Malaga
A couple of years ago, we were lucky enough to look through very old documents which revealed my family's ancestry.
The documents mention the origin of my mother's side of the family, which turns out to be Malaga, a Spanish city in the far south. Good ol' Picasso was from there... so is Antonio Banderas, so of course this excited us. It's pretty cool to find out where one comes from... especially when some renowned artist is from there (yeah, my thoughts on Picasso aren't necessarily positive, but hey, shit, he started a fucking artistic movement-- pretty cool regardless of how much I may dislike it).
The first time I visited Spain, I already knew of my origins, but didn't make a move to visit the south, and instead stayed in the far north, Basque country, and of course, my beloved Barcelona.
This second time touring the motherland, D and I decided we HAD to visit the TRUE motherland... it didn't hurt that it's also a touristy beach area.
Now, let me start off by saying I didn't feel that same sense of familiarity as did the first time I landed in Barcelona... upon stepping foot outside of the airport in Malaga, we were actually pretty confused and turned off. It was pretty fucking dead... and we were surrounded by women in headscarves... so we felt completely out of place.
Then we saw their faces-- ME.
Ayyy gueyyyy! I'm a spanish muslim! I knew my fucking natural aversion for pork and shellfish had some sort of explanation!
D and I just looked at each other... finally cracking a smile.
Me: Fuck it, dude, we're gonna have fun.
D: WE CAN SPEAK SPANISH! WE GOT THIS!
Our hotel was not in the city, but the beach. When we asked Information what would be our best bet to get there, she told us the bus.
Ahhhhh, the bus. Three Euro one way, and out in 45 minutes.
Cool, I guess... we don't get our room until 3PM, so this wait only keeps us form waiting in the lobby for six hours.
D quickly struck a friendship with the bus driver... because she's charismatic and cute, so he promised to drop us off at our hotel.
Since we had taken off from rainy Paris at 4 in the morning (well, we LEFT our room at that time), we had our jackets on.... and didn't think to take them off while we waited for the bus because it was breezy-- the mountains were snow-capped, actually.
The bus drove through the winding highway, closer and closer to the beach... and after about half an hour, the driver tells us our stop is there, and if we'd just walk down "Oh, about five minutes down, next to Hotel Cesar," we'd find our hotel.
Umm.. ok?
D and I walked a good fucking fifteen minutes, breaking a sweat, looking for this goddamned hotel.
The streets were winding... up and down... hills all over the place... and we were lugging around our bags... wearing jackets (because we're fucking retarded when we're completely focused on one thing).
Tourists in their damned shorts would stare at us as if we were crazy.
We kept wondering where the fuck the fucking beach would finally appear, where the fuck this goddamned hotel would pop up, but all we would see would be tall hotels, with occasional, hidden architectural jewels.
We circled around the hotel like dummies because the entrance was a trip... under construction and whatnot... but alas, after bumping into some wonderful Irish tourists who practically took our hand and walked us to the front desk, we were in our spacious room... and we were stoked.
D: We're going to have fun, dude! FUCK IT! We're at the beach!
Me: Did... you feel anything?
D: No.
Me: Me neither... I don't feel any sort of familiarity... I think someone lied to us.
D: Come on, beach, prove us wrong!
We changed into more appropriate attire-- shorts, tank, and some flip-flops-- and power-walked out of the hotel, and onto the boardwalk.
Two Mexican-American girls of Spanish decent, ready to enjoy a place our old people once called "home."
Dude... why did we ever leave this place?!
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