nearby—beautiful, with glowing skin and a radiant smile. She turned out to be from Amsterdam and was thrilled I’d asked. “I love taking photos of people!” she said, laughing. She was in Spain for a doll-making convention and showed me her charming little creations—delicate, soulful things. We talked, shared a few laughs. It was one of those small but warm encounters that happen only when you’re open to the world.

But just as I stepped out from one of the open courtyards, something shifted again.

That familiar energy. A soft jolt.

I shook it off at first. Just my mind playing tricks. But still, a part of me asked the sky—What if?What if I saw him just once more before leaving Granada? I immediately scolded myself for the foolish hope. The world doesn’t always tie bows around moments. Not for me.

I walked to one last viewpoint, buying a bottle of water. I passed by a magnolia tree, its green shiny leaves shimmering in the early summer air. And as I turned—he was there.

Just for a moment.

Our eyes met.

Not a smile, not a word. Just an unguarded moment where the world stilled again. Then we passed each other, two travelers with lives that had briefly, beautifully, brushed.

And that was it.

We haven’t met since.

But maybe that’s how it was meant to be. Maybe I fell in love that evening—not with a man, or a person, but with something far deeper: the energy, the alignment, the sense that the universe was quietly conspiring to show me what it felt like to feel. To notice. To believe in mystery again.

Maybe it was the magic of the Alhambra. Maybe it was something I carried within me.

But that’s why I travel.

Because sometimes, something meets you halfway across the world just to remind you that you’re alive.