Friday 16th August 2013
We had been arguing about whether to embark on another venture to Fuengirola; visit the exotic - and somewhat tacky - Myramar shopping centre, which only Ryan and I were keen on; or, go to the lavish Marbella.
Sometimes we cannot settle with just one.
We must stick ALL the fauna in our hair.
We settled with Fuengirola.Because...simplicity. After the determined rush of last time - can i be blamed? - my punishment was that we didn't leave until 4pm. SUCH CRUELTY!
The earlier part of the day was spent swimming and enjoying the quintessentially Spanish air. Ryan and Dad meanwhile were busy enjoying the over-the-door basketball hoop/torture device. A loud boom on the door followed by an anxious "I'm coming in - please stop!" still left me dreading the moment when the ball makes a crater shaped dent in my forehead.
I tried swimming but gave up when every stroke had me elbows deep in sun burnt English and giggling Spanish children. Lunch was tomato soup...or so I thought. It was actually tomato stock. Good enough for me. Croissants and small dinosaur shaped biscuits will do for now.
The smugness of a dip in a pool that is
Nannies told me that the animals were doing fine. Something of a relief.
When we arrived in Fuengirola I bought Kelly something in Punkyfish. We'd got the bus once again...but were split up. I rejoiced in the colourful accents that surrounded me. The views were the usual array of blue seas, white villas, sweaty tourists and dead grass. Its almost political.
We returned to our much loved tapas bar. Bring out the cafe bombons!
The visit to the Curiousity shop was a typical venture for us. The others were willing to split up again and thus Mum and I began our attack on the subtle backstreets of Spain. They were glorious. Less tack and more paella. We went into a fabric shop with a multitude of vintage Coca Cola products...but we didn't think Ryan would appreciate the pop art pin ups...just yet. I got a figurine of a knight for Luke. I figured it would flatter his interests (he later argued that it was not a knight but a Roman gladiator).
We went to a restaurant named after my Chinchilla*. All it took was some rapid regrouping and some artful shaking of the head as we dodged vendors and restauranteurs. I had tomato soup, chicken in pepper sauce and profiteroles.
After our meal I rushed to the indoor markets keen to do some present shopping. My stressful jaunt was enough to cause the redness on my dad's face to turn crimson with the extra effort. Him and Ryan went to find a taxi while mum taxied after me. I gave up, empty handed, and left the town.
Needless to say I was happier (and less sweaty ,consequently) on the taxi home.
an ornament in a quirky corner shop of the much-loved Herman Cortez clambouring atop a pile of books. It was also a little keepsake box. I later cleaned it (it was a tad dusty). It seemed suitable for gifting.
Ryan and I also went to Cafe Zoco. He had meatballs and I had churros. Zoco means 'souk' in Spanish, and souk is another word for 'market'. Seeming as the Cafe is on the fringe of the Supermarket it's aptly named. The excitable owner sang "bon,bon,bon" as he set down our drinks (turns out "bon,bon,bon" is a song by Pitbull...a Spanish artist). I really like that guy. He's the right mix of eccentric and friendly.
Ryan and I went to the apartment, grabbed some drinks (and dipped our head in the sink to wash the sweat away). I left, dripping wet, to walk in an evapourating haze until we reached La Venta. I carried my red parasol instead of my hat (which had been glued to my head for nearly ten days with sweat and fear of the kiss of the sun).
"Ryan," I called to him.
"Eh?"
"Smell bad. Shade good."
He got the hint and we switched to the other footpath. I bought myself a pair of grey leggings for the flight home.
We went to Cafe Plaza to meet Dad, before we came back to the apartment, splashy-splash pool times and then we went out for dinner. We walked to Calahonda. It was around 9pm. It was cool but full of life. Spain does not have the same nap time as the U.K.
We ended up in the Italian restaurant beside the restaurant where, eons ago, we saw Johnny ten-hats trying to sell his cowboy appendages. This time a man was selling his beautiful prints....tormenting me from a distance.
I had tomato soup, which was bland and of tinned quality, spaghetti al fungi (another disappointment) and profiteroles (HELL YES!). The cappuccino was also a tad diminished in quality. The profiteroles were creamy orbs of paradise.
We vowed to once again visit the Calahonda restaurants.
Mum and I went to visit the Night Bazaar for a final occasion. We bought nannies a necklace and picked a few for ourselves. Scarf man was nowhere to be seen, he had been replaced by bikini man. Seeming as bikinis are not known for keeping out the winter chill, we left promptly, and had a few drinks (do we count fanta lemon?) in David's bar. A final farewell.
Ryan and I swam in the pool. We pretended we weren't boring and played racing games (where you can't swim with your arms, or perhaps your legs, or you have to swim like crabs).
As per usual the parentals were frantic. We left the pool 3ish. Goodbye chlorine, until next sniff.
Mike appeared at 4pm. I listened to him and Dad chat as he drove us off. There were bullrings and mountains watching me, timelessly, as we drove by. I couldn't help thinking about Washington Irving again and the long dead. I wondered what the motorways used to look like. Dirt paths? What would Irving think now?
