Plaza de la Constitución

Setting out from Seville, we took the three-hour intercity train to Málaga. This time Ricky was given the task of acting as the tuckshop/canteen lady. Jason had to handover the mantel over so he could concentrate on packing. Apparently, he was running behind on his schedule.

As we boarded the train, we seemed to crash the party of a group of young Belgian tourists. I say Belgian, but Jason disagrees and claims that they were German (because he saw a German flag sticker on one of their phones. But the Belgian flag has the same colours as the German, except it has vertical stripes instead of horizontal). They were watching a German movie with Dutch/Flemish subtitles. Let’s just say they were from somewhere in the cold. At any rate by the end of trip, we were ready to kill them. The train really didn’t need to hear their goings-on.

We arrived at our accommodation that was positioned in the middle of the historic centre. If we thought the streets of Seville were small, the taxi couldn’t even get to our apartment, so we got dumped on the side of a street and had to navigate our way through the maze. Our apartment was on two levels but it was literally next to reception. We were so close we could have assisted with check-in to get a reduced rate.

In true Jason and Ricky fashion, we took off as soon as we could to wander and explore the streets of Málaga. And even more customary for us is to hunt for food and something to drink. Despite being in a city of almost 600,000 people with plenty of food options, sometimes the hunt doesn’t come easy. We wandered for what seemed like an eternity. All we could see was outlets selling pizza, kebabs or ice-cream – none of which was to our fancy. And we always seem to leave it until we reach the point that we feel we’re going to die like the colonial explorers Burke and Wills. Finally, we stumbled upon a Thai restaurant. But we soon discovered that it wasn't real Thai, but Thai-inspired. Who puts Keen’s curry powder in a Thai red curry! The dirty bastards. Not to mention it took 45 minutes for the food to be served. Meanwhile, we slurped on a cerveza and provided a commentary on the people walking by. The salesperson in the "I am Joy" shop across the street was so thin you could hardly see her when she turned sideways. How she had the energy to manoeuvre the broom as she swept the floor I have no idea. The broomstick handle was thicker than her arms! She went about her chores, oblivious to the shop full of customers. She was obviously expending all of her energy on sweeping and rearranging stock and didn’t have enough energy to raise her head or spit out an “hola”.

Málaga is a popular seaside destination for the Brits so we were expecting to land in the middle of a Geordie Shore or the Only Way is Essex TV production. As Jason astutely noted, there didn’t appear to be as many "British slappers" as we had expected. And Jason says this a nano-second before a woman walks past him with a thick British accent. Innit proper mint 🤣🤣

At first, I couldn't understand why the Brits are attracted to Málaga. The outskirts seem dirty and rundown, and the beaches are nothing to rave home about. But still it is probably better than many of the pebble beaches in the UK. The historical centre, similar to other Spanish cities, includes well-preserved buildings from the past to admire.

After a day of wandering, we settled into bed, only to be awoken at 3 or 4am to blood-curdling screams of a banshee. It sounded as though a woman was running up and down the laneways screaming as loud as she could. To me, it sounded as if she was suffering from a mental health episode. There weren't any calls for help, just screaming at the top of her lungs. Jason had surmised differently, with a much more elaborate and sinister plot. He was ready to thong her (for the non-Aussies, Jason wasn't proposing to use skimpy underwear that goes up your clacker to use as a sling shot. But he was prepared to sacrifice a thong/jandal/flip-flop to throw).

Surmising and people watching became the theme for the rest of our Málaga meanderings. Sitting as we chugged down our mojitos, we surmised about the strangers staggering down the streets. We caught a glimpse of a older, female version of Jason, as she shielded herself from the sun. I mean she’d spent so much money on plastic surgery she couldn’t melt. Similarly, Jason has been shadow hopping like a vampire in the daylight trying to avoid the sun.

By the end of the second day, Jason was beginning to feel unwell, surmising that he may have COVID. It had nothing to do with the fact that we walked over 23,000 steps and had hardly eaten most of the day.

Oh, and Jason’s Lost World tally average has gone through the roof. I’ve actually lost count now, but let's just say 9 for argument’s sake.

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