Another train, another treatise. It has been four nights and five days since I arrived in Malaga, and I now sit settled on my train to Seville, waiting to depart. I found Malaga lovely; a little coastal city full cozy alleys and sunlight. It is a definite candidate for a return visit in the future, though sadly, as you will see, I did not spend many of my days here.
When I disembarked embarked from the train in early Sunday afternoon, I made a beeline for the hostel, well aware that many of the sights in Malaga are free on Sundays and eager to fit most of them in. Check-in was a painless procedure, and as soon as I had my bags stowed and my water bottle refilled, I headed for the monuments: Gibralfaro Castle and Alcazaba. Alcazaba, a term you will here often, just means a palatial fortress, more or less a military palace from the Moorish occupation of Spain. It is often referred to as “la” Alcazaba, or “the” Alcazaba, of whichever city it’s in, but that’s a bastardization of the Arabic, wherein the “al-” already means “the,” so I’m going to omit it and you all will have to deal. (Note: this convention will remain true for Alhambra as well.)
Alcazaba in Malaga is one of the oldest and best preserved in Spain, sitting on the lower plain of a large hill overlooking the sea. At it’s entrance was a small roman theatre that I poked around in for a bit before heading up to explore the twists and turns of Alcazaba itself. In short, it was gorgeous. It wasn’t heavily curated, but the entire structure was covered in plant life, flowers and vines of every shape and color that made the place as much a garden as a fortress. After lugging my 20 kilo backpack across town in the scorching Spanish sun, it was a wonderful chance to relax in the shade with little fountains and streams on all sides.
Following Alcazaba was Gibralfaro Castle, a fortification for purely military purposes built on the uppermost point of the hill when the Moors realized their enemies need only climb said hill to have a military advantage against Alcazaba. It was a long, hot hike up, but had stunning views over Malaga, the surrounding countryside, and the Mediterranean. Nevertheless, it was equally under-curated and I didn’t spend nearly as long there as I had expected. The upside to that development was that it gave me more time to see the rest of the city.
My next stop was Malaga Cathedral, a sight I only learned today, having not found opening times or prices online, is also only free on Sundays. That was a stroke of luck. The architecture, as in most Cathedrals, was lovely. The interesting thing about Malaga Cathedral, however, is that it remains unfinished, probably forever more. Only one of its two towers was completed when construction was stopped to help fund the American Revolution. The interruption lasted so long that Malagenios affectionately began to call the cathedral “la manquita,” or the one armed woman. Now, they don’t want the Cathedral finished, and so it remains with its single tower.
Now in most places, by the time I finished the cathedral most sights would be closing. In Spain it is not so. In line with my usually ambition travel behavior, I hurried across town, past the Picasso Museum, which I felt comfortable skipping, to the Picasso Birth Museum, which I did not. For those who don’t know, Pablo Picasso was born in Malaga, and the house he was born in has been turned into a museum of his early family life. As previously mentioned, I am not a huge fan of Picasso, but I do find him a fascinating character, and seized the chance to learn more about his life. Besides, the museum was free for students, and springing for the audio guide only cost me one euro.
Despite my quite successful whirlwind tour, it did have to come to an end eventually, so following the museum I finally headed back to my hostel for the promise of dinner and free sangria. It wasn’t the best run hostel, and they wouldn’t let me buy dinner without a drink, which made it terribly overpriced for what was essentially pasta. It served my purposes though, and it was cheap, so I can’t really complain. Besides, I ate my dinner that night with a lovely young Canadian couple from Alberta who seemed equally unenthused by the partying contingent in the hostel, so at least it was good company.
The next day began my whirlwind of day trips around Andalucia, the province of southern Spain. My first was too Granada, to see Alhambra, the famous Moorish castle including a separate palace and alcazaba. I woke up early to make the train, travelled three hours out including a short transfer, walked forty five minutes up a steep hill to reach Alhambra, and then realized I had a problem.
The ticket line was ridiculous, stretching out through the blazing sun without a bit of shade in sight. So I went to my backup strategy: purchase a ticket online. Well, that didn’t work. Apparently they don’t sell tickets online day of, and even if they had they appeared sold out for the next two days. In fact, they were already announcing that morning tickets (for entrance before 2:00) were sold out at the ticket booths. That would only give me two hours before I had to head back to the train, but there was nothing for it. I would just have to wait. And so I did, two hours in fact. I am happy to report I did not burn, but my ridiculous tan lines are largely a result of this particular experience.
I didn’t mind so much though. Even when I got my tickets and still had half an hour to wait I contented myself with an overpriced ice cream, only a little annoyed to discover electronic ticketing machines without a line behind the ice cream stand. Honestly, I was just excited to see Alhambra. This was a structure I had been hearing about repeatedly in Arabic history and literature since I was first told about it sophomore year. It was a huge deal to me, definitely in my list of tip three things to see. Besides, I knew the history, so it wasn’t like I needed a tour or an audio guide. I just wanted to go in.
Well, even that it seems was ambitious.
Perhaps I should have looked more closely at my ticket when I got it, but I’d only glanced across the top to see “Entrada: 14:00-20:00.” I had already come to terms with my two hour time limit since my train left at 5:00, but when I went to enter the grounds at 2:00, I noticed something else. Towards the bottom of the ticket, there was another time. “Palacios Nasrid: 17:00.” My heart dropped and a million options went through my head. Should I go back to the ticket counter? But I couldn’t wait another two hours. Ask the ticket taker? But I’d talked to him earlier and he didn’t speak English. Go to guest services? Did they even have a guest services? In the end it didn’t matter, because while all of this was going through my head my ticket was scanned and that was that. I was in. Null and void. I did look around for a guest services, because that seemed like the best option, but there was nothing to be found. At which point I started to panic a bit as the handful of people I was texting at the time can attest.
