 "The Picasso summer")
The notes of a lone Spanish guitar ring out in the square. It’s maddeningly familiar, but I can’t place it. “This is Asturias, a famous Spanish composition,” says the busker with a flourish. “But tourists know it better from the college classic by The Doors, Spanish Caravan…”
We rest under a shady tree as he plays another Spanish air for us. It’s a sunny morning and ahead, our eventual destination, the Alcazaba, looms large. It’s a steep walk up to the Moorish Fort, and we’re glad of yet another breather. Since we arrived in Malaga, it seems as though our days are simply a bunch of breathers strung together in a timeless sort of way.
The walk up to Alcazaba is picturesque, the Mediterranean glinting in the sun on one side and the town of Malaga laid out like a jewel on the other. Despite being over-shadowed by the more famous Moorish forts (Alcazar of Seville and Alhambra of Granada), this is not only the best-preserved fortress-palace in Spain, but it is also three centuries older. It’s a quiet respite from the often maddening holiday crowds of Malaga that mostly throng its beaches, slowly reddening in the sun, like shrimp cooking in a paella.
In fact, those who think of Malaga as a quintessential beach destination are in for a surprise here. While it’s nice to sunbathe, splash and drink endless sangrias on the beach, Malaga is also choc-a-bloc with interesting non-beachy things to do. It is, for one, the birthplace of Pablo Picasso, and his family home has been converted into a museum of his sketches, ceramics, metal work and sculpture. The maestro had expressed a desire for his work to be on display in the city where he was born in 1881. The museum eventually opened in 2003 following the donation of his artworks by Christine and Bernard Ruiz-Picasso, Picasso’s daughter-in-law and grandson.
It’s a typical Spanish mansion with all its rooms opening into a beautiful courtyard. As we walk around with the audio guides provided with the ticket, I sample the pleasures of a small, intimate museum where the limited number of works allows the viewer to linger and absorb rather than rush through.
With the signature mustard of Malaga’s adobe houses contrasting against the endless aqua of the Mediterranean Sea, I wonder how the landscape of Malaga inspired Picasso. We stop in front of The Woman with Raised Arms and dawdle as we look at The Woman in an Armchair.
We rest under a shady tree as he plays another Spanish air for us. It’s a sunny morning and ahead, our eventual destination, the Alcazaba, looms large. It’s a steep walk up to the Moorish Fort, and we’re glad of yet another breather. Since we arrived in Malaga, it seems as though our days are simply a bunch of breathers strung together in a timeless sort of way.
The walk up to Alcazaba is picturesque, the Mediterranean glinting in the sun on one side and the town of Malaga laid out like a jewel on the other. Despite being over-shadowed by the more famous Moorish forts (Alcazar of Seville and Alhambra of Granada), this is not only the best-preserved fortress-palace in Spain, but it is also three centuries older. It’s a quiet respite from the often maddening holiday crowds of Malaga that mostly throng its beaches, slowly reddening in the sun, like shrimp cooking in a paella.
In fact, those who think of Malaga as a quintessential beach destination are in for a surprise here. While it’s nice to sunbathe, splash and drink endless sangrias on the beach, Malaga is also choc-a-bloc with interesting non-beachy things to do. It is, for one, the birthplace of Pablo Picasso, and his family home has been converted into a museum of his sketches, ceramics, metal work and sculpture. The maestro had expressed a desire for his work to be on display in the city where he was born in 1881. The museum eventually opened in 2003 following the donation of his artworks by Christine and Bernard Ruiz-Picasso, Picasso’s daughter-in-law and grandson.
It’s a typical Spanish mansion with all its rooms opening into a beautiful courtyard. As we walk around with the audio guides provided with the ticket, I sample the pleasures of a small, intimate museum where the limited number of works allows the viewer to linger and absorb rather than rush through.
With the signature mustard of Malaga’s adobe houses contrasting against the endless aqua of the Mediterranean Sea, I wonder how the landscape of Malaga inspired Picasso. We stop in front of The Woman with Raised Arms and dawdle as we look at The Woman in an Armchair.
Street view
“Does this woman look young or old to you?” asks an old lady earnestly. I shrug, for Picasso has deconstructed her into lines and curves. But I do wonder if Picasso would have ever imagined that his birthplace would one day turn into a holiday destination for geriatrics. I get chatting with her, and she tells me how she’s inherited a timeshare here from her parents. Her father died a few months ago, and she’s here with her mum, pointing to a lady in a wheelchair, oxygen pipe in her nose, and ears glued to the audio tour. “It’s warm, beautiful and most of all, reminds her of happy times with my father,” says she. “Malaga is ideal for her!”Its uppity neighbour, Marbella, is very different. Reputed to have more jet skis per capita than anywhere else in Europe, its marina is full of beautiful people in nautical whites and oversized sunglasses. After a day there, our return to Malaga almost has a sense of homecoming. In the now-familiar resort we’re staying in, a sweet old lady we exchange greetings with every morning comes up to us. “Its flamenco night with unlimited sangrias tonight!” she enthuses. “Last year, the troupe actually invited all of us on stage to dance with them…” It is, however, also our last evening in Malaga and we decide to take a farewell walk through its well-restored city centre instead.
The next day, when our plane takes off, I close my eyes and see not the myriad experiences we’ve actually had in Malaga. Instead, I carry back an imagined image of seniors learning to dance the dance of passion under the burnt orange Andalusian sunset. I hope they enjoyed themselves.