We had to queue for ages at the airport. I finished my book in the line, but in case it was mistaken for a bomb (think of the paper cuts!), I couldn't leave it behind, so I carried it under my arm. Due to some last minute bag repacking we were later than expected.
Security was fine - though Dad got searched. Who doesn't love extra special attention?
We had no time to explore the Duty-Free and rushed ahead to boarding. Dad got a bottle of non-explosive water for us to share.
The bad news? We were separated. Probably because we were late. Mum and Ryan were in row 5, Dad 17 and I was row 14. So I sat beside two tanned folk from Dundonald (or so the clock on their Samsung declared). I had the window seat. The joy of watching the world shrink beside you was not shared by the sleeping man beside me. I wrote and listened to music. Dad bought me a cibatta and a Fanta in the usual extortionate pricing of airlines.
It was wrong of me to be so stressed. I'm an extraordinary idiot. The holiday was great. They always are.
As I sped over cloud valleys where my ten-year old self had placed white serpentine dragons among the stratus, I remembered that I've never had a bad holiday.
Thank goodness I quit that job. I managed to gain something better. A new perspective.
As the plane began to descend the passenger next to me arose from his groggy slumber. He showed me his apartment complex and his holiday pictures. Him and his wife own an apartment in the North. They go to Spain for weeks at time (six usually) and if it wasn't for the economy, they'd live there. They told me they visited a beautiful village near Granada, where the tarmac turned to dirt in minutes. Where men still travel with donkeys, (Irving's sort of place). They showed me the pictures of the quaint village where the 70 folk who live there in the winter become 300 in tourist season. They bottle a special brand of water there, but you wouldn't visit for the water. The couple (who have three children in university, all Queens, one had just graduated) are probably in their sixties. They told me that their rental covered about 4,000 miles. They've seen most of Spain, but have plenty still to see. When they aren't in Spain, he drives a taxi in Belfast.
It's a wonderful thought. The mundane and the extraordinary. If he didn't keep living in Northern Ireland, there would be nothing extraordinary at all.
It makes you think. Perhaps there's people who come here looking for an element of difference, and find it too? Tourists who see the green hills and Giant's Causeway and gasp. I remember seeing a competition on a Cocoa Pops cereal box in Spain, advertising an Irish holiday. We laughed at the thought that Spaniards would want to come anywhere near Ireland, but that's bias. They probably don't know why so many people come to Spain (minus the obvious ones who come for the sun tans).
I think the only way to discover yourself and your culture is to compare it to others. Something that cannot be done at home, or by a book, but through a steely determination, some funds and a car with enough petrol.
I should probably learn to drive then, 4,000 miles is a lot of walking.
Until next time, adios.
*Oscar. Yeah. We figured it was Dutch.
The earlier part of the day was spent swimming and enjoying the quintessentially Spanish air. Ryan and Dad meanwhile were busy enjoying the over-the-door basketball hoop/torture device. A loud boom on the door followed by an anxious "I'm coming in - please stop!" still left me dreading the moment when the ball makes a crater shaped dent in my forehead.
I tried swimming but gave up when every stroke had me elbows deep in sun burnt English and giggling Spanish children. Lunch was tomato soup...or so I thought. It was actually tomato stock. Good enough for me. Croissants and small dinosaur shaped biscuits will do for now.
warmer than the air conditioning.
When we arrived in Fuengirola I bought Kelly something in Punkyfish. We'd got the bus once again...but were split up. I rejoiced in the colourful accents that surrounded me. The views were the usual array of blue seas, white villas, sweaty tourists and dead grass. Its almost political.
We returned to our much loved tapas bar. Bring out the cafe bombons!
The visit to the Curiousity shop was a typical venture for us. The others were willing to split up again and thus Mum and I began our attack on the subtle backstreets of Spain. They were glorious. Less tack and more paella. We went into a fabric shop with a multitude of vintage Coca Cola products...but we didn't think Ryan would appreciate the pop art pin ups...just yet. I got a figurine of a knight for Luke. I figured it would flatter his interests (he later argued that it was not a knight but a Roman gladiator).
If only someone would get that villa of
out the view of the sunset!
We went to a restaurant named after my Chinchilla*. All it took was some rapid regrouping and some artful shaking of the head as we dodged vendors and restauranteurs. I had tomato soup, chicken in pepper sauce and profiteroles.
After our meal I rushed to the indoor markets keen to do some present shopping. My stressful jaunt was enough to cause the redness on my dad's face to turn crimson with the extra effort. Him and Ryan went to find a taxi while mum taxied after me. I gave up, empty handed, and left the town.
Needless to say I was happier (and less sweaty ,consequently) on the taxi home.
Saturday 17th August 2013
Ryan told me my eye mask (with the holographic rabbit eyes) was terrifying him. We went on yet another trek to Calahonda (seeming as the others vetoed Myramar). I picked a strange spoon-like ornament (multiple uses: leave your tea bags on it, your loose change, your keys....or put it on the wall!) featuring a lecherous bull chasing after a buxom senorita. I also came acrossan ornament in a quirky corner shop of the much-loved Herman Cortez clambouring atop a pile of books. It was also a little keepsake box. I later cleaned it (it was a tad dusty). It seemed suitable for gifting.
