Barry and Denise's Travel Page -- Our Bougie Winter
Our Bougie Winter Prologue Our bougie winter of 2023 begins a
year earlier, in Florida. January 2022 marks our first post-pandemic visit, and
little has changed in the two years we have been absent. There is a certain comfort
in the familiar, but the urge to go further afield, to seek out something
different, still drives us. We decide to
put the condo up for sale. It is sold within hours of the listing being
published, a fine coda to our winters in Florida. We are on a new, blank page of our
adventure story. January, 2023 The airplane banks gently over the Mediterranean
toward the port city of Málaga, Spain, nestled at the foot of surrounding
mountains in the southern region of Andalusia. The flight was uneventful but,
given recent horror stories of widespread cancelled flights and misplaced
luggage, we are concerned when our suitcases do not show up on the carousel.
Then we spot an obscure sign, written in Spanish, directing us to another room
for luggage originating outside the European Union, and we are soon reunited
with our bags and on our way. We give the taxi driver the address,
and we immediately tear off on a roller coaster ride around the cloverleaf
ramps out of the airport and onto the highway toward the city. We are shaken
left and right before we can even get the seat belts fastened. The speed limit
signs say 60. The speedometer says 100. Everything settles down once we enter
the thick of city traffic. A short while later we are safely in our apartment,
a compact two bedroom unit in an old building with a mix of residences and
professional services offices. The building is at the edge of Málaga’s historic
centre and pedestrian zone. With no restaurants or bars in the immediate
vicinity of the building (thanks to Google Street View when shopping for
accommodation) and the bedrooms facing an inner courtyard, we are assured of
quiet nights. It is mid-afternoon. We are hungry
and head out toward the Mercado de Atarazanas,
Málaga’s central market, two short blocks from our apartment. The large 19th
century building, built around a 14th century Moorish gateway, is
teeming with activity – food vendors and shoppers. Thinking back on Barcelona’s
La Boqueria market, we wonder if there is a
place to sit and eat inside, but a cursory glance suggests there is none near
the entrance, and jet lag discourages us from going inside the crowded halls to
explore. A few restaurants have tables set up on the sidewalk outside with
heaters for the mid-January cool and we find two seats there. Barry’s
rudimentary Spanish helps us order our first boquerones
(lightly battered and fried anchovies, a Málagan specialty),
and appetizers of grilled octopus and deep fried calamari. All seafood and fish
are brought in fresh every morning and are delicious. The wine, a white
Verdejo, typically Spanish and delightfully dry, chimes in at a pleasing €2.50
a glass. Barry asks the waiter if he speaks English. He answers “poquito”, a little bit, as he lifts his hand with
thumb and bent forefinger framing a small gap, illustrating poquito.
How about French? The waiter emphatically replies no, but some Italian. Barry
replies “lasagna”, “pizza”, and we all laugh and two
more glasses of wine appear on the table, on the house. It doesn't feel that
cold any more, and the jet lag, frankly, doesn’t really matter, either. We wander the pedestrian historic
centre a bit, admiring the architecture, browsing the storefronts, taking in
the post-Christmas clearance sales (“rebajas”)
plastered across display windows, marveling at the crowds of people
going every which way on the marble-paved streets, wondering if we will ever
make sense of the labyrinthine layout of the historic centre. We stop in a
grocery store for coffee and breakfast items and then, later that evening, settle
in for a long comfortable sleep. The next morning, we head out to the
Alameda Principal, the parklike boulevard that follows the old defensive wall
that once separated the city of Málaga from the port. The three-block treed
stretch of the Alameda, just one block away from our apartment, is now a series
of stops for most city buses, a convenience we will soon learn to appreciate.
Beyond the bus area, the Alameda borders a large park beside the pedestrianized
port area on one side and major baroque-era buildings, including the city hall,
adorned with columns and carved sculptures and carved flower garlands on the
other side. The tourist office is located at the
edge of the park area and the main pedestrian entrance to the pleasure-boat part
of the port. We ask about flea markets and local transport, among other things.