The Nasrid Palaces *are* the essence of Alhambra. It has an Alcazaba, and a smaller less famous palace further up the hill, but to go to Alhambra and not see the Nasrid Palaces is like going to Paris and not seeing Notre Dame, or the Eiffel Tower, or one of those other things you just have to see. After making the long trip out though, it was especially devastating. It wasn’t like I just had time to come back tomorrow. It was now or never, and I was in a pessimistic enough mood to expect the later version.
At any rate, I tried to pull myself together and not let my heartbreak ruin what I *could* see. It wasn’t really working, at least until I emerged from the remains of an old bath house to be slapped in the face with a giant sign that read “Guest Services.” So I stopped sniffling long enough to go in and explain my situation. They wanted proof of my train, which I had, but after making a copy of my ticket they changed my entrance time to the palaces like it was nothing and sent me on my way. On my direct way, in fact. The new access time was 14:00, which meant I had to rush straight to the palaces and even jump the line. It all happened quite fast until I was all of a sudden standing in the Nasarid Palaces a bit in shock. It was still crowded, of course, even with the controlled access, but I was eventually able to settle my nerves enough to wander through the rooms, taking in the architecture and the art and enjoying it very much - if less than I might have without all the extra hassle.
After the Nasrid Palaces I had just enough time to get a quick walkthrough of Alcazaba and the smaller, less impressive but also less crowded and therefore more enjoyable Generalife Palace and Gardens, and then it was time to rush back to the train, stopping only to pick up a sandwich upon realizing that in all the fuss I hadn’t really eaten that day.
That is becoming something of a theme actually, that I am working hard to correct. I realized at Alhambra that I really need to watch my nutrition intake more carefully as I am lacking in not only protein, but iron. I’ve started taking supplements again, and there should be kitchens at the next few hostels where I can make eggs and store Greek yogurt. I just need to keep reminding myself to stay on top of it.
When I arrived back in Malaga I tried to book some more train tickets, only to encounter much the same problem I had in Barcelona. It was looking like I might be stranded in Lisbon, which to be fair isn’t a bad place to be stranded, but I was a little stressed by it all the same. I returned to the hostel, made some phone calls, and finally went to sleep.
The following day, I am relieved to say, was much better. I had started taking supplements and bought some greek yogurt and muesli for breakfast, which improved my mood by leaps and bounds. When I got to Cordoba then, my destination for that day, I had much more energy for all the walking around. I even made it to the mosque, the major attraction in Cordoba, before 09:30 when free entrance ended before it opened to the public at 10:00. I did not enter immediately though, caught off guard by a nagging suspicion.
You see, the Great Mosque of Cordoba is a mosque no longer. It was converted into a Cathedral after the reconquest of Spain in the fifteenth century. I realized this meant I didn’t have to cover my head, but I wasn’t so sure about my shoulders, a thought that had not occurred to me when I put my tanktop on that morning. There were various women wandering the square with scarves and shawls, which made me wonder even more. I didn’t want to be turned away, or worse appear disrespectful, and there was a little sign on the tourist information panel that had a picture of shorts and tank top crossed out. I realized that might mean no underwear or bathing suits, but I decided to search the streets for a cheap scarf anyway. It would undoubtedly come in handy later anyway.
My search was successful, as it turns out, and I returned to the mosque square just as the bells began to chime 9:30. So I didn’t get my free entrance, and had to wait half an hour to pay, but I did feel better about my appearance entering the church, and now I have a lovely pink scarf that I can wear as a shawl or a skirt or a beach wrap or whatever else I can manage to turn it into.
The mosque was just about everything you would expect it to be - a grand melding of Christian and Islamic architecture. The entire structure seems to move and glow with the light, and the arches sometimes appear to go on forever. I wandered around for a bit, enjoying the beauty and atmosphere, but the other tourists did eventually get to me, so I decided to move on.
Stop number two was Calahorra Tower, a three story stone tower just across the river from the mosque and accessible by and old stone footbridge first built by the Romans. I didn’t realize before going that it had been turned into a museum, I had thought it was just another old building to look at, but I was pleasantly surprised. The Living Museum of Cordoba was just that, a living museum. Guests were given headphone that operated based on location and proximity to certain exhibits, including tracks on ancient Andalucian philosophers, the architects of Alhambra, Moorish diplomacy, and much on daily life in the region during the Moorish period. It was certainly three of the best euros I’d spent all trip.
After the museum I was starting to get hungry, but decided I could squeeze in one more sight before I absolutely had to eat. Alcazaba of the Christian Kings was just down the river anyway, and though I’d thought about skipping it, at two and a quarter euro I figured it worth a look. Again, I was pleasantly surprised. Unlike the two alcazabas I’d already seen, this one was built for, as the name would suggest, Christian Kings visiting the area. It was much more palatial than fortress like, and now includes extensive gardens that were a veritable treat to wander through. The only downside was the rambunctious group of Spanish school children I kept getting stuck behind, but I tried to keep my distance as much as I could.
After Alcazaba, it was finally time to eat. I was determined to find paella again, but when I saw a sign for a Spanish omelette, that quickly changed my mind. I was supposed to be watching my protein, wasn’t I? Well, the Spanish omelette was not what I expected. I don’t even think it had eggs in it. It was more like a potato based brick stuck on a Sandwich, much like that strange sandwich I’d had in Barcelona but blessedly free of ham. It filled me up, but it was a bit of a let down, made up for by the dessert that followed lunch.
I wasn’t looking for dessert this time, but a sign caught my eye as I was wandering announcing a free flamenco show at 2:00, which was a mere fifteen minutes away. The show was at a restaurant though, and I had already eaten, so I asked the host attracting people to the restaurant if I couldn’t just have postre, to which he responded with an enthusiastic affirmative and proceeded to lead me into the restaurant where he explained the layout, introduced me to the pastry chef, and asked me a lot of basic questions like my name and where I was from. This wouldn’t be so remarkable except it was all in very rapid Spanish that I only caught some of the time. Nevertheless, it was a very friendly welcome that made me feel less bad about a free show for the price of a vaguely tiramisu-like mouse concoction that Andres, the host, insisted was the best dessert in the house.
