Málaga

 Málaga is a city located on the Mediterranean and viewed by many Spaniards as being a little unspectacular. I didn't find it boring per se, but there was certainly far less to see than there was in Granada - though the city was walkable and certainly pretty, the real Málaga, or whatever ideal I held for it, had either ceased to exist or was unattainable to tourists passing through for only a few days. The food was only decent and pricey when compared to Granada's truly incomparable cuisine. There was history as well, but nothing as electrifying as laying claim to being the capital of the Muslim Al-Andalus period in Spanish history. I suppose that Málaga wasn't disappointing as much as it was a step down from Granada's glowing example of perfection. It was to serve as a waypoint between Spain and Morocco, chosen due to its relative proximity to Tarifa, the Spanish city where ferries run the channel to Africa constantly.

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.