There were, of course, spectacular moments. Malagueta, the name
given to the city's beach, is maddeningly beautiful. One can follow the soft curve of
Andalucia's shoreline and its snowcapped mountains sloping gently upwards -
doing so while snacking on charcoal grilled sardines helps to elevate the
experience that much more. The Picasso museum left a large impression on me as
well - seeing these wholly unique works from his later period, like crude portraits
on white tiles, was hypnotic though my favorite was The Gymnast. The castle at the top of town also
offered some incredible views of the harbor and the outlying areas.
There were also the Semana Santa processions, which
to me made the whole stop worthwhile. Starting at around 5 p.m., the
processions tunneled their way through the city's old quarters like ancient,
despondent conga lines. The floats were all beautifully and meticulously
adorned with religious figures (mostly Jesus and Mary), bedecked with candles and incense. Unlike Granada's float-bearers
who lug the immense weight from beneath the religious totems obscured from
onlookers, the float-bearers in Málaga supported the weight from the
sides with long poles. These massive displays were both proceeded and followed by
scores of men and women dressed in hooded robes, looking not unlike
'high-ranking KKK bitches' (according to one J.D.), whose occult, if
not sinister, spell was broken only when they removed their hoods to deliver a
peck to a significant other who followed along or watched from doorways. And trailing behind those hooded marchers were the musicians, playing their
processional numbers -- whiny brass and thundering drums that cut through all
street conversation.
The apartment we rented was located in the old neighborhood and
the processions would pass below our windows well past 3 a.m. There were
several occasions when we had to physically force through the seemingly
interminable processions to continue on our way.