My last day in Spain. One reason why I’m trying to write as much as possible as I go along is because I left the notebook that I’ve been using to write journal entries on the bus between Barcelona and Valencia. Not a huge loss, but I’m going to have to remember the first few days of the trip instead of referring to my notes. I haven’t documented a trip for years, but in the last year or so since my blog became more extensive, I’ve been making more of an effort to write things down.

Last night I took a walk around Malaga and took evening shots of the palace ruins, the capital building, museum, and around the gardens. There is such beauty everywhere that I wondered if the locals took it for granted. North America (and much of Britain, for that matter) seems so drab by comparison. Will our building codes would ever incorporate some aesthetic value? In 100 years or so will our descendants look back with any pride at all and invest money to preserve any of the dreary-looking buildings that we use to carry on our everyday business? Will museums of the future feature “drab” and pass it along as an art form?

Went to the 24-hour pharmacia across from my hotel to try and get some vitamin C for this cold, but the onsite pharmacist talked me into taking this cough syrup that was so strong that I:

– made this incredibly lethargic-sounding phone call to Lucy in England that she could barely understand,
– got cut off by the phone card expiring (well, Telefonica cut me off, without warning!), then
– trundled off to my hotel room and curled up and passed out on my bed, only managing to take off my shoes, then
– woke up nine hours later in nearly the same position.

But, I felt pretty darn good on my last day in Spain. I had to chalk it up to lots of sleep and killer cough syrup.

My agenda for my final hours in Spain included something I usually avoid like the plague: clothes shopping. I might on occasion meander around markets like Camden in London, but purely for leisure purposes and not for specific stuff, which of course are unavailable when you’re looking for them. But I had to get something to wear for the wedding reception if the bridesmaid dress was unbearable, and I brought nothing that could remotely pass as evening wear.

But I soon discovered that even in a city the size of Malaga, which is less than 100,000 (if I remember correctly), there are clothes and footwear of practically every conceivable colour, style, and fabric. Even for a reluctant shopper like me, the low prices and wide selection for apparel and shoes in Spain by and large make me forget how much I hate shopping. I even set a personal record for buying four items of clothing in a single shop. For anyone who knows me, this is unheard of! But, you really can’t go wrong in Spain — I couldn’t believe I even saw articles of clothing sold for 3 euros… I mean, that’s giving it away!

My shopping trip over in a flash, I whiled away part of the siesta hours over at the Picasso Museum, a brand-spanking-new construction which featured… you guessed it: the works of Picasso, who was born in Malaga. Now, let me say I was never really a big fan of Picasso and cubism has never exactly enthralled me. But the more I had a look at pieces in the collection that I’d never seen before, the more my impression of Picasso’s art changed. I’d say that is one reason why I visit art museums that have exhibits of artists I’m not always fond of — because sometimes the pieces that make those artists famous just don’t do anything for me, and I find other examples of their work more interesting. For example, the work on display showed how prolific Picasso was, his range and development from one style to another, the result being that each of the currently 12 finished salons is vastly different. If you get a chance to visit the museum, do also go downstairs to the archaeological remains of the Phoenician civilization that has been preserved underneath Malaga’s streets. It reminds me a bit of the underground city museum in Barcelona, although on a much smaller scale.

I had just enough time to visit the Alcazabra, but not the Gibrafalo, before making my way to the airport. It’s on a hill above the city and has wonderful views and welcome breezes. At the entrance there’s a funny-looking vending machine that spits out visitor tickets, with signs written in so many languages that it takes longer to try and read them all than it does to stick in your 1.80 euros to get the entrance ticket and get going. In fact, there’s an attendant whose job it is to figure out if you’ve bought the correct ticket.

Sometimes I don’t take my own advice. I try and keep a bunch of change in my pocket so I always have bus or tram or metro fare, but when I ran for the #19 aeropuerto bus, I had two 50 euro notes but less than a euro in change. The bus only comes by every half an hour, and I stood there in front of the bus doors pleading to the driver in gestures to hold on while I search for more centimos… but he couldn’t wait any longer, pointing at this watch and the rush hour traffic ahead. So he left without me, and I was determined to try to get to the airport by transit, so I resigned myself to buying something at Burger King to try and get those big notes changed. See, I’d managed all week in Spain taking public transit or walking, not once breaking down and taking a taxi even when I was wandering around town in the middle of the night, looking for a place to stay. In both Valencia and Malaga I walked from the bus station to the places I eventually stayed at (in Valencia it took me an hour and a half of searching Barrio Carmen to find a vacancy), and it was going to bug the hell out of me if I was going to take a taxi now. But, I guess the first #19 bus was late, because I managed to catch another one less than half an hour later, just before I buried the pride in favour of making it to the airport on time to catch the flight to England. Thankfully, it all worked out, I made the flight with plenty of time, and passed UK passport control for the second time on this trip without too much hassle to meet Lucy and Alex, who were waiting for me at East Midlands airport in Nottingham.