The show itself was also a lot of fun. It consisted of three people, a singer, dancer, and guitar player, all sharing the stage and taking turns at solos. The first half lasted just under an hour, at which point the singer had to stop for a smoke break. Have I mentioned how ubiquitous smoking is here? In all of Europe really. It’s started getting to me a lot, but nowhere more so than this show.
You see, there weren’t many free chairs with a view of the stage, and I had the bad luck of picking one next a couple who, after finishing their meal, began to smoke like chimneys. The first cigarette each was annoying, the second gave me pause, the third found me texting a friend who loves me enough to let me complain, and by the fourth, just around intermission, I decided I had to leave. My lungs were burning, and while the show was good, it wasn’t good enough for that. I think cigarette smoke in Europe is thicker too? Maybe there’s just more of it, but whatever the reason it bothers me more. Alas, the hazards of travel.
So I took to the streets for a bit more wandering, quickly realizing that it was, in fact, midday, which meant one thing: siesta. There was no one out, and I had found my way into a largely residential area. I could have kept wandering, the architecture was all pretty white plaster with cute little window boxes, but it was about that time that I happened upon the only open cafe for miles and thought: what’s the next best thing to a midday nap? Well, the answer is midday coffee. So I wandered in and passed siesta with a cafe con leche and my latest book about Obama and Afghanistan.
Siesta was a lovely break, followed by yoga in the park and an early return to the train station where I had my first success with an employee of the Spanish train system. I had recalculated my options out of Lisbon, though I was still running in to problems. Rather than telling me “no, no es possible” and sending me away like the others, however, he actually bothered to click the two extra buttons to check if there was an earlier or later train available instead. It’s not going to be pleasant, and I’ll be pulling an all nighter in Paris with my backpack in tow, but I will make it to Nice… eventually.
Anyway, the train back from Cordoba was as lovely as the train there. I’ve kind of fallen in love with the Spanish countryside. It is picturesque and riveting no matter the time of day. The best part of all these day trips by train is that I can just sit there and stare. And I have. Repeatedly.
That night I spent hurriedly trying to cobble together travel plans and booked hostels based on my new, if not necessarily improved, itinerary. I should be able to make it through Switzerland and into Italy without too much trouble, but I’m having some trouble booking Italy from Spain. I’ve taken a few days for a breather from that, but will probably get back in the ring on my way to Madrid in a few days.
My final day trip out of Malaga was to the British colony of Gibraltar, the oh so famous rock. For several reasons, least of which was timing, I took the bus this time instead of the train. The road runs along the coast though, so the views of the Mediterranean were equally picturesque, even if the weather was gloomy for the first time since I’d got to Spain. It just goes to show, cloud cover and intermittent showers follow the British everywhere.
The bus dropped me off in Spain just across the border, so I walked into Gibraltar, which has the absolute worst border security I have ever seen, and made for the town. It was only a ten minute walk or so, but it did involve crossing the airport runway, because when you have that little space you make the best use of it you can.
Walking in to town was like walking into London, and a bit disorienting for me at first. Much like it had in Northern Cyprus, British occupation had met local culture to produce a completely unique and otherworldly experience. There were British pubs serving paella and Spanish spoken as much as English in the streets. The difference, of course, was that the UK still controls Gibraltar, so the use of English is official rather than convenient. I certainly felt less guilty walking up to shopkeepers and breaking out my native tongue.
I didn’t linger in the town for long though, aware as I was that I had a limited amount of time before the return bus left at 4:30 or 7:00. Part of me said take your time, if you get back too early you will be obligated to go to dinner with the lonely British man in your dorm room (more on that later). The other part of me didn’t want to exhaust myself and then not get back until 10:00. At any rate, I wasn’t sure how long the Upper Rock Nature Reserve, which is the thing to do on Gibraltar, would take. So I started hiking the mountain until I came to a shack that looked vaguely official where they sold me a ticket to see the sights.
The sights, as it turned out, were a series of stops along the mountain road. The road was meant more for cars than walkers, as demonstrated by the number of vehicles I passed as opposed to fellow hikers, but hey, I have to keep in shape somehow! Besides, the weather started to clear up in the early afternoon, making the views on the walk spectacular, if accompanied by an uncomfortable level of humidity. Sights on the rock included: a small Moorish castle; a series of siege tunnels used in both the Great Siege of the Spanish against Gibraltar and in World War II; an exhibition on Gibraltarians’ life under siege; a Military Heritage Museum, an old lime kiln, a spectacular cave that has been turned into a theatre, and monkeys. Lots and lots of monkeys. In case you didn’t know, Gibraltar is famous for it’s monkeys. And we didn’t get along.
It wasn’t that they weren’t perfectly nice creatures, for the most part, but there was one. Let us call him my arch nemesis, because I consider him my arch nemesis, because he was evil. Let me explain why.
Shortly after exiting St. Michael’s Cave, I was faced with the decision of whether or not I wanted to attempt the top of the rock. It had been a steep climb thus far, and only got steeper. Furthermore, I had been hiking most of the day at that point, this before my new dedication to protein and supplements had fully kicked in, and I was beat. When I was honest with myself, I knew I couldn’t do it. Or if I did manage to do it, it wouldn’t be smart. Instead, I decided to recharge with an ice cream (have you guys been noticing how much I love my ice cream?) and let the sugar spike help me back down the mountain where I would seek out some real food. Preferably fish and chips.
I overpaid, because supply and demand, and there is a very small supply for a lot of people when you’re on top of a humid mountain. Still, I was happy with my decision as I left the shop to begin my procession down, taking a first delicious bite of my ice cream. I hadn’t made it more than two steps out of the shop, however, when I felt eyes on me. Beady little monkey eyes that I met for a moment before all of a sudden they were charging towards me at a rapid pace. I froze, of course, because what do you do with a charging monkey? And then they were on me as the monkey launched itself at my face, tore the ice cream from my hand, and proceeded to lope away with its prize, stopping just out of grasping range to gloat and lick at it in a disconcertingly human fashion.
