Malaga - Spain
Early October 2019
Our bus wound along the express way, bleak plains slowly broke to become winding, sparsely vegetated hills. Jagged bluffs and remote towns then gave way to the Mediterranean and the beautiful Malaga coastline – complete with a crimson sunset. It was the last night of the trip and Malaga was perfect.
Arriving in the late afternoon, we dropped our things at our accommodation and quickly headed off to the old town. Our first stop was La Teteria, a busy tea house close to the Cathedral. After consuming too much cake and a Pakistani tea that was very reminiscent of the marsala chai that I had so often in Nepal some years ago, we headed on to the Pablo Picasso museum. Although the museum was quite small in scope, it was very well designed, as it followed Picasso’s entire life in detail, so you could easily understand what was in his head and how that affected his art and view of the world - this was particularly obvious in the pieces from his youth and those made during the Spanish Civil War. As we were snooping around the temporary exhibits, the ticket lady even let us in for free since the museum was approaching close – I didn’t particularly like the modern art on show, but it was a lovely gesture nonetheless.
On the whole, the Malaguenas were overwhelming friendly. Whether it was the example above, easy conversations in bars, a local explaining the day’s religious processions or a bartender advising me of a cheaper way to order vermouth, everyone seemed to go out of their way to just be nice. Something I wasn’t really expecting in such a busy, well-known and touristy town.
After briefly stopping at the cathedral and walking through the old town squares, Amy and I wandered along the esplanade, which was bustling due to a fun run having just finished. We were rather jealous of the runners given the local and beautiful conditions.
Before we left the old town we heard an enormous commotion – drums and what sounded like horns. Following our ears, we rounded a few corners and met a crowd of people following a solemn, stunning procession of men and women carrying a float of the Passion of the Christ. The float was carried by what looked to be 100 people, visibly straining as they slowly shuffled to and fro. Behind them a spectacular marching band played a typically Spanish brass tune and loud beat snares and bass drums in time with the floats movements. People reached up to touch the float as it passed. It was quite an arresting thing to see – particularly given that Semanta Santa, or Holy Week, when most of this typically happens is in April. Slowly, but surely, the procession shuffled away, I don’t know where, and the music dimmed. We moved on.
Wandering along towards the beach, the sunset grew deeper in colour and more beautiful. Seagulls squawked, salt hung in the warm air, boats bobbed next to their moorings. We both agreed that it would’ve been nice to have stayed another night. We sat for a while and enjoyed just being here.
Our evening began at La Madriguera, a craft beer bar in the west of town that proudly advertised “no crap on tap”. True to their word, we both tried two rather good beers, both locally brewed. We sat for a while and compared our favourite memories and reminisced about how we would’ve had free tapas by now if we were in Granada.
Descending in to the old town in search of a nice tapas bar, we were caught on the back foot by how busy Malaga was. Not in a negative way, but we simply hadn’t been around heavy tourist crowds during our entire trip, so it took some getting used to.
Elbowing our way in to a local bar, we ordered a few drinks and tapas to begin: tinto de verano, vino blanco, octopus salad, tortilla de patatas, croquettes, and meatballs. All of our selections were tasty enough, not the best we’ve had, not the worst.
We failed to get seats at a number of other bars we had wanted to head to, so decided to chance it at Bar Alcazaba. Fortunately, we were well taken care of by a waiter and had a rather nice sit down meal: seared veal with chimichurri and salad, a generous serve of nachos, vermouth, and vino roja. We were also treated to a wonderful view as Malaga’s Alcazaba stood above us.
Searching for one last drink, we headed closer to home. Being unsatisfied with the look of several bars, we decided to go to the one on our corner. As we approached we were surprised to find a heaving crowd of people lining our street. Sure enough we again heard the distant sound of drums. We sneaked inside, ordered a dessert wine, and sat at the window in anticipation.
Sure enough, the same procession had continued around town, having moved from west to east some hours ago, and was now slowly moving down our street – barely fitting might I add. I sat against the wrought iron windows of the bar and watched up close; it was the very same people from before, struggling, straining, and shouting encouragement at each other. The crowd lining the street shushed incessantly so that aside from the procession and the band, the street was silent. People reached out to touch the float as if it was ethereal. Young and old made the sign of the cross as the procession passed. The brass band played loudly, proudly, and in unison.
It was something else.
I’m not at all religious and in fact find the catholic church quite repellent, but it was impossible not to be moved by the passion of the people, the powerful music of the band, and the very vision of the procession itself.
Malaga seemed to be doing everything it could to offer us experiences that would make us come back. Perhaps it succeeded. Leaving early the next day, I couldn’t help but consider how easy it would be to fly from Glasgow to Malaga on weekend…
JC
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