The agent takes out a map, marks up all sorts of bus routes and points of
interest, describing the options in excited, high-speed accented English. The
faster she speaks, the more the English words seem to morph into Spanish. We
thank her and walk out not much better informed than when we went in. We find
it odd that in a tourist city, notorious for having many visitors from the UK,
there is no literature offered in the tourist office in English. It turns out
that Málaga is fairly easy to navigate and the public transit system
inexpensive and reliable outside the historic centre. And Spanish is not that
indomitable, either. We assimilate useful phrases and menu items quickly. Barry
needs to unlearn some South American Spanish peculiarities picked up during
work trips to Venezuela decades earlier. Public transit aside, Málaga’s
historic centre is car-free and always a delight for walking. The district reflects
its re-development in the 19th century as the home of the business
bourgeoisie, and a stroll in there is a visual treat. Most streets offer a baroque
urban architecture, 4-6 storeys, with tall French windows and wrought-iron
Juliet balconies everywhere, many of these with overhanging glassed-in
enclosures. Curved building corners (apparently to aid in ventilation during
hot summers) and decorations are reminiscent of the Spanish Modernist movement
during the Art Nouveau period and large carved doors and inner garden patios with
flowers and fountains and arches reflect even older Iberian and Moorish
traditions. Wrought-iron trim, arched upper windows and tower-like roof
structures complete the Hispanic look and feel of the architectural landscape. Ground floors are typically allocated to
businesses, and shops and restaurants abound with many terraces opening up on
the pedestrian streets turning the area into an entertainment magnet for
tourists and locals alike. Remnants of Málaga’s Moorish and
earlier history abound in the centre with former mosques that have survived as
churches today, their spacious square interiors reflective of their original
use rather than the long rectangular basilica form of Catholic church more
common in Renaissance Europe. The distinctive red brick and white stone
checkered exterior design of these buildings, remnant of the Mudejar style of
Iberian architecture of the Middle Ages, sits in harmony with the more rococo
bourgeois neighbours. Inside the churches, the overwhelming brilliance of gold
and silver – statues, ornament, vessels – remind us of the riches taken by
Spaniards from the Americas in the 16th century to fund their
religious wars in Europe. But this is only one chapter of Málaga’s rich history.
Older relics include the remains of a Roman theatre and an 11th
century military fortress, the Alcazaba, whose maze
of turrets and lush courtyards are still intact. Dominating one corner of the
historic centre is the Málaga Cathedral, started in the Middle Ages on a square
mosque footprint, and after 250 years of construction, an unfinished symphony
of Gothic, Renaissance, and Baroque beauty, towering over the avenues and plazas
below. The port is adjacent to the historic
centre and has been in continual use since Phoenician times for trade. With a
very busy commercial section of the port on one side, the pleasure boat section
is a magnet for people, a place to stroll that is a mere 15 minute walk from
our apartment. There are gardens, shops, restaurants, yachts, and cruise ships
(although these are rare in winter). Food offerings range from Burger King to
Michelin-starred and shops offer every type of ware, with an open market for
jewelry and clothes and leather goods set up along the pier a few times a week.
Buskers are everywhere, performing everything from Spanish classics to American
pop, dance, sensual tango duos, break dancing, and acrobatics. Some days we
count the number of times we hear the famous Romanza for guitar. The Málaga
bullring, one of the most prominent in Spain, is at the edge of the port, but
there are no events there in the winter. On the other side of the port, off Alameda
Principal behind our apartment, is Soho, an old neighbourhood being revitalized
with restaurants, galleries, a theater, and major wall paintings. At the north
end of the historic centre, 20 minutes from home, is the treed Plaza de la
Merced, lined with tapas bars, always a pleasant place to stop for a glass of
Sangria and some tapas and people-watching. We never run out of options for our
daily wanderings. But this is just a picture postcard,
a backdrop for a thriving downtown for a city of a half-million people, and