I gaped for a moment as whispers broke out among the tourists around me. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether I was more upset that I didn’t have ice cream, or that I had overpaid for an ice cream I clearly wasn’t going to get to eat. There were strict warnings about antagonizing the monkeys though, and taking back my ice cream was surely antagonism at its finest. Then my mind flickered to the other warnings: namely, don’t feed the monkey’s under pain of exorbitant fines. A passing tour guide asked if I was alright. My only answer: As long as they don’t fine me.
If I committed a crime, surely I could claim coercion.
Still a bit befuddled by the whole episode, I began my ice cream-less trek down the mountain. It took the better part of an hour, though it popped me out in a less touristy part of the town where I found a most affordable plate of fish and chips with which to reward myself. It even came with salad and mushy peas, which is a major plus in my book because vegetables! By the time I’d finished eating and paid my bill, I had just under and hour to make it back to the 4:30 bus. Could I make it? Did I want to?
At this point, I should probably explain about the British guy. (I think he was living in Australia though?) He was staying in my hostel in Malaga, and while not at all threatening, he was clearly lonely. He was also older, probably late forties or early fifties, and didn’t fit in at all with the partying vibe of the hostel. I think he realized pretty quickly that I didn’t as well, though as a young twenty something I certainly navigate it better, and he chose me as a person with whom he could talk. For the first night or two, this mostly consisted of striking up a desperate conversation when I would come back to the room in the evenings. “What did you do today?” and “What are your plans for tomorrow?” Pretty standard hostel fare, all things considered.
I was friendly enough back. It’s me, I usually try to be friendly, but I also wasn’t feeling the whole older person thing. I support traveling at any age, but something about older people in hostels is just… weird. Like I said, it’s a vibe thing. Anyway, the night before Gibraltar he had asked me to dinner. Now, I don’t think he had any ill intentions. I really think he was just sick of eating dinner alone. Still, I was happy with what I was up to and didn’t really want to make plans outside of that. I explained that I didn’t know when I would be getting back the next day, and that it would probably be late. He countered that people ate late in Spain, and asked me to keep the option open. I agreed, because it was the polite thing to do, but had no intention of going to dinner with him, just in case.
If I took the 4:30 bus, that put me back in Malaga at 7:30, well within Spanish dinner time. The 7:00 service got me back at 10:00, well into the range where I could claim it was too late. We already discussed me not wanting to get back that late though, and I was already exhausted, so I took the 4:30 and decided I’d figure it out when I got there. My solution, as it turns out, was to be in Malaga and just not head back to the hostel.
I stopped first for chocolate and churros, a Spanish delicacy of fried dough dipped in something that resembles warm chocolate pudding. Call it a consolation for my stolen ice cream. I still had a few hours after that though, so I decided to see some parts of Malaga I hadn’t been before, read: the beach. The sun doesn’t even go down here until ten or later, so it was still nice out, and just starting to cool down.
My walk through a harbor-side park led me an impromptu band concert. I’m not sure if they were warming up or practicing or what. They didn’t look very serious, mostly students, one snare drummer pausing mid-song to take long drags on his cigarette. It wasn’t very good music either, but hey, it was background for my walk, that did eventually lead to the beach.
I sat at said beach for maybe half an hour, watching the joggers and dog walkers and tide rolling in. It was lovely, really. The perfect relaxing end to the day. I wanted to jog along the beach myself, but sadly that’s not really feasible with a bag as large as mine. Alas, one day.
My side trip bought me enough time that I didn’t get back to the hostel until after ten, as planned. The man didn’t seem too disappointed, and I was able to pack up for my departure in the morning and go to bed. Which brings us to today.
Since my train didn’t actually leave until the afternoon, I was able to get up, stow my bag, and have a leisurely breakfast wherein I finally managed to finish book Katy bought me in Scotland about Scottish castles. It was fascinating, but in true traveler fashion I have already traded it out for a collection by Stephen Fry.
After breakfast, I made a stop by one of those quintessentially Spanish markets that had been recommended to me by both Trip Advisor and Jess. The former comes in handy, but the latter makes sights absolute must sees. It wasn’t so much something to see, however, as things to buy. As per Jess’ instruction I purchased some ridiculously cheap strawberries and trail mix that I later ate for lunch. They were delicious. I am very sad I cannot now buy more.
Following the market, I did a strange sort of reverse exploration wherein I finished up my time in Malaga with a free (read: tip based) walking tour. Having already seen the sights, I didn’t learn a ton, but the company was lovely, and there were a few great fun facts. Our tour guide was a guy from New York who had moved to spain in 2010 because he’d been laid off and why not. He seems to be doing well for himself, and enjoying it at the very least. My tour was also populated by a lovely girl from Quebec and a friendly guy from Korea. They were nice to chat with while walking and on breaks. It only occurred to me after I’d rushed off at the end of the tour that we should have exchanged contact information. Alas, I was hurrying to catch my train, and there’s no point to regrets but to remember for next time.
It was a short train ride from Malaga to Seville: just under two hours. I made the exceedingly unwise decision upon arriving, however, to try to walk to my hostel. I had already research the transit system, knew which bus and tram to take and how much they would cost. But my phone said the walk was only half an hour, and even in the scorching sun… I had to work off all that trail mix, right? So I walked, arriving drenched in sweat to the point that my tank top was wringable. I’ve gotten a shower since though, and the hostel is lovely. It’s just my speed: clean and friendly with a wall full of books. I wasn’t too eager to head back out following my brush with the sun. Siestas are making more and more since every day. Now that it has started to cool down, however, I think I may venture out again. I hear music coming from the nearby square, and I would hate to miss Sevilla at night.
