Málaga

All over the place, October 12^th is a big day. It’s el Día de la Raza in Latin America. It’s Mothers’ day in Malawi. Traditionally, it was Columbus Day in the US. In Spain, its el Dia de Hispanidad and the fiesta del Pilar on which they celebrate Our Lady of Pillar, Spain’s patron virgin, who the Apostle James saw on top of a pillar in Zaragoza, Spain, and who is the reason that (according to one of my teachers) Pilar is the most popular girl name in Spain.
So, on October 11^th when I realized this important holiday was only a day away, I went straight to my friend’s house to book a ride to the fiesta in Zaragoza. We had chosen the best place to celebrate but we had chosen it too late and all the buses were full. However, this didn’t ruin our weekend, we did a little more research and by 10:30 that night at the bus station buying six tickets for the next morning to Málaga, Picasso’s home town, in the south of Spain.

Boarding the bus, the only information we had was the time of our return trip, and one page ripped from my travel book. We planned on saving a few bucks by leaving our stuff in a locker at the bus station during the days and sleeping on the beach nights.

Not planning ahead felt great because there was no pre-trip stress. Unfortunately it doesn’t guarantee that the whole trip will be as stress-free. We arrived at dusk and the tension began right away when we found out that the lockers at the station are emptied at night. The stress grew when we wandered around for two hours unable to find a vacancy in a hostel where we could leave our stuff. Finally we found a place. Still intending to sleep on the beach, we only got one room just to put our bags in. With all our burdens lifted from our backs and piled into the corner of the dirty room, we went back to our care-free, plan-free, vacation. We ate some good food and took in the city’s night life before settling in for the night on the beach.

An hour later we found two more oversights in our impromptu itinerary. 1. being close to Africa does not make a beach warm at night. 2. no one ever mentions it but, body heat eventually becomes body coldness, which does not help you stay warm no matter how close you huddle together. Half-frozen all six of us snuck into the hostel, slid the two tiny twin beds together, and tucked ourselves into the ragged stained sheets for an overly cozy sleep.

We woke up to a beautiful sunny day and although it was hard to believe after our experience that night, it was about 75 degrees on the beach. After a lifetime of summers at the Cape, this beach was very different to me. First of all, it was October and still hot. Also, unlike a Cape Cod coast, lined with sea grass and houses; the gray shoreline, bordered by tall buildings and palm trees, set the foreground to a horizon of majestic southern Spanish mountains. The people were different too. They were from all over the world, Germany, Sweeden, France, New Jersey, and Spain, and wore less. Despite the international draw, the beach was a laid back type of tourist trap, where the two old men pacing the beach with coolers on their shoulders selling “cerveza, fanta, aguaaaaa fresquita” did it in a more helpful than intrusive way. Even the water wasn’t the same as at home. It was sparkling turquoise and saltier. While I floated easily on the extra salty water, the realization that I was swimming in the Mediterranean sunk in. This “Toto I don’t think we’re in Kansas (or the Nantucket sound) anymore” feeling was the defining moment of the trip because it made me think twice about where I was, and appreciate even more how lucky I am to be able to hop on a bus for a weekend at a Mediterranean beach, and that this was only a first of many new places I’ll visit this year.

That night we sat outside at a nice little restaurant on a busy pedestrian street for some tapas. We shared kidney, stuffed mussels, seafood stuffed peppers, meat balls and bull’s tail. It was all delicious. The kidney and bull’s tail were just plain meaty, while the stuffed pepper was the best. Afterwards, we went to a huge Botellón, which is like a big block party of college-age kids. There, we mingled with locals and other tourists and got to know some nice students from Portugal and Italy.

The next day we tried to get an earlier bus home, but once again, the buses were all full, as were all the lockers at the station. So bogged down by our bags, tired from lack of quality sleep, and deterred by the impending rain, no one was willing to go look at the Picasso Museum or the Alcazaba. Instead we spent about five hours at a table in the Burger King of the station, eating, playing cards, and sleeping until our bus arrived. Even though we didn’t actually celebrate the Virgin of Pilar, it was a successful holiday just the same. We got back to Madrid at midnight better-traveled, closer friends, and a little tanner than when we left.