another half-million stretching across the neighbouring and largely touristy Costa
del Sol communities from Torremolinos to Marbella. Whenever we step out, the streets are full of
people, just strolling or busily moving in every direction, shopping bags in
hand, or sitting at one of the many terraces enjoying food and drink in the
comfort of the midday sunshine or the ubiquitous outdoor patio gas heaters that
provide warm comfort from the cool mid-winter air. Many of the streets are
paved with marble tile, the mirror-like shine adding a note of elegance to tony
shopping avenues. Wide Calle Larios, lined with high-end shops and
always full of people walking in every direction, many pushing baby strollers, stretches
from the port to the Plaza de la Constitución
in the centre of the historic area, and is adorned along its length with an
array of light garlands changing regularly according to the city life. At this
time, the Christmas displays are being removed and replaced by colourful light
designs highlighting masks for the upcoming Carnival. Nearby, Calle Granada
has a carnival-like atmosphere of its own with wall-to-wall restaurants and tabernas,
spilling off into the side streets. We are impressed by the overall cleanliness
of the streets – city crews are constantly on duty and residents seem to do
their part, too. And even the garbage cans say "gracias". There are some beggars in the
streets, too, to be expected in a city where there are always many people
visiting, but, overall, the streets in the historic centre feel very safe. We
learn that a beggar at the entrance to a church means that the church is open for
visiting. One afternoon, we are surprised to see a beggar sitting on a chair on
the sidewalk with a credit card processing handset. As we get closer, it turns
out that the man is not a beggar; he is selling lottery tickets from his
oversized vest. Lottery ticket sellers are in abundance around us, in
tobacconists, in kiosks, walking the streets, and, on the rare occasion,
approaching us as we sit on a restaurant terrace. Although Málaga and the Costa del Sol
are known as a summertime beach and cruise destination, particularly popular
with people from the UK, this is winter, and almost everyone around us sports
winter jackets and speaks Spanish. They are of all ages, generally well dressed
and well groomed, lean and fashionable. The occasional
silver-haired couple stands out from the crowd – these are typically snowbirds
like us, usually British, Irish, or Canadian, and visitors off the occasional
winter cruise ship, strutting their sparkling new designer-labels. However, the
majority of the tourist traffic is Hispanic, arriving from the bus and train
terminals en masse on Friday afternoon
and leaving late Sunday or Monday morning. Málaga is clearly a major weekend magnet
in Andalucia. We find the Spaniards passionate and
polite, as we have come to expect from Europeans we have encountered. Wherever
we go, in stores, in restaurants, on the street, people greet us with "hola" (hello), but they don't just say it, they sing
it “Oh – laaa”, like the notes la-sol on the musical
scale. And the passion - boisterous, sometimes loud, enjoying life and
community is ever-present in the historic centre. ¡Hola, buenas!, it’s always in the air. The food adventure Jet lag behind us, we head to the
market, three large halls in a massive 19th century iron structure around
the old Moorish gate. In the first hall, dedicated to fruit and vegetable
sellers, the stalls are overflowing with colorful products, and it does not
take long to fill our tote bags with fresh lettuce and tomatoes, pears and
mangos, avocados, olives, nuts and figs. Less familiar
is the chirimoya (custard apple) with a pineapple-custardy taste; it is
not usually exported. Notable for its absence is the cucumber – the few we find
are not very flavourful. Signs telling us not to touch are everywhere; you ask
the vendor for quantity and degree of ripeness and
they choose and bag the product. (This is similar to Italy; in French markets we
are offered bags and choose our items ourselves.) Nevertheless, one vendor quickly
recognizes us as regular customers and lets us choose our own fruit by hand. In the second hall, we pass stalls brimming
with the daily catch of shrimp, squid, and octopus alongside rows of snapper,
bream, sea bass, and Mediterranean tuna, and we cheerfully allow the vendors to
bag our selections for us. In the third hall, the cases display a wide variety
of local cheeses, although most of them are variations on firm goat cheese, our
favourites the Payoyo and Málaga.