Oh my goodness! That’s “Yesterday” on the accordion! Definitely checking it out. Tootles!
When I disembarked embarked from the train in early Sunday afternoon, I made a beeline for the hostel, well aware that many of the sights in Malaga are free on Sundays and eager to fit most of them in. Check-in was a painless procedure, and as soon as I had my bags stowed and my water bottle refilled, I headed for the monuments: Gibralfaro Castle and Alcazaba. Alcazaba, a term you will here often, just means a palatial fortress, more or less a military palace from the Moorish occupation of Spain. It is often referred to as “la” Alcazaba, or “the” Alcazaba, of whichever city it’s in, but that’s a bastardization of the Arabic, wherein the “al-” already means “the,” so I’m going to omit it and you all will have to deal. (Note: this convention will remain true for Alhambra as well.)
Alcazaba in Malaga is one of the oldest and best preserved in Spain, sitting on the lower plain of a large hill overlooking the sea. At it’s entrance was a small roman theatre that I poked around in for a bit before heading up to explore the twists and turns of Alcazaba itself. In short, it was gorgeous. It wasn’t heavily curated, but the entire structure was covered in plant life, flowers and vines of every shape and color that made the place as much a garden as a fortress. After lugging my 20 kilo backpack across town in the scorching Spanish sun, it was a wonderful chance to relax in the shade with little fountains and streams on all sides.
Following Alcazaba was Gibralfaro Castle, a fortification for purely military purposes built on the uppermost point of the hill when the Moors realized their enemies need only climb said hill to have a military advantage against Alcazaba. It was a long, hot hike up, but had stunning views over Malaga, the surrounding countryside, and the Mediterranean. Nevertheless, it was equally under-curated and I didn’t spend nearly as long there as I had expected. The upside to that development was that it gave me more time to see the rest of the city.
My next stop was Malaga Cathedral, a sight I only learned today, having not found opening times or prices online, is also only free on Sundays. That was a stroke of luck. The architecture, as in most Cathedrals, was lovely. The interesting thing about Malaga Cathedral, however, is that it remains unfinished, probably forever more. Only one of its two towers was completed when construction was stopped to help fund the American Revolution. The interruption lasted so long that Malagenios affectionately began to call the cathedral “la manquita,” or the one armed woman. Now, they don’t want the Cathedral finished, and so it remains with its single tower.
Now in most places, by the time I finished the cathedral most sights would be closing. In Spain it is not so. In line with my usually ambition travel behavior, I hurried across town, past the Picasso Museum, which I felt comfortable skipping, to the Picasso Birth Museum, which I did not. For those who don’t know, Pablo Picasso was born in Malaga, and the house he was born in has been turned into a museum of his early family life. As previously mentioned, I am not a huge fan of Picasso, but I do find him a fascinating character, and seized the chance to learn more about his life. Besides, the museum was free for students, and springing for the audio guide only cost me one euro.
Despite my quite successful whirlwind tour, it did have to come to an end eventually, so following the museum I finally headed back to my hostel for the promise of dinner and free sangria. It wasn’t the best run hostel, and they wouldn’t let me buy dinner without a drink, which made it terribly overpriced for what was essentially pasta. It served my purposes though, and it was cheap, so I can’t really complain. Besides, I ate my dinner that night with a lovely young Canadian couple from Alberta who seemed equally unenthused by the partying contingent in the hostel, so at least it was good company.
The next day began my whirlwind of day trips around Andalucia, the province of southern Spain. My first was too Granada, to see Alhambra, the famous Moorish castle including a separate palace and alcazaba. I woke up early to make the train, travelled three hours out including a short transfer, walked forty five minutes up a steep hill to reach Alhambra, and then realized I had a problem.
The ticket line was ridiculous, stretching out through the blazing sun without a bit of shade in sight. So I went to my backup strategy: purchase a ticket online. Well, that didn’t work. Apparently they don’t sell tickets online day of, and even if they had they appeared sold out for the next two days. In fact, they were already announcing that morning tickets (for entrance before 2:00) were sold out at the ticket booths. That would only give me two hours before I had to head back to the train, but there was nothing for it. I would just have to wait. And so I did, two hours in fact. I am happy to report I did not burn, but my ridiculous tan lines are largely a result of this particular experience.
I didn’t mind so much though. Even when I got my tickets and still had half an hour to wait I contented myself with an overpriced ice cream, only a little annoyed to discover electronic ticketing machines without a line behind the ice cream stand. Honestly, I was just excited to see Alhambra. This was a structure I had been hearing about repeatedly in Arabic history and literature since I was first told about it sophomore year. It was a huge deal to me, definitely in my list of tip three things to see. Besides, I knew the history, so it wasn’t like I needed a tour or an audio guide. I just wanted to go in.
Well, even that it seems was ambitious.
Perhaps I should have looked more closely at my ticket when I got it, but I’d only glanced across the top to see “Entrada: 14:00-20:00.” I had already come to terms with my two hour time limit since my train left at 5:00, but when I went to enter the grounds at 2:00, I noticed something else. Towards the bottom of the ticket, there was another time. “Palacios Nasrid: 17:00.” My heart dropped and a million options went through my head. Should I go back to the ticket counter? But I couldn’t wait another two hours. Ask the ticket taker? But I’d talked to him earlier and he didn’t speak English. Go to guest services? Did they even have a guest services? In the end it didn’t matter, because while all of this was going through my head my ticket was scanned and that was that. I was in. Null and void. I did look around for a guest services, because that seemed like the best option, but there was nothing to be found. At which point I started to panic a bit as the handful of people I was texting at the time can attest.
The Nasrid Palaces *are* the essence of Alhambra. It has an Alcazaba, and a smaller less famous palace further up the hill, but to go to Alhambra and not see the Nasrid Palaces is like going to Paris and not seeing Notre Dame, or the Eiffel Tower, or one of those other things you just have to see. After making the long trip out though, it was especially devastating. It wasn’t like I just had time to come back tomorrow. It was now or never, and I was in a pessimistic enough mood to expect the later version.
