This was a good idea.

The beginning of a thing is rarely easy. And if it appears to be easy, then just wait, because the thing truly hasn’t started yet. It’s just waiting to really lay it on you.

Málaga snuck up on me like an unexpected bee sting, just slightly annoying, small flare ups that I could easily swat away until it reached the point I was sitting out side of my hostel, locked out, listening to Shakira playing on what should have been the on call hostel attendant. But let’s back up, get me off the step and back in the world where it all began.

Flying out of Dulles the morning after the most beautiful wedding ever (Go team MO MAYO!) to NY JFK on a flight that was in a cruel way shorter than my previous daily commutes to work to Alexandria from Centreville, I sat next to a true to heart Long Islander, drawling out nasally vowels, pointing across me at the sky line that just “haaad to be manhaaatanaan.” I took it as a good omen that she was down in Reston for a wedding that weekend, making a quick turn around flight home that Sunday afternoon. As an airplane weenie still to this day, I’m big on omens, small signs, so the wedding link screamed good omen to me.

The layover in NYC would normally have passed with out my comment had it not been for the conspicuously large group of Mennonites charging through the security check points, eager to poke around the Duty Free shops, buying the sumptuous liquors I thought they’d sworn off….duty free, sin free?

Round 2 of flights….full of Spaniards and a dash of Americans or other foreigners, I was sensorially assaulted by the raucous, reckless, responsibility free, ridiculously fabulous, remarkably materialistic, and rather bothersome Spanish youth. Charging on the plan like Christmas trees draped in bags, scarves, hats, extra jackets, NYC memorabilia and 4 of every electronic I don’t know the name of and of course, these darn signature bracelets that clink every other second when they wave for MORE attention. How had I forgotten the drama that exudes from the pores of the Spanish youth like smoke from a cigarette, you can never really escape it because it’s burning everywhere. Enough bashing, I was just tired, having felt the entire gamut of emotions in the past 24 hours and just wanted to sleep the next 7 hours away into oblivion. Luckily our pilot was a daredevil wind surfer type, skipping about the clouds, skipping the soft fluffy ones and instead skidding off the huge, mountainous cumulous monsters. Every 20 minutes we were instructed to return to our seats and buckle up. So if I had any trouble stretching out in my window seat and getting comfy enough to pass out, the pilot rocked me to sleep with jaw clenching turbulence. ;)


First impression of Malaga: what a humble town. Having primed my eyes to gaze upon the jewel of the Costa del sol, I was…not let down my the view…but relieved almost that tall green mountains shouldered for attention from the deep blue ocean that reclined away from the city, lovingly caressing the beach in licks of white surf. The expected confusion followed as I tried to locate the center of autobuses…damn shame we don’t have eyes in the back of our heads, wouldn’t have walked right by it then…or if I had actually slept a wink, alas, nice bus driver told me, “ya estas’ when I arrived at my bus stop, which could also be interpreted as, “get off the bus silly girl, this is the end of the line. I’m shutting it down.’ Tomato, tomato. Meandering the “pasito” (quick walk) that the bus driver had promised me would follow from the bust stop to my hostel, I soon realized, 70 pounds split between 2 bags, is still 70 pounds. And it’s still HEAVY. You know the rest…back sweat like whoa. (haha!)

The hostel receptionist was so kind to not show up, giving me much needed time to twiddle my thumbs. When he did burst in sputtering apologies or rather breathy excuses he let me know I couldn’t have my room until the guy ahead of me left and he still had 2 hours till check out….I commenced to do my death stare through his room’s walls. Must have worked because by 11am he was clearing out. The receptionist and I danced a sweet tango of broken English, finding places on the map of relative minor importance, like the train station. With my mother’s sense of direction I struck out onto the streets of Malaga, a zombie with every intention of getting to my school to get the much needed orientation. With my dad’s sense of traveler’s pride I tried to memorize the map and walk like I was a local (ahem, London father…) to make a long walk a short story, my belief in my photographic memory and my sense of direction are a dangerous combination…where one fails the other makes things up to compensate. ½ late for the 11:40 train I hung around the station till the 2:10 train, because let’s be honest, if I went exploring I’d be in Barcelona before I even knew I was heading north. I thought, great time to kill, I’ll read the notes my family gave me and the text messages they sent before I change my SIM chip. Bad idea. It was just me and my bocadillo awkwardly getting red in the face and crying like a homesick wimp. I’m sure all of the train station thought I was psychotic, laughing then in a split second crying. They were all nice enough to ignore me though. I could sniffle in my lonely misery to my heart’s content.