We occasionally treat ourselves to the thinly sliced cured Iberian ham,
particularly the flavourful one from acorn-fed stock. Outside the market are
several bakeries offering a wide array of breads and pastries. The multi-grain
breads and pastries are delicious; however, the baguettes and croissants do not
achieve the airy texture and sweetness that only French flour can give them so
we decide these can wait. Aside from market-fresh salads and
seafood, and the occasional ham-and-eggs breakfast, we rarely cook in our
apartment. Restaurants are abundant and affordable. And tapas, small portions of food,
usually served with drink, appear on menus almost everywhere. Most restaurants and tabernas offer
tapas as well as other size options on their menus, such as ½ ración or ración
(half or full portion). Some offer pintxos, the smaller-sized bar snack
items popular in bars in the Basque country, as well. A few tapas and a few
shared half or full racións can turn a
restaurant meal into a tasting adventure and the sharing options never cause a
waiter to raise an eyebrow. Every meal out begins with a dish of
sweet green olives, brined and herbed, on the table, which, naturally, demands
an accompanying glass of wine. Some of the common Málagan
menu offerings include Fritura (literally, fried), represents lots
of options – fish, seafood, vegetables – typically lightly battered and fried
in olive oil. In particular, the ubiquitous fried boquerones
(anchovies) are far more delicately flavoured
than the salty marinated ones. The fried eggplant is a delight and has become a
standard in our home air fryer. Ensalada Malagueña, somewhat like the French salade
Niçoise with cod fish. Gazpachuelo, based on the four main ingredients of gazpacho
- bread, garlic, oil and water – adds cream, potatoes,
seafood and mayonnaise to make a delicious stew-like dish served hot. It turns
out that tomatoes are a later addition to the original white gazpacho. Espeto de sardinas - skewered sardines cooked over an
open wood fire in an old metal boat alongside the beach. Jamón ibérico - the smooth and savoury
dry-cured Iberian ham, subject to strict denominación
de origen rules. Originally from Valencia, paella
is widely served throughout the Mediterranean region. It is hard to beat the
flavour of the golden-yellow saffron-sweet paella we have with our boquerones and dry Verdejo wine at the central
market bar. If there is an absence of meat on
this list, it is by choice. Restaurants may offer beef or chicken options, and
there are a few steak houses among the other restaurants. We opt for small
dishes. From the sea and the garden. Fresh and light. Sweetened with golden
drops of olive oil. A glass of dry white wine. A little walk. People watching.
This is our Mediterranean diet. The Spanish clock The Spanish siesta has a long tradition, dating to
when women were not allowed to work and poverty pushed men to work double
shifts or take two jobs, taking a mid-afternoon rest between shifts. The most
obvious sign of this custom is the closing of shops and services sometime
between noon and late afternoon for anything from 2 to 4 hours. Restaurants
typically open around 2PM for lunch service and 8 or 9PM for dinner; however,
we find a growing number of establishments offering continuous food service.
And, of course, tapas are always available in tabernas and bars to fill in the
gaps. We soon adjust to the Spanish clock. We rarely venture
out before late morning. If we want to go into any of the shops, we must do so
before the noon hour closing, randomly between 12:30 and 2PM, although some
stores stay open continuously in the touristy historic centre. A glass of
sangria and a couple of tapas keep us going through the afternoon. At precisely 4:30 PM the churrerias
(cafés serving churros, hot chocolate, and coffee) open up and tables fill up
quickly for these sweet treats. The street behind the market is lined with churrerias. We call it "Churro row".
Families seated at rows of tables along the walls, plates piled high with the
freshly fried ridged rods of dough and cups of chocolate. After that, there is the paseo (the walk), a
social walk after work and before supper, as stores open up for the late
afternoon and evening hours. It is an important social time for locals and
terrace bar tables fill up quickly for a drink and tapas while waiting for restaurants
to open up later. We eat later. We sleep later. We never seem to get out
of the apartment before 11 AM or noon. And then there is somewhere to stop for
a glass of wine and tapas around 2. Churros on two occasions at 5. More tapas
or pinxtos around 8, lingering into the later
hours. The idea of “going out for supper” seems out of place here. Carnival Rooted in celebrations around Shrove
Tuesday and dating back to the 16th century, Málaga’s Carnival is a
lively week of music, dance, parades, costumes, and general family fun.
Decorative festive street lights depicting masks and garlands go up on the
light standards on Calle Larios and the streets leading to Plaza de la Constitución. Stages are set up in the various plazas and
barricades to delineate the parade routes. Friday night, as we are enjoying
dinner on a terrasse, a brass band marches through the historic centre. We do
not know where they are going, but on Saturday morning, our favourite vegetable
vendor at the market stumbles in mid-shift, bleary-eyed, blue streaks in his
hair, and all a-smile. Carnival has begun. That evening is the official opening
ceremony of the Carnival at the Plaza de la Constitución
followed by the election of the Carnival Gods and Goddesses.
