| Message on the Malaga Tourist Hostel |
A short trip from historic Granada is the city of Malaga. I included this in my Spain itinerary after much debate. Initially, I had chosen Cordoba, a historical sight in central Spain. But I realized it was going to be a historical overkill with Granada, Seville and Cordoba. Instead, I decided on Malaga. It is a peppy beach town stringing almost the edge of the Mediterranean, not very far off from Gibraltar. The coast of Africa is a short ferry ride across the blue waters. Warm winds blow from the Sahara and give Malaga a climate which it is justifiably proud of. One of the ancient cities it prides itself on being one of the oldest in Europe. It has seen almost continuous habitation from the prehistoric times. Remains of a Roman amphitheatre, now mostly underground, is mute evidence of its glorious history. But that is not all. It is a prosperous city with a busy port and is one of the largest cities in Spain. This is reflected in its boulevards and the business district. Some highrises and boxy buildings make up the skyline. We stay in a hostel-like accommodation, which is spacious and pleasant but little else. No lifts. So we lug our hefty baggage three floors up. By mid-afternoon, we are settled and trudge to the nearest beach. But first, we head to the Museu Picasso. Malaga is also the birthplace of the venerable Picasso. While most of his work was accomplished elsewhere, this small Museum set up by his daughter, displays the early and minor works of art by the master. No photography is allowed. The crowd is thin and it is an easy saunter inside the museum. The audio guide helps decipher the otherwise enigmatic works of art. The museum has a collection of sculpture made by Picasso as well. After finishing with the museum we continue to the beach. The walk takes us past the university, a large park and the Centre Pompidou. It is not as big as its namesake in Paris but is a pleasant sight. The beach is clean and has several showers conveniently placed. Even in the afternoon, it is populated. We lie on the sand while our kids play in a small children’s area. They are joined by a much smaller lonely kid, Francis, who is seemingly roaming all by himself. He speaks a smattering of English and is soon friends with my kids. We contemplate the Mediterranean. Two Spanish warships are in sight, anchored. They look pretty harmless. I am reminded of the mighty Spanish Armada of yore. There could not be a starker contrast!
In the evening we get enticed by a Thai eating joint and have rice which somehow reminds me of home. There is a Flamenco show and it looks cheap. In fact much cheaper than what shows were in Barcelona or Madrid. We move into a large hall which has a makeshift stage. There is a crowd of about 50 people of varying nationalities. This is clearly a show tailormade for the tourists. As we sip on our complimentary drinks, the main performer goes into a long monologue in Spanish. This is interrupted occasionally by the guitarist. It takes me some time to realise, that the guitarist is actually translating the monologue into English! The dull atmosphere lights up once the performance begins. Flamenco, as depicted in movies and TV is actually very different. The dance is indeed very fast-paced and has incredible footwork. We are mesmerized for a while. Nevertheless, soon I find my kids dozing off. They are tired after the day’s hectic travel from Granada and playing on the beach. As the dance finishes, we cajole them into walking the roughly 750 metres back to the hostel. On looking back it is a bit too much for a day and I keep wondering if Cordoba would have been better.
The Cathedral of Malaga |