I have my issues with Spain, but I hold no grudge against their trains. My god, they are more punctual than New Year’s Day. I eat up the traffic free, 30 minute commute to Álora, where my school is. This is where is just gets funny (in about 20 years that is)…the last bus to the top of the small mountain where my school is located has just left and won’t be back till 4:30pm…having biked across the USA I thought, heck I can walk 3 kilometers up hill…that ain’t nothing….let me set the scene I encountered upon leaving the station for my “quick jaunt’ as I told myself. Winding road, no lines, much like Twin Lakes Dr, a glass spattered shoulder, if you call the space of my pinky toe enough to be a shoulder, where the white line drops off into a cliff. I start trekking. And holy moly it gets sunny. I mean, I obviously timed my hike with the hottest part of the day. Score. For any bike and builders out there, if you remember that one ride we did in Utah, with at least 2 climbs, the second of them was up into a suburban neighborhood, I know at least I asked Craigory, “why WHY would anyone put a neighborhood atop a petite mountain? This is CRUEL?” well, Spain did the same damn thing. Only this time I was relishing the burn in my legs on foot. Not that I can say I would have been much faster on bike.

Let’s jump ahead 50 minutes. Found the school. Locked. I ask some parents walking with kids what the hours of the school are and they say that there’s no school today. Or tomorrow. It’s “fiesta.” I sit down, “what?” “Sí, hace puente.” I smile, scraping “gracias” off my tongue. I’m not sure which I was closer to, implosion or explosion. Either way I was furious. My school didn’t even tell me they had a 2 day holiday and I rushed all the way from the USA to make it for Monday. After a quick “regroup” moment and deep calming breaths, eh, muffled shouts, I headed back down the mountain. Making it just in time for the 4:30 train to take me back to Málaga. Managed to pass out and get abruptly poked awake by the train master scolding me for putting my feet up on the seat in front of me. I decided a nap would be me good, but my hostel key did not agree. 30 minutes I try to get into my hostel, with no success, it won’t open. My pounds on the door, which perturb all the neighbors don’t bring anyone to the door. And so there I was, 6pm in Málaga, sitting on the step of my hostel, locked out and exhausted.

Determined to not be a sourpuss and get sad about the shitty situation is head out to explore the Plaza Merced. I find the café with wifi my hostel recommended, only to arrive in the middle of their 5 hour gap of no wifi hours. Perfect I thought…just perfect. I don’t work till Wednesday, I lose my hostel room Thursday at noon, I don’t know where I’m going to live, I don’t know what I’m going to do at the school….

So here I sit, basking in fumes of smoke in the café, redacting the story of my life in Malaga thus far to my dejected wifi less portatil (laptop). Let’s keep our fingers crossed that my hostel decides to let me in, that I make it to the police station and get my residence card, that I find the bust to get to school and that eek, I find housing!

In the meantime, it’s warm; it’s uncomfortably warm in the sun. I’m sweating, I’m sun drenched and it’s great. The fashion here is outrageous. Sunglasses for all occasions. Baggy pants on girls. Coiffed hair on guys. Leather shoes, tan legs, and tongues that fly faster that the fashion spreads through the streets. A breathtaking pink and yellow sunset makes sparse clouds blush. It’s cooling down and I’m calming down. Like dad said, “this was a good idea.”

I love you all and miss you; I sure could use your humor to just laugh at the antics of ‘getting settled.’ Be well and send me updates from your lives!
Besos, woo