Calle Larios is lined with seating for spectators but, with the cool breeze in
the air, we opt to watch the proceedings form the comfort of our apartment via
local TV. There, we can appreciate each of the candidates for God and Goddess
in their elaborate costume adorned with three-and four metre
high extravagant, colourful feather constructions, all assembled in a walking
float that they parade up and down Calle Larios. On Sunday, after a day of children’s
events, the opening parade winds its way through the city centre, passing in
front of our apartment. The streets are lined with people – families, children
in costumes -- in eager anticipation of the spectacle. There is electricity in
the air as we hear the distant drumming that seems to take forever to come
around the corner. And then our patience is rewarded as the first dancers appear
– girls on stilts covered by large balloon dresses, marching to the persistent
drumming of men and women in pirate costumes, leaning in rhythm to the left and then leaning to the
right, and followed not far behind by a two-storey tall float with the head of
a jester, pulled by costumed jesters throwing handfuls of confetti at the crown,
and then more dancers and marchers and floats and confetti. Most of the
marchers are school-age. One group celebrates football,
teenagers dressed in soccer uniforms and several young boys dressed as soccer
balls, the players tossing the soccer ball-clad boys several metres in the air
and then catching them to the music. All the candidates for God and Goddess of
the carnival join the parade in full regalia. Children strut with more bags of
confetti. Children spectators pick up the confetti from the street and throw it
again. More floats. Mickey Mouse. A genie. A world globe. More bands. It is
getting dark as evening settles in and the lights on the floats and costumes begin
to cast a glow. Recorded music drives the marchers. ¿Quién
tiene café? Yo tengo la leche (Do you have coffee? I’ve got the milk).
Pitbull’s “Café con leche”, a song about an interracial relationship, is lost
on the crowd celebrating coffee as the Spaniards drink it. An hour after the parade
began, the last float and dancers pass and the spectator crowd joins in the
march behind them to the Plaza de la Constitución,
where the opening concert is sure to entertain. We are content to return to our
apartment and enjoy the music on TV. And within an hour, the city trucks have passed and the street is confetti-free, ready to start all
over again. For the remainder of the week we enjoy music, dance, and costumes on stages
throughout the historic centre of the city. On Friday, a big show – the
Carnival drag show -- is held in Plaza de la Constitución.
Once again, we opt for the TV broadcast instead of the overcrowded streets
where sightlines are rare and the thick crowd violates
every principle of distancing we have been trying to practice. The drag show is
entertaining, more farce than anything else – men dressed up in frivolous
clothes, many of them professional dancers, strutting their stuff. There is no
pretense here, just good fun. Carnival ends on the second Sunday,
with the burial of the anchovy, a large, colourful papier maché
float which is drawn in a massive parade to the beach and set on fire,
signifying the preparation for fasting for Lent, which will begin in a few
days. But we do not easily forget Carnival – we are still finding the
occasional piece of confetti in a coat pocket or in a corner of a handbag
months later. Flamenco Tucked into a northern corner of the Centro
Histórico is a flamenco museum and school which
advertises Thursday and Saturday evening shows. We know of flamenco as an
iconic form of music and dance from Spain and book seats for a show. We learn
that flamenco is deeply rooted in Andalusia, with origins in music from gypsies
(who migrated to Spain from 15th century India) and evolving as
gypsy, Arab and Jewish groups fled to the remote hills to avoid persecution by
the Catholic rulers. We enter the tablao
– a room with raised platform with four empty chairs along the back wall for
the performance and ringed by spectator seating. Soon, a guitarist, a singer,
and two dancers, male and female, take their seats. She is in traditional garb
– a polkadot dress with elaborate pleats and ruffles
and a large flower in her hair. The guitarist begins to play, first familiar-sounding
melodies and minor chord progressions evocative of Andalusia and then adding
colour as his virtuoso fingers race in a frenzy up and down and across the
fretboard. A regular, intense hand clapping from the dancers and bystanders
adds a rhythm. Then the singer joins in. His song, in a language we do not understand,
is at times mournful, at times full of love, at times on a rhythmic tangent to
the guitar, always mesmerizing. The first dancer gets up on the stage and joins
in -- a pose, fingers moving, then hands and arms moving fluidly to the music,
reminiscent of East Indian dance. The motion flows downward through the dancer,
the upper torso moving, and then the feet, first simple tapping, and then
