An all-natural workout

Billy, the unbelievably friendly, smart, and witty English guy with whom we went to dinner, has become the mythical protector of the trip. Whenever a problem arises, a risk is on the horizon, or we lose ourselves in the city, his holy name is invoked. Billy, if you are reading this, um, don’t freak out. But we just love you. And bow down to you every so often.
Everyone in Spain is ready to talk. The language barrier actually helps, both with just-met-you conversations and with flirting. It gives a good topic of conversation to fall back on (how do you say...) and it makes your wit seem sharper by giving extra time to think of what to say while you pretend to find the Spanish to say it.
The night after the discoteca, we stayed in the hostel and found ourselves in a legit kickback. We met a woman from Denmark, Stina, who had graduated waitressing school, which is a three-year deal in Denmark, her boyfriend Jen, who camped in Brazil and had dreadlocks, and Julia, a girl from Australia who was travelling like we are.
A day later, we visited John’s former Spanish teacher’s friend, a teacher herself. She lived in a quintessential Spanish Mediterranean apartment overlooking the beach and the city. They served us pasta, we slept on the living room floor, and we woke up to a typical Spanish breakfast. For those of you don’t know (I was one of those in the dark), a typical Spanish breakfast is even more minimal than frosted flakes. It’s coffee. Nada mas. When Helen, our host, enlightened me, I feigned delight. I imagined myself on top of a hill looking over a sea of coffee, yelling, ¨NO, NO! Billy, save me!¨
The next night (last night), we went out for drinks with two Dutch girls. We wanted to go clubbing again, but yesterday was laundry day, and John was wearing his only clean outfit, including shiny white polyester basketball shorts.
¨Those shorts. No,¨ bouncers said.
¨Why not?¨ John asked one in Spanish.
¨Those are for basketball. You can wear those if you want to play basketball inside.¨
¨Can I play basketball inside?¨
¨No.¨
The bars were more accepting.
All in all, Malaga was a vacation within a vacation. Aside from visiting the Picasso Museum, we chilled. One day, I decided I wanted to be productive and go to the gym. Not knowing where one was, I decided to go down to the beach and lift rocks. One topless girl was enchanted by my ways. Everyone else thought I was crazy. But hey, think of it as an all-natural workout. Using weights of synthetic material just wouldn’t be as good.
Today, we took a bus to Granada, a beautiful city of cobblestone streets and buildings that look like miniature stucco castles. Our new hostel is downright gorgeous, located in the middle of the oldest part of the city. It’s actually more amazing than the hostel in Malaga. I can’t believe it costs less than a hotel. Hammocks line the large patio. Guests chat over drinks. A woman serves cheap but good beer and sangria. In the back of the patio, a room with a hookah and pillows on the floor serve as the chill-out area.
Granada has much more of a Muslim feel than Malaga, even though both are in Andalucia, the area of Spain controlled for a period by Muslims. There are a lot more Doner Kebab and Shwarma shops. Statues commemorate Muslim as well as Christian heroes.
Unfortunately, I could not find my camera while packing up in Malaga. That means getting photos up onto the blog will be harder. Still, I’ll try. These cities, fountains, hostels, statues, castles, palaces, gardens, and streets are just too hard to describe without pictures.