Day 27
I suppose my curmudgeon whispers of how La Malageta isn’t really a beach made their way down to the waves who slipped the gossips to the shores as they came in for high tide because this morning as I walked the water line the sand saw it fit to make me trip as a spot jokingly gave way under my left foot. It wasn’t too early in the morning, so my reaction time was quick and I recovered from my stumble in a crawl position, as if I’d suddenly become very interested in some grain of sand. Muttering to myself and initiating a chuckle to laugh it off I saw deep spirals emerging as the wave faded back to the sea. I reached out and picked up a perfect conch shell. Tan like bread just out of the oven, spiraling like a croissant hiding secrets in its folds. Even better, it was empty. Feeling more like a convenient buyer happening upon an empty lot, than the government claiming eminent domain, I tucked the shell into the curve of my eager hand and didn’t even bother to wipe the sand off my knees, who knew when I’d have to be back down peering into the water again.
I had decided for some time that I needed a change of scenery. And I don’t mean in Malaga. A quick pop over to Charlottesville or NOVA just didn’t seem sensible for a day, the lines for security nowadays really are discouraging. So I settled for Torremolinos, only 30 minutes by train, conveniently right next to the huge shopping mall of Malaga, Plaza Mayor. I figured all the sickly people of Europe go “away to the countryside to heal what ails them” so I might as well head to another part of the coast to get over the Malaga doldrums I’ve been stuck in. my prognosis : it worked. There’s nothing like going to a place that’s worse than where you live to make you appreciate a new the place you’re from. At every turn I was more disappointed with Torremolinos and more onboard with living in Malaga. I’d been in the habit of comparing Malaga to Valencia, the superior city, which probably wasn’t fair to Malaga, making it look like the ugly little stepbrother of the coast. But now I can say at least I’m not in Torremolinos! It really is a good feeling to know that it could be worse.
But I didn’t realize all of this right away. This thought slowly settled in as I rode the train home to Malaga.
To go back a few steps, to the train ride over, where I started to have a feeling that the trip was a good idea. Sitting by the window I was doing my normal intense zone out day dream window stare, coming precariously close to slamming my nose into the window when the train slowed or turned. As we pulled into the Aeropuerto stop a man on the platform stuck his tongue out at him, I was shocked, no one dares show emotions in public expect to shout something in disgust, and this was a very friendly joking display. When the woman behind me lit up and started waving at the tongue flailing man I realized he was making faces at her, not me. the woman gave her daughter a nudge off the seat and told her to go greet her dad. The train stopped and the man hopped into the train grabbing his daughter in his arms, stealing kisses as she giggled and squirmed. Walking past me to the seat at my back his wife moved over and he leaned down to kiss her, freezing her mid motion, the urgency of greeting her too pressing to wait. I smiled, I couldn’t help it. I had that warm feeling inside, the one I get when everything feels just right. It made me remember the times we’d gone to pick up my own dad from the airport, circling the pick up area, waiting for his arm to wave us down and the voice of the telephone calls would be placed back into the body that gave such good hugs. The gentle love of that dad reminded me of when I was a child, asking for piggy back rides or back scratches, Dad always smiled and said, ok, 1 more time. And it’s odd, I thought I would feel sad seeing this other family, but I didn’t. I only felt that happiest I’d felt the whole time I’d been here. Maybe it was knowing that the love I’d known growing up was so special as to be the only case, but rather one more example of a larger trend. Even though I wasn’t part of their little family, I felt like Scrooge, looking in secretly, knowing what it’s all about.
Torremolinos turned out to be a disappointing tourist haven. My ears were pelted with British accented English and grunts of German. Barely any Spanish challenged the English on the street even though all the signs and all the restaurants proclaimed themselves in Spanish. It was as if Torremolinos had succeeded to the invasion of the British, relinquishing its Spanish identity, selling its self out to the tourist industry. Like the queues of people waiting to get into Wal Mart on black Friday, queues of benabs and beach chairs lined the beach, all demanding their fair share of Mediterranean sun before it became too cold to sun bathe. Those not lounging on the beach were roosting in beach side cafes and restaurants that catered to the international crowd, calling themselves names such as “The Cozy Nook” and “Tiki Lounge.” Waiting outside the cafes on the walls lining the beach were handfuls of foreigners of a different nature. Men from Africa stood in front of their makeshift sunglasses and purses display, bantering in their native tongue with other vendors a high-5 away. Their presence was glaringly loud. The white Brits basically blended in with the pale beach and the blinding sunshine, but these market hawks detested your gaze, being such a rich color, as if they had spent centuries outside the sun had granted them a more beautiful color, warmer than the espresso sold at the cafes and richer than the chestnuts roasting at beach side stands. Their color alone called them out, otherwise they were silent. (You must remember that there is almost NO cultural diversity in Spain, that is to say, racially. It’s an annoying bulk of whiteness. And the blob of Caucasian tends to push any other color to the edges, like crust to be cut off.)
And the streets were so quiet. Everything seemed to whisper, hush hush, even the waves as they rushed in and out did so in a quiet way, wooooshhhh, wooooooshh, soothing sounds away in their rhythmic melody. Fleeing the glaring sun and deafening silence of the cheap beaches I fled to El Parque de la Bateria (Battery Park) that the travel website was a “don’t miss!” spot of Torremolinos. After tramping up a hill that made me question the original desire to see the park I made it. The park that dominated the tourist map in actually was not really to scale, the park a few foot ball fields wide tumbled quickly down to an edge overlooking the beach. But what I noticed first was not how small it was, nor how eerily clean and crisp it was, but rather, that it was a children’s park. I was the only one without a stroller and child tottering 2 feet ahead of me. Funny that the website had left this cute little fact out. So as I strolled the park I felt like a creeper, trying to not look at any child, or walk on the same path as another family. I snapped quick pictures and tried by failed to sit on a bench and ‘soak it all in.’ too many babies crying and too many stressed parents chastising their wiley children. Funny, I don’t remember a ‘you must be this tall to enter the park sign’ when I came in. I thought it better to head back to the train station and just read my book still the train came back in 30 minutes to take me back to Malaga. And for once, I was eager to get to Malaga. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s still no love in my heart for Malaga, because as I get off the train some old lady cuts me off to get through the ticket line and a car honks at me for walking when I have a green man flashing and the people still walk on the wrong side of the sidewalk and smirk at me for not moving. But, I’ve finally gotten the change of perspective I’ve needed. And even though I still don’t understand the accent either, I was reminded by my dear friend Selin, at least they just drop letters; they don’t speak a whole new language such as Mallorquin. Hahaha! (Don’t let Mallorca make you sweat- you survived Valenciano!)
So Malaga, this isn’t me saying I like you, that’s asking too much, but at least you’re not Torremolinos.
:)
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