Malaga

Micah and I hit the road this weekend. Not literally (that would be silly), that expression means that we took a road trip. The original goal was to reach Africa in a three day weekend, but realistically we had about as much chance of reaching Africa as I did fulfilling my New Years Resolution to stop Jazzercising. Besides, for two twenty-somethings from the Midwest, making it towards Africa in a three day weekend is an adventure on its own.

The 4:15 bus out of Zaragoza was a prompt beast, and it almost left us due to a prolonged shower and an impromptu peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That's 4:15 in the morning, an hour suitable only for drunks and paperboys. We were neither that morning, although we have been known to deliver the mail on occasion.

Bright and early at 8:00, we pulled into Madrid. I shook off the Benadryl that glued my face to the window for the last two hours and Micah grumbled something about sleeping for fifteen minutes... must have been something on his mind. Due to my extensive knowledge of the subway imparted by Silas the master of disaster, we navigated to the South Station without a hitch. If only we knew where we were going...

There were as many buses to the South of Spain as there are delicious treats at the executive buffet, which is 66. Unfortunately, the Brits make it virtually impossible to get from Madrid to Gibraltar (maybe they're ashamed of their 29 km of paved roadways). Regardless, we made an executive decision to scrap Africa and try Malaga instead, mostly because it ryhmes with Gattaca.

As seasoned road warriors, we knew the importance of snackies. I covered all my bases -- oranges for vitamin C, apple-bran bars to counteract Doners, and and a giant, flour covered sausage for hilarity. Likewise, Micah brought strawberries, Muselix, and cured ham. We devoured some snackies in our palace in back of the bus to celebrate the trapping of our first grizzly.

On the road to Malaga, we discussed love, religion, work, and love. All these topics are interrelated. Micah is in love with Juliet, who he cannot love. I miss a great girl who spent a month with us on exchange in Boston and Zaragoza. Together we make a remarkable team, somber at present, but happy to dream.

What a relief to arrive in Malaga, ten hours after we locked the front door. Our first priority? The beach. The sun felt warm on our faces as we peeled layers of clothes from our backs. Sixty degrees and sunny, what a place. The beach is nearly empty -- it's winter in Malaga, and tourist season is a month away -- but we didn't care. Adventures do not require tourists.

We sat on two swings meant for boys half our size. We couldn't help but smile, overcome by a a sense of freedom and that first day of spring feeling. We watched the ocean rise as we swung backwards, then fall beneath our feet as we flew. Micah's spinning dismount won the style competition, and my leap of faith won in distance.

Micah's dad taught him how to skip -- skip to the comic section, skip to his lou, and skip stones on the water. The first two I could compete at, but the last one Micah has mastered. We laughed at the thought of traveling ten hours on a bus to skip stones in the sea, not because it is ridiculous, but because it made us so happy.

We made our way to the city center, dropped our back-sacks off at a hotel, and searched for food. Micah and I are the sort of silly sot who doesn't know what he wants until he sees it. So, of course, we walk three circles around downtown and find nothing to eat. On the brink of starvation, we spot the perfect place. A table in the sun, cradled by foliage in the heart of a secret garden. At least it seemed that cool at the time.





Micah's Juliet has changed him from a stone-hearted miser to a good friend. The look on his face says it all as he tilts his head back in the sun. He slurps tagliani with funghi sauce with a foreign smile. His beer has never tasted so good. It's a great feeling to find someone special.

But nothing wipes a smile off your face like dropping something in a giant hole. As we left the hotel that night, I ran back for my camera. Ole screwball North-Shea misjudged the wind and chucked the keys down the elevator shaft. How do you say "Sorry for losing the only set of keys to our tiny hotel room" in Spanish? The translation didn't come to mind.

That night we waltzed around Malaga looking for an experience. The city is beautiful; it's warm and the streets are lined with orange trees. If the University of Malaga is anything like Zaragoza, then the students have exams this weekend. Either that, or bird flu has wiped out the 18-22 year old population. With lusty brews in hand, we cover most of the city again on foot. Finding few signs of youthful life, we smash on a fish omlette that smells like heaven and an oversized plate of cheese.








We didn't have the Sunday paper to read in the morning, but who needs it when you have coffee on the beach? Besides, Micah hogs Hagar the Horrible anyway.

Sunday is free day in Spain. It's free because you never spend any money, but you don't get anything in return either. Everything is closed on Sunday because people simply don't want to work. While you can't buy a blow dryer at your local SpainMart, you can get into museums and castles for free. Such was the case for Malaga's Gibralfaro's castle, where we spent much of the day. The view from the top of the hill is spectacular. You can see the bull ring, the port, the mountains, the beach, and if you look hard enough, Africa.









We left the hotel at 10:30 that night to find the Superbowl. Surely we would need plenty of time to find real football in a country whose most famous athlete is King Alphonso XIII. Wrong. The second bar we entered was showing the Superbowl, AND the bartender looked like Frodo! We killed time until the 12:30 am kickoff at McDonalds where Micah outdid my three hambones and nuggets with two hambones, nuggets, a saucy cheesy thing, and apple pies.

We found a few Americans from San Francisco at the bar, some with mohawks, some without. I supported my local Roethlisberger and Micah chose the Seahawks by default. Whenever his team scored, I had to drink a glass of whiskey and vice versa. That game didn't last too long.



And just like that, our weekend came to a close. No one was deported. No one lost an eye. No one succumbed to typhoid fever, although Micah battled a bout. If we learned anything from this trip, it's that buses are cheap, beaches are beautiful, and life is short.