I’ve spent a few days immersed in the world of the tourist. Malaga is crawling with us, from every corner of the earth, including long crocodiles of high school students and people from cruise ships marching about. On the surface, at least, we look mostly the same, wearing sneakers, sweatpants, t-shirts, backpacks. Girls in skintight gym wear, boys in soccer shirts. Yesterday I saw a young man wearing jeans, Nikes, and a t-shirt that said, “We are all fucked.” He could have come from anywhere on the planet. I wish people would wear little flags so we can tell. As I’ve said, the Brits are bright red. People from the southern continent tend to be small, and North Americans tend to be big and often fatter. Italians and French are trim and well-dressed; Chinese and Japanese like designer wear. The hefty man at the next table yesterday was from Bulgaria. You have no idea what language to use when addressing someone.
We humans have blended into one huge, wandering, sneaker-wearing, phone-snapping-and-ceaseless-checking-and-jabbering pack.
And we’re on vacation, which means a kind of carelessness in some, a disregard for the locals who are working to serve us, tossing away convention and politesse. It’s too bad. They file by endlessly — couples young and old, packs of girls wearing too little or too much — two today in high-heeled boots, tottering down the marble street in 80 degree weather — and families, all looking for a place to eat. Restaurants on the street jammed all day long, any kind of food instantly available — I love the nearby place, “Tacos de Paris,” specializing in tacos from Paris, Toulouse, and Lyon, all of course famous for their tacos.
Electric scooters zipping way too fast on pedestrian paths.
Tumblers of fresh squeezed orange juice every day. Bottled gazpacho from the supermarket, delicious. Colour, scent, flowers, birds — gifts for a frozen Canadian. Noise! Music, chatter, sirens. Bright blue sky. Multicoloured bougainvillea, and a thick oleander bush covered with sticky scale, just like my small one at home. Tiny twisting streets, shutters, overhanging balconies with delicate ironwork. The giant hideous cathedral, the bells that ring regularly. Someone in the street playing Eine Kleine Nachtmusik on a recorder, someone else playing terrific jazz saxophone. A cacophony, everyone celebrating being alive under the sun.
Anita knows all the good places, so yesterday we went to lunch on the top floor of a swanky hotel with an incredible view of the harbour. It’s too bad my stomach is not in good shape, because the lunch, with a glass of cava, was delicious; I took half of it home to eat later, happy to find out it’s actually illegal for restaurants to throw out good food here. (Since 2025, restaurants and supermarkets must by law donate still edible food or offer doggy bags. Canada, I’m looking at you! Let’s do this. NOW.)
Then Anita discovered she’d made a mistake; she thought she’d booked a flamenco performance at a restaurant for the following evening, but it was that night. So a big dinner after a big lunch, and again much of it came home; we’re eating here today, to finish what’s in the fridge. The flamenco was wonderful — so noisy, those stamping feet and castanets, the haughty thrusting of shoulders and head, the twisting wrists and snapping fan … and behind her, a wailing singer and a superb guitarist with his acoustic guitar. It’s a dance form that originated in India.
The restaurant was outside our front door, as is the Teatro Cervantes playing El Fantasma de la Opéra, which was produced in Toronto and elsewhere by my ex. So I sent him a pic, and he wrote back, “Yes, it’s produced by Antonio Banderas who lives in Malaga and is a big musical theatre fan.” Who knew?
Speaking of the theatre — I’m taking it slow today; after café con leche at our usual spot and a stroll with Anita and Lily through a local park, stopping every few seconds for Lily to sniff and mark, I went off to visit the first century Roman theatre ruins, uncovered in the fifties. To me, theatres are sacred spaces, even this one that has not been used as a theatre for over two thousand years. I remembered the life-changing moment at the ancient theatre on the Greek island of Delos, when I the actress realized I’d rather be sitting in the audience than standing on the stage. I honour both the Greek and Roman civilizations that valued the theatre so highly.
I climbed up behind the theatre toward the Islamic fortress, another great view; you can go right to the top of steep hill which I did not. Picasso was born here, but I will not go to the Picasso museum; I’ll probably see Picassos in Madrid, and I’ve visited the Picasso museum in Barcelona. So I came home, to write to you. And pack.
The Wiki history of Malaga: “Founded by Phoenicians around 770 BC, Málaga is one of the world’s oldest continuously inhabited cities, serving as a key Mediterranean trading post. It was heavily influenced by Roman rule—which built the amphitheater—and 700 years of Moorish rule, which left the Alcazaba Fortress and Gibralfaro Castle. Reclaimed in 1487 by the Catholic Monarchs, it grew into a prominent industrial and cultural hub, now known as the birthplace of Picasso.”
Tomorrow, I need to find the bus that’ll take me partway to Madrid, then transfer to the train, then find my hostel. Sunday, the Prado, and a visit with Christopher, Lynn’s oldest child and only son whom I’ve known since his babyhood, and his family. Monday, more art. Tuesday, back to Paris for the second last leg.
Now I need to get back out in the sun. Excuse me.
Below: Anita at dinner, and the view. The 2500-year-old theatre. Your faithful correspondent with the famous painter from Malaga. Tacos de Paris, bien sûr! The pretty market square lined with restaurants where we had breakfast every morning.