progressively more intricate footwork until the music and dance reach a
frenetic pace, spinning, stomping, and raising the energy in the room to
stratospheric level. Each dancer takes his or her turn, and they dance
together. The female dancer lifts and throws the ruffled edges of her dress in
the air to highlight her intricate footwork. The male dancer pitches his jacket
to liberate his body as the pace quickens. The song, the music, the dance - if
at first it all seems improvised, these old songs are well-known and the
musicians and dancers are always in synch, supported by the rhythmic hand
clapping. It is all very sensual and energetic, and our hearts are pounding
until well after we return home. Before we return to Canada, we will have seen
four flamenco shows. The museums Málaga has a large number of museums
and galleries, and we visit a few. We recommend the Museo de Málaga which
has two collections – an archaeological collection tracing the evolution of Málaga
from prehistoric times and the Phoenician city of “Malaka” to modern times through
artifacts unearthed here. The other collection focuses on Spanish artists
ranging from the 16th to the 20th century. Also, not to
be missed is the Museo Carmen Thyssen which focuses on 19th-century Andalusian
and other Spanish painting from the collection of Carmen Cervera,
the third wife of Baron Thyssen-Bornemisza. Both art collections
open up our eyes to the rich tradition of Spanish art unknown to us and that
were part of the larger trends in art across France, Holland
and Italy, with which we are more familiar. Finally, we enjoy the Museo del Vidrio y Cristal (Glass and Crystal Museum)
which is a time-travel trip through the history of decorative arts, mainly
glassware, but also furniture, paintings and other
decorative objects, from the personal collection of the historian and restorer
Gonzalo Fernández-Prieto. At a suggestion, we visit the Museo
Picasso, dedicated to the Spanish artist Pablo Picasso, who was born
in Málaga. The museum’s collection was primarily donated by members of the
Picasso family. Prepare for the long waiting line to get into the museum at any
hour. Once inside, we find the exhibit limited in scope, since the artist’s
best works are housed in museums elsewhere. There is little in the way of explanation,
even with an audio guide which was often unrelated to the display it was
supposed to be describing. Overall, we obtain little insight into the artist
and his evolution (especially having seen the excellent travelling show at the
Montreal Museum a few decades earlier) and suggest that if you have ever seen
any of Picasso’s work, spend the entry fee on tapas instead. Nevertheless,
Picasso is everywhere around us, with surrealistic distorted graphics displayed
proudly in shops on colourful t-shirts and sweaters and tote bags and fridge
magnets in veneration of Málaga’s famous son. Our passion, antiques Our passion, however, is antiques,
and we have identified several antique shops and some outdoor markets where
antiques may be found. We visit the Sunday flea market at the Málaga recinto ferial (fairgrounds), a short bus
ride away. This is mostly a venue for new flea-market type of merchandise, with
some used wares spread out on tarps, and few items of antique interest. We meet
a vendor who explains that the Spanish do not have a tradition of holding on to
old things in the same way we have seen in France, where antique appreciation
has even become a staple of daily TV. It turns out that she buys antiques in
France to sell in Spain as do some other vendors we meet later on. As a result,
the prices tend to be high and the selection limited. Further afield The one-hour bus ride to Fuengirola offers
the opportunity to see some of the Costa del Sol, a a
large, narrow swath of southern Spain delimited by a cordillera of
mountain ranges to the north and beaches to the south along the Mediterranean. It
takes little time for the bus to climb out of Málaga high into the hills over
Torremolinos, where the old town is lost amidst the thick of high-rise
apartment buildings stretching from the mountains to the sea. Still hemmed in by the mountains, we
continue past a string of other communities. reaching Fuengirola, which is also
well-developed as a tourist centre, particularly among British nationals, with
hotels and apartments and restaurants lining the beach front. There is also an
active fishing port and a preserved historic centre to visit. The bus drops us
off in a modest residential area, about a ten minute walk to the recinto ferial, where the expansive Saturday
flea market is located. There is a section devoted to antiques, but the prices
are high there as we have seen elsewhere, much of that driven by the large
number of British expatriates in the area, some of whom are sellers. The fairground stretches for six
blocks toward the sea and two blocks wide. Down the centre is a string of small
buildings, identified as peñas. A peña is a cultural association, and these buildings
house various peñas dedicated to football,