At any rate, I tried to pull myself together and not let my heartbreak ruin what I *could* see. It wasn’t really working, at least until I emerged from the remains of an old bath house to be slapped in the face with a giant sign that read “Guest Services.” So I stopped sniffling long enough to go in and explain my situation. They wanted proof of my train, which I had, but after making a copy of my ticket they changed my entrance time to the palaces like it was nothing and sent me on my way. On my direct way, in fact. The new access time was 14:00, which meant I had to rush straight to the palaces and even jump the line. It all happened quite fast until I was all of a sudden standing in the Nasarid Palaces a bit in shock. It was still crowded, of course, even with the controlled access, but I was eventually able to settle my nerves enough to wander through the rooms, taking in the architecture and the art and enjoying it very much - if less than I might have without all the extra hassle.
After the Nasrid Palaces I had just enough time to get a quick walkthrough of Alcazaba and the smaller, less impressive but also less crowded and therefore more enjoyable Generalife Palace and Gardens, and then it was time to rush back to the train, stopping only to pick up a sandwich upon realizing that in all the fuss I hadn’t really eaten that day.
That is becoming something of a theme actually, that I am working hard to correct. I realized at Alhambra that I really need to watch my nutrition intake more carefully as I am lacking in not only protein, but iron. I’ve started taking supplements again, and there should be kitchens at the next few hostels where I can make eggs and store Greek yogurt. I just need to keep reminding myself to stay on top of it.
When I arrived back in Malaga I tried to book some more train tickets, only to encounter much the same problem I had in Barcelona. It was looking like I might be stranded in Lisbon, which to be fair isn’t a bad place to be stranded, but I was a little stressed by it all the same. I returned to the hostel, made some phone calls, and finally went to sleep.
The following day, I am relieved to say, was much better. I had started taking supplements and bought some greek yogurt and muesli for breakfast, which improved my mood by leaps and bounds. When I got to Cordoba then, my destination for that day, I had much more energy for all the walking around. I even made it to the mosque, the major attraction in Cordoba, before 09:30 when free entrance ended before it opened to the public at 10:00. I did not enter immediately though, caught off guard by a nagging suspicion.
You see, the Great Mosque of Cordoba is a mosque no longer. It was converted into a Cathedral after the reconquest of Spain in the fifteenth century. I realized this meant I didn’t have to cover my head, but I wasn’t so sure about my shoulders, a thought that had not occurred to me when I put my tanktop on that morning. There were various women wandering the square with scarves and shawls, which made me wonder even more. I didn’t want to be turned away, or worse appear disrespectful, and there was a little sign on the tourist information panel that had a picture of shorts and tank top crossed out. I realized that might mean no underwear or bathing suits, but I decided to search the streets for a cheap scarf anyway. It would undoubtedly come in handy later anyway.
My search was successful, as it turns out, and I returned to the mosque square just as the bells began to chime 9:30. So I didn’t get my free entrance, and had to wait half an hour to pay, but I did feel better about my appearance entering the church, and now I have a lovely pink scarf that I can wear as a shawl or a skirt or a beach wrap or whatever else I can manage to turn it into.
The mosque was just about everything you would expect it to be - a grand melding of Christian and Islamic architecture. The entire structure seems to move and glow with the light, and the arches sometimes appear to go on forever. I wandered around for a bit, enjoying the beauty and atmosphere, but the other tourists did eventually get to me, so I decided to move on.
Stop number two was Calahorra Tower, a three story stone tower just across the river from the mosque and accessible by and old stone footbridge first built by the Romans. I didn’t realize before going that it had been turned into a museum, I had thought it was just another old building to look at, but I was pleasantly surprised. The Living Museum of Cordoba was just that, a living museum. Guests were given headphone that operated based on location and proximity to certain exhibits, including tracks on ancient Andalucian philosophers, the architects of Alhambra, Moorish diplomacy, and much on daily life in the region during the Moorish period. It was certainly three of the best euros I’d spent all trip.
After the museum I was starting to get hungry, but decided I could squeeze in one more sight before I absolutely had to eat. Alcazaba of the Christian Kings was just down the river anyway, and though I’d thought about skipping it, at two and a quarter euro I figured it worth a look. Again, I was pleasantly surprised. Unlike the two alcazabas I’d already seen, this one was built for, as the name would suggest, Christian Kings visiting the area. It was much more palatial than fortress like, and now includes extensive gardens that were a veritable treat to wander through. The only downside was the rambunctious group of Spanish school children I kept getting stuck behind, but I tried to keep my distance as much as I could.
After Alcazaba, it was finally time to eat. I was determined to find paella again, but when I saw a sign for a Spanish omelette, that quickly changed my mind. I was supposed to be watching my protein, wasn’t I? Well, the Spanish omelette was not what I expected. I don’t even think it had eggs in it. It was more like a potato based brick stuck on a Sandwich, much like that strange sandwich I’d had in Barcelona but blessedly free of ham. It filled me up, but it was a bit of a let down, made up for by the dessert that followed lunch.
I wasn’t looking for dessert this time, but a sign caught my eye as I was wandering announcing a free flamenco show at 2:00, which was a mere fifteen minutes away. The show was at a restaurant though, and I had already eaten, so I asked the host attracting people to the restaurant if I couldn’t just have postre, to which he responded with an enthusiastic affirmative and proceeded to lead me into the restaurant where he explained the layout, introduced me to the pastry chef, and asked me a lot of basic questions like my name and where I was from. This wouldn’t be so remarkable except it was all in very rapid Spanish that I only caught some of the time. Nevertheless, it was a very friendly welcome that made me feel less bad about a free show for the price of a vaguely tiramisu-like mouse concoction that Andres, the host, insisted was the best dessert in the house.
