Well after midnight, my cultural scavenger hunt is over and the city finally seems quiet. I climb into my bed. Just as I doze off, a noisy and multigenerational parade rumbles down the cobbled lane that I thought promised a good night’s sleep. Standing in my underwear and wrapped in the drapes, I peer secretively out my window. Below, a band of guitars and castanets with a choir of those raspy tobacco voices funnels down my narrow alley. Grandmothers—guardians of a persistent culture—make sure the children pick up their Andalusian traditions. I feel like a Peeping Tom . . . until one woman looks up at me, catches my eye, and seems to nod as if satisfied that I am witnessing the persevering richness of their traditional culture.