cycling, bullfighting, music, or whatever interest gets people together. Many
operate as restaurants as well, and they are active in setting up facilities for
concerts and festivals and are involved in charitable events. Of course, during
the Saturday morning market, the peñas are
closed, their mysteries hidden behind shuttered windows and carved wooden doors. A later daytrip to Torremolinos
confirms our first impression of a beach resort with hotels and apartments
stretching along the long coastline with beach bars and souvenir shops all
along the way. Nevertheless, in January, the beaches are deserted, and many
businesses are shuttered for the season; we do not experience the crowds of
European visitors typical during the summer. We stop at the town’s tourist
office for a street map and are amused to find that eight out of ten “points of
interest” on the map are retail shopping streets. Torremolinos is popular in
winter among French Quebecers travelling as snowbirds, and the overall tourism-commercial
focus of the city causes us to compare it loosely to Hollywood, Florida. The Cost del Sol stretches to
Marbella, once a sleepy, picturesque village, becoming popular in the 1950s
with European aristocracy, and, as a result, developing into a major resort for
the international jet set. Having visited St-Tropez in the south of France, with
its commercial focus on pricey shops and hotels and restaurants and crowds of
designer-clad tourists, we do not see a compelling reason to visit Marbella,
preferring bourgeois middle-class Málaga. Closer to home, Pedregalego
beach, within the formal city limits of Málaga, is a short bus ride from the
city centre. The old fishing village with narrow streets and small stucco-covered
houses has also become a thriving tourist destination of its own with restaurants
lining the boardwalk along the beach. Many of the restaurants have olive wood
fires burning in old metal boats beachside to cook their famous espetos de sardinas (sardines
on a wooden spit) as well as other fish. Tourism materials advertise side trips to the pueblos blancos (white towns), a series of pretty towns and
villages in the hills of Andalusia characterised by their whitewashed houses.
However, having been to white towns in Portugal and in Greece, we opt,
instead, for a side trip to Córdoba. The train to Córdoba takes us on an
hour-long ride through miles of olive and citrus groves stretching as far as
the eye can see as we climb into the Sierras behind Málaga. A short taxi ride
from the train station brings us to the historic city centre of Córdoba, considered
by many as the oldest continually inhabited city in Europe, a designated UNESCO
World Heritage Site, and our home for a two-day visit. The city centre is dominated by the
massive Mezquita-Catedral, originally a
Mosque, and now a cathedral. Covering an area of four city blocks, the Mezquita is a fascinating blend of Moorish
architecture through the ages, with a full Roman Catholic Cathedral built in its
centre. We tour the Alcázar
de los Reyes Cristianos, (castle of the Christian
kings) a few blocks away, formerly home to Isabella and Ferdinand of Aragon.
Within the walls of the sprawling building and its towers are Roman artifacts
and mosaics unearthed during more recent renovations, as well as lush gardens
and reflecting pools. Workers are trimming lemon trees, and we collect a few
lemons, sweet enough to eat standalone, to take back to our apartment. We continue to the Sector Sur
(Southern sector) of the city, which is a historic old white village on its
own. The streets are quiet in the morning in this mostly residential area of
whitewashed houses, brought to life by potted geraniums everywhere on walls.
The houses typically have garden patios – these are shared spaces inside the
multi-family houses, usually decorated with an abundance of plants. These
courtyards are celebrated in a Fiesta of the patios for twelve days in May,
when many houses open their patios to the public, and compete for the best patio.
In winter, the private patios are closed but one woman leaves her door open,
inviting us to visit her courtyard. She speaks a little French, and explains
the different aspects of her opulent garden, and as she becomes more
comfortable that we are understanding her, her French morphs into Spanish.
Nevertheless, we enjoy exploring the small arched space replete with columns,
potted plants and flowers, vines, and a large, espaliered lemon tree which flowers
and fruits monthly, giving fresh fruit all year long. She tells us that if a
lemon falls on you, it is a sign of good luck. We thank her and leave a few
Euros in a donation box before moving on. It is now lunchtime, and several
restaurants tucked in among the houses are opening up. We enjoy a light lunch
of tapas and wine before going on. We book dinner at Doble de Cepa,
which advertises free a flamenco show. We arrive promptly when they open at 8PM
and are seated in front of the tablao but are
concerned about being the only customers in the restaurant for almost an hour.