The show itself was also a lot of fun. It consisted of three people, a singer, dancer, and guitar player, all sharing the stage and taking turns at solos. The first half lasted just under an hour, at which point the singer had to stop for a smoke break. Have I mentioned how ubiquitous smoking is here? In all of Europe really. It’s started getting to me a lot, but nowhere more so than this show.
You see, there weren’t many free chairs with a view of the stage, and I had the bad luck of picking one next a couple who, after finishing their meal, began to smoke like chimneys. The first cigarette each was annoying, the second gave me pause, the third found me texting a friend who loves me enough to let me complain, and by the fourth, just around intermission, I decided I had to leave. My lungs were burning, and while the show was good, it wasn’t good enough for that. I think cigarette smoke in Europe is thicker too? Maybe there’s just more of it, but whatever the reason it bothers me more. Alas, the hazards of travel.
So I took to the streets for a bit more wandering, quickly realizing that it was, in fact, midday, which meant one thing: siesta. There was no one out, and I had found my way into a largely residential area. I could have kept wandering, the architecture was all pretty white plaster with cute little window boxes, but it was about that time that I happened upon the only open cafe for miles and thought: what’s the next best thing to a midday nap? Well, the answer is midday coffee. So I wandered in and passed siesta with a cafe con leche and my latest book about Obama and Afghanistan.
Siesta was a lovely break, followed by yoga in the park and an early return to the train station where I had my first success with an employee of the Spanish train system. I had recalculated my options out of Lisbon, though I was still running in to problems. Rather than telling me “no, no es possible” and sending me away like the others, however, he actually bothered to click the two extra buttons to check if there was an earlier or later train available instead. It’s not going to be pleasant, and I’ll be pulling an all nighter in Paris with my backpack in tow, but I will make it to Nice… eventually.
Anyway, the train back from Cordoba was as lovely as the train there. I’ve kind of fallen in love with the Spanish countryside. It is picturesque and riveting no matter the time of day. The best part of all these day trips by train is that I can just sit there and stare. And I have. Repeatedly.
That night I spent hurriedly trying to cobble together travel plans and booked hostels based on my new, if not necessarily improved, itinerary. I should be able to make it through Switzerland and into Italy without too much trouble, but I’m having some trouble booking Italy from Spain. I’ve taken a few days for a breather from that, but will probably get back in the ring on my way to Madrid in a few days.
My final day trip out of Malaga was to the British colony of Gibraltar, the oh so famous rock. For several reasons, least of which was timing, I took the bus this time instead of the train. The road runs along the coast though, so the views of the Mediterranean were equally picturesque, even if the weather was gloomy for the first time since I’d got to Spain. It just goes to show, cloud cover and intermittent showers follow the British everywhere.
The bus dropped me off in Spain just across the border, so I walked into Gibraltar, which has the absolute worst border security I have ever seen, and made for the town. It was only a ten minute walk or so, but it did involve crossing the airport runway, because when you have that little space you make the best use of it you can.
Walking in to town was like walking into London, and a bit disorienting for me at first. Much like it had in Northern Cyprus, British occupation had met local culture to produce a completely unique and otherworldly experience. There were British pubs serving paella and Spanish spoken as much as English in the streets. The difference, of course, was that the UK still controls Gibraltar, so the use of English is official rather than convenient. I certainly felt less guilty walking up to shopkeepers and breaking out my native tongue.
I didn’t linger in the town for long though, aware as I was that I had a limited amount of time before the return bus left at 4:30 or 7:00. Part of me said take your time, if you get back too early you will be obligated to go to dinner with the lonely British man in your dorm room (more on that later). The other part of me didn’t want to exhaust myself and then not get back until 10:00. At any rate, I wasn’t sure how long the Upper Rock Nature Reserve, which is the thing to do on Gibraltar, would take. So I started hiking the mountain until I came to a shack that looked vaguely official where they sold me a ticket to see the sights.
The sights, as it turned out, were a series of stops along the mountain road. The road was meant more for cars than walkers, as demonstrated by the number of vehicles I passed as opposed to fellow hikers, but hey, I have to keep in shape somehow! Besides, the weather started to clear up in the early afternoon, making the views on the walk spectacular, if accompanied by an uncomfortable level of humidity. Sights on the rock included: a small Moorish castle; a series of siege tunnels used in both the Great Siege of the Spanish against Gibraltar and in World War II; an exhibition on Gibraltarians’ life under siege; a Military Heritage Museum, an old lime kiln, a spectacular cave that has been turned into a theatre, and monkeys. Lots and lots of monkeys. In case you didn’t know, Gibraltar is famous for it’s monkeys. And we didn’t get along.
It wasn’t that they weren’t perfectly nice creatures, for the most part, but there was one. Let us call him my arch nemesis, because I consider him my arch nemesis, because he was evil. Let me explain why.
Shortly after exiting St. Michael’s Cave, I was faced with the decision of whether or not I wanted to attempt the top of the rock. It had been a steep climb thus far, and only got steeper. Furthermore, I had been hiking most of the day at that point, this before my new dedication to protein and supplements had fully kicked in, and I was beat. When I was honest with myself, I knew I couldn’t do it. Or if I did manage to do it, it wouldn’t be smart. Instead, I decided to recharge with an ice cream (have you guys been noticing how much I love my ice cream?) and let the sugar spike help me back down the mountain where I would seek out some real food. Preferably fish and chips.
I overpaid, because supply and demand, and there is a very small supply for a lot of people when you’re on top of a humid mountain. Still, I was happy with my decision as I left the shop to begin my procession down, taking a first delicious bite of my ice cream. I hadn’t made it more than two steps out of the shop, however, when I felt eyes on me. Beady little monkey eyes that I met for a moment before all of a sudden they were charging towards me at a rapid pace. I froze, of course, because what do you do with a charging monkey? And then they were on me as the monkey launched itself at my face, tore the ice cream from my hand, and proceeded to lope away with its prize, stopping just out of grasping range to gloat and lick at it in a disconcertingly human fashion.
