Malaga, the land of flamenco and bull-fighting, is unique for its unflagging holiday spirit.
Picture this. The sky is aflame with the recently-set sun. The waves come crashing down on the beach next door as the song birds gear up for a last crescendo before retiring for the night. We are in a lush garden in the company of a large pitcher of fruity Sangria. It’s as if there’s nobody else in the world except us. Which is unexpected, given that we are in what must be Spain’s Least Kept Secret — Malaga, the timeshare capital of the world. Just then the silence is broken by the creak of unlubricated wheels. They herald the arrival of two British holidaymakers — a lady on a stretcher accompanied by her 70-something daughter. We call out cheery hellos, and it turns out that the old lady has holidayed in Malaga every year for the last 50 years. “She used to come with my father. After he passed away, we’ve continued the family tradition!” says Emily, the daughter. “It’s sunny, warm and cheap. Mummy loves it even though it’s a stretch to get her here now!”
Later, over dinner, Emily instructs us in timeshare etiquette, as we are first-timers. You say hello to everyone you meet. You exchange tips at breakfast on how and where to get the best of holiday value — the best buffets, the most value-for-money shows, the bus tours, the works. “Which beach can we find the best and most reasonably priced water sports?” asks my husband hopefully. “Sonny,” says she tartly, “at my age I’m happy to just be here with Mummy!” Anyway, we fix up to see a flamenco performance that night (buffet dinner, unlimited table wine and dessert are all included in the price of the ticket, we’re informed).
“It will be a tourist trap,” I prophesy, even though I wear a red skirt in honour of this ancient art form. The flamenco turns out to be surprisingly good — the dancers, guitarists and singers have us tapping and clapping away. In the good old timeshare tradition, guests gamely rise up to shake a leg, and I notice that my husband and I are by far the youngest people around. Emily is having the time of her life on the dance floor with a saturnine Spaniard, while Mummy looks on approvingly from her wheelchair. As the evening ends, everyone gets busy making plans to split the cost of a coach and drive into the countryside. Much as we’d like that, the bonhomie and hail-fellow-well-met spirit are a bit much for us. We decide to do our own thing.
The first thing next morning, as the coach full of geriatric tourists fades reproachfully into the distance, we head to the home of one of my favorite artists, Pablo Picasso. Malaga is his birthplace, and his childhood home, now dubbed the Museo Picasso, showcases all the works that the prolific artist's family has bequeathed the state. As we near the museum, we find lots of people idling on the cobbled street. Then we realize they’re all in queue waiting to enter the museum! The wait is rewarded, however, when we see the artworks inside. Having been to Madrid’s Reina Sofia museum which houses “Le Guernica”, arguably Picasso’s most famous painting, I’d thought I’d seen them all. But some of his works in this little museum are just incredible. We stop in front of “The Woman with Raised Arms” and dawdle as we look at “The Woman in an Armchair”, much to the annoyance of the crowd pressing from behind us.
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Next day at breakfast, we learn that the coach tour the previous day had been to Casares, famous for its white sugar cube houses. We decide to explore it too. Peregrine falcons and kestrels soar lazily in the sky as we circle up the mountain on a circuitous road. We are so close to the narrow stretch of sea that separates Africa from Europe that they say, on clear days, you can actually see Africa’s Rock of Gibraltar looming across the sea. We aren’t that lucky — the clouds obscure the view, though it is still magnificent. Instead, we battle the slight chill that has crept in with the clouds with a plate of the local delight — chocolat con churros. Churros are a heavenly mass of cholesterol-laden crisps that locals eat, dunked in chocolate so thick that it ought to be illegal. That one plate of six Churros probably had more calories than any other food I know, but their gooey, crunchy taste continues to linger on my palate. We also check out a traditional bull ring, but there’s no bullfight scheduled for that day. Locals tell us that the traditional Corrida — fight unto death between the bullfighter and bull — has been replaced by a less bloody version in which the bull isn’t killed (although the bullfighter runs the same risk getting gored on the bull’s massive horns).
No visit to Malaga is complete without a trip to its uppity neighbour, Marbella — playground of the rich and famous. It’s a short train ride away from Malaga (Spain’s railway service RENFE is fantastic). We stroll down its beautiful marina, gazing lustfully at the yachts moored alongside. As we enjoy a leisurely lunch by the waterfront, we see a plume of water rise up in the azure sea every now and again — a reminder that this town is reputed to have more jet skis per capita than anywhere else in Europe. A nearby beach is in sharp contrast to the immaculate marina. A strong smell of sea fish pervades the air as weathered fishermen haul in the day’s catch, all to be served in paella in Marbella’s restaurants.
When it’s time for us to leave, I ask myself what it is that has struck me the most about Malaga. Is it the paella and the churros, or the flamenco and the lovely Spanish architecture? Just then, I hear the now-familiar squeak of the wheelchair. Emily is wheeling her mom out to the beach. That’s when I realise that what makes Malaga unique is its unflagging holiday spirit — the spirit that’s brought Emily’s mom back, every year for the last half century. As the squeak of the wheelchair blends into the sounds of the beach, I reluctantly go indoors to pack my bags.