And then, around 9PM, the tables fill up – it is dinnertime in Spain. The
artists walk onto the tablao. The music
begins. The guitarist, husband of the waitress, is younger than we have seen at
other shows, but his virtuosity on the strings belies his age. The singer
voices the most heartfelt songs we have heard so far. There is one dancer; she
appears to be double-jointed, an orchestra in a body, from the tips of her
fingers to the frenetic footwork. At some point, the singer joins the dancer on
stage for an old love song duet in the two forms of flamenco. Later on, the
dancer invites members of the audience to join her on the stage. Several women take
the stage, one at a time, with simple steps, their showy arm, hand and finger movements seeming so easy, reflective of a
deep-seated culture of flamenco in Andalusia. This is the most emotional flamenco show we
have seen; this ranks it as the best yet. The next day, we opt for a guided tour
of the cathedral and the Judería, the medieval
Jewish quarter of the city. We start in
the Judería, a tangle of irregular streets
lined with whitewashed houses. The layout was designed to discourage outsiders
from entering the quarter; in spite of the peaceful co-existence of the city’s
Jewish and Arab populations for centuries, they did not particularly like each
other. Reading the architecture of the 14th century district, the tour
guide provides a wealth of information that we might otherwise never have seen.
The tour proceeds to the Mezquita, one of the world's greatest works of
Islamic architecture, where our guide capably guides us through the many eras
of construction of this monument. The characteristically Moorish use of alternating
stone and red brick in the structure was intended to allow for flexibility in
case of earthquakes. The state of the building is evidence of the success of
the design, with the red and white arched aisles stretching out to what seems
to be infinity in all directions (actually 180m × 130m). At the heart of the Mezquita, we cross into a Renaissance cathedral,
complete with choir, chapels, altars, and steeple. The richly painted walls and
domes and ornately carved angels stand in stark contrast to the surrounding Islamic
decoration which, forbidding representation of living beings, consists of
complex geometrical patterns and Arab script adorning the rest of the building.
We are witness to how Muslims, Jews and Christians lived side by side and
enriched their city with their diverse and vibrant cultures. Friends We reflect on our past decade of winters
in Florida, as we noted earlier, the comfort of the familiar. Much of that familiarity
is related to our neighbours, most of whom we knew for a full ten winters, the
people we mingled with daily at the pool, or shared Bingo and shuffleboard
games, or dined together at home or out. There was time spent with friends in
other nearby communities. In Málaga, we are essentially on our own. As much as we feel at home in Málaga,
these six weeks are the longest single period we have been away from family and
friends, and we miss that community. Certainly, the terrasse cafés provide
opportunities to strike up conversations with other English or French speaking
foreigners. We are recognized by the vegetable vendor (who speaks English
well), the girls at the counter in the bakery (who appreciate learning how to
quote prices in French, surprised at its similarity to Spanish), and the waiter
at the market bar, with his perennial smile. We are fortunate to have some
friends here – a couple from a few houses up the street from ours in Montreal are
also wintering here -- and we take the opportunity to meet with them a few times
and share some of our favourite restaurant discoveries. There is the couple on
a brief trip from Ireland whom we met at a Flamenco show and with whom we meet
a few times for lingering sessions of tapas and drinks. And Denise’s sister and husband, who come to
Málaga for a week and join us for walks and restaurants and the side trip to
Córdoba. Málaga has much to be shared. Back to Málaga Our stay in Málaga will soon come to
an end, and we must move on. We are anxious to see our friends in the south of
France, in Le Lavandou, where we will stay for two
weeks, and to visit our favourite antique markets, and to enjoy a real baguette
before leaving Europe. It has been a gentle Mediterranean
winter. Málaga has reset our clocks, surrounded us with fresh products from
land and from sea and wines from the regions, infused our souls with language
and music and art, and welcomed us with style and politesse in a uniquely
Spanish way. The airport taxi takes us along avenues lined with orange trees in
full fruit, past 19th century bourgeois houses that we leave behind
us in the historic centre. In the meantime, we consider where in Málaga we
might want to stay if we return … that is, when we return … to bougie Málaga.