I gaped for a moment as whispers broke out among the tourists around me. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether I was more upset that I didn’t have ice cream, or that I had overpaid for an ice cream I clearly wasn’t going to get to eat. There were strict warnings about antagonizing the monkeys though, and taking back my ice cream was surely antagonism at its finest. Then my mind flickered to the other warnings: namely, don’t feed the monkey’s under pain of exorbitant fines. A passing tour guide asked if I was alright. My only answer: As long as they don’t fine me.
If I committed a crime, surely I could claim coercion.
Still a bit befuddled by the whole episode, I began my ice cream-less trek down the mountain. It took the better part of an hour, though it popped me out in a less touristy part of the town where I found a most affordable plate of fish and chips with which to reward myself. It even came with salad and mushy peas, which is a major plus in my book because vegetables! By the time I’d finished eating and paid my bill, I had just under and hour to make it back to the 4:30 bus. Could I make it? Did I want to?
At this point, I should probably explain about the British guy. (I think he was living in Australia though?) He was staying in my hostel in Malaga, and while not at all threatening, he was clearly lonely. He was also older, probably late forties or early fifties, and didn’t fit in at all with the partying vibe of the hostel. I think he realized pretty quickly that I didn’t as well, though as a young twenty something I certainly navigate it better, and he chose me as a person with whom he could talk. For the first night or two, this mostly consisted of striking up a desperate conversation when I would come back to the room in the evenings. “What did you do today?” and “What are your plans for tomorrow?” Pretty standard hostel fare, all things considered.
I was friendly enough back. It’s me, I usually try to be friendly, but I also wasn’t feeling the whole older person thing. I support traveling at any age, but something about older people in hostels is just… weird. Like I said, it’s a vibe thing. Anyway, the night before Gibraltar he had asked me to dinner. Now, I don’t think he had any ill intentions. I really think he was just sick of eating dinner alone. Still, I was happy with what I was up to and didn’t really want to make plans outside of that. I explained that I didn’t know when I would be getting back the next day, and that it would probably be late. He countered that people ate late in Spain, and asked me to keep the option open. I agreed, because it was the polite thing to do, but had no intention of going to dinner with him, just in case.
If I took the 4:30 bus, that put me back in Malaga at 7:30, well within Spanish dinner time. The 7:00 service got me back at 10:00, well into the range where I could claim it was too late. We already discussed me not wanting to get back that late though, and I was already exhausted, so I took the 4:30 and decided I’d figure it out when I got there. My solution, as it turns out, was to be in Malaga and just not head back to the hostel.
I stopped first for chocolate and churros, a Spanish delicacy of fried dough dipped in something that resembles warm chocolate pudding. Call it a consolation for my stolen ice cream. I still had a few hours after that though, so I decided to see some parts of Malaga I hadn’t been before, read: the beach. The sun doesn’t even go down here until ten or later, so it was still nice out, and just starting to cool down.
My walk through a harbor-side park led me an impromptu band concert. I’m not sure if they were warming up or practicing or what. They didn’t look very serious, mostly students, one snare drummer pausing mid-song to take long drags on his cigarette. It wasn’t very good music either, but hey, it was background for my walk, that did eventually lead to the beach.
I sat at said beach for maybe half an hour, watching the joggers and dog walkers and tide rolling in. It was lovely, really. The perfect relaxing end to the day. I wanted to jog along the beach myself, but sadly that’s not really feasible with a bag as large as mine. Alas, one day.
My side trip bought me enough time that I didn’t get back to the hostel until after ten, as planned. The man didn’t seem too disappointed, and I was able to pack up for my departure in the morning and go to bed. Which brings us to today.
Since my train didn’t actually leave until the afternoon, I was able to get up, stow my bag, and have a leisurely breakfast wherein I finally managed to finish book Katy bought me in Scotland about Scottish castles. It was fascinating, but in true traveler fashion I have already traded it out for a collection by Stephen Fry.
After breakfast, I made a stop by one of those quintessentially Spanish markets that had been recommended to me by both Trip Advisor and Jess. The former comes in handy, but the latter makes sights absolute must sees. It wasn’t so much something to see, however, as things to buy. As per Jess’ instruction I purchased some ridiculously cheap strawberries and trail mix that I later ate for lunch. They were delicious. I am very sad I cannot now buy more.
Following the market, I did a strange sort of reverse exploration wherein I finished up my time in Malaga with a free (read: tip based) walking tour. Having already seen the sights, I didn’t learn a ton, but the company was lovely, and there were a few great fun facts. Our tour guide was a guy from New York who had moved to spain in 2010 because he’d been laid off and why not. He seems to be doing well for himself, and enjoying it at the very least. My tour was also populated by a lovely girl from Quebec and a friendly guy from Korea. They were nice to chat with while walking and on breaks. It only occurred to me after I’d rushed off at the end of the tour that we should have exchanged contact information. Alas, I was hurrying to catch my train, and there’s no point to regrets but to remember for next time.
It was a short train ride from Malaga to Seville: just under two hours. I made the exceedingly unwise decision upon arriving, however, to try to walk to my hostel. I had already research the transit system, knew which bus and tram to take and how much they would cost. But my phone said the walk was only half an hour, and even in the scorching sun… I had to work off all that trail mix, right? So I walked, arriving drenched in sweat to the point that my tank top was wringable. I’ve gotten a shower since though, and the hostel is lovely. It’s just my speed: clean and friendly with a wall full of books. I wasn’t too eager to head back out following my brush with the sun. Siestas are making more and more since every day. Now that it has started to cool down, however, I think I may venture out again. I hear music coming from the nearby square, and I would hate to miss Sevilla at night.
Oh my goodness! That’s “Yesterday” on the accordion! Definitely checking it out. Tootles!
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