The only time you'll see my Dad with a book in his hand.
Ryan and I also went to Cafe Zoco. He had meatballs and I had churros. Zoco means 'souk' in Spanish, and souk is another word for 'market'. Seeming as the Cafe is on the fringe of the Supermarket it's aptly named. The excitable owner sang "bon,bon,bon" as he set down our drinks (turns out "bon,bon,bon" is a song by Pitbull...a Spanish artist). I really like that guy. He's the right mix of eccentric and friendly.
Ryan and I went to the apartment, grabbed some drinks (and dipped our head in the sink to wash the sweat away). I left, dripping wet, to walk in an evapourating haze until we reached La Venta. I carried my red parasol instead of my hat (which had been glued to my head for nearly ten days with sweat and fear of the kiss of the sun).
"Ryan," I called to him.
"Eh?"
"Smell bad. Shade good."
He got the hint and we switched to the other footpath. I bought myself a pair of grey leggings for the flight home.
The only time you'll see Ryan without a computer.
We ended up in the Italian restaurant beside the restaurant where, eons ago, we saw Johnny ten-hats trying to sell his cowboy appendages. This time a man was selling his beautiful prints....tormenting me from a distance.
I had tomato soup, which was bland and of tinned quality, spaghetti al fungi (another disappointment) and profiteroles (HELL YES!). The cappuccino was also a tad diminished in quality. The profiteroles were creamy orbs of paradise.
Let us reflect upon the meal and some of
the other existential dilemmas in life.
We vowed to once again visit the Calahonda restaurants.
Mum and I went to visit the Night Bazaar for a final occasion. We bought nannies a necklace and picked a few for ourselves. Scarf man was nowhere to be seen, he had been replaced by bikini man. Seeming as bikinis are not known for keeping out the winter chill, we left promptly, and had a few drinks (do we count fanta lemon?) in David's bar. A final farewell.
The shiny faces of scarf-loving glee.
When we arrived back at the apartment we relaxed outside with Ryan, reflecting upon fond memories of pets and other misadventures. It's always a tad sad when you have to return home. I think it's less to do with not wanting to come home but the knowledge that home is what you make of it, and that holidays cannot last forever. The world may be exciting but only for short periods, or else nothing would ever be impressive or stupendous. There would be no holiday if you were not to return. And so, like clouds passing over the hill tops into the night, we too, go gracefully back home. Perhaps to wait another year of snow and rain for the whole chaotic venture to return again.
Melodrama aside, it was a good holiday, and there was still one day left to explore to its up-most.
Sunday 18th August 2013
I went down to the supermarket with Padre. Got myself a frappe. Read some more of Steppin' On a Rainbow (the cover features a white suited cowboy dancing upon a rainbow...perhaps we sometimes can allow ourselves to judge a book by its cover?).
Attractively urban. By the end of the holiday I always warm
to the haphazard attractiveness of public Spain.
to the haphazard attractiveness of public Spain.
Ryan and I swam in the pool. We pretended we weren't boring and played racing games (where you can't swim with your arms, or perhaps your legs, or you have to swim like crabs).
As per usual the parentals were frantic. We left the pool 3ish. Goodbye chlorine, until next sniff.
Mike appeared at 4pm. I listened to him and Dad chat as he drove us off. There were bullrings and mountains watching me, timelessly, as we drove by. I couldn't help thinking about Washington Irving again and the long dead. I wondered what the motorways used to look like. Dirt paths? What would Irving think now?
We had to queue for ages at the airport. I finished my book in the line, but in case it was mistaken for a bomb (think of the paper cuts!), I couldn't leave it behind, so I carried it under my arm. Due to some last minute bag repacking we were later than expected.
Security was fine - though Dad got searched. Who doesn't love extra special attention?
Ryan, on Saturday, looking not-at-all uncomfortable.
We had no time to explore the Duty-Free and rushed ahead to boarding. Dad got a bottle of non-explosive water for us to share.
The bad news? We were separated. Probably because we were late. Mum and Ryan were in row 5, Dad 17 and I was row 14. So I sat beside two tanned folk from Dundonald (or so the clock on their Samsung declared). I had the window seat. The joy of watching the world shrink beside you was not shared by the sleeping man beside me. I wrote and listened to music. Dad bought me a cibatta and a Fanta in the usual extortionate pricing of airlines.
It was wrong of me to be so stressed. I'm an extraordinary idiot. The holiday was great. They always are.
As I sped over cloud valleys where my ten-year old self had placed white serpentine dragons among the stratus, I remembered that I've never had a bad holiday.
Thank goodness I quit that job. I managed to gain something better. A new perspective.
Top tip: no pics for the day of your blog post?
Fling some random ones in there, screw with the chronology.
As the plane began to descend the passenger next to me arose from his groggy slumber. He showed me his apartment complex and his holiday pictures. Him and his wife own an apartment in the North. They go to Spain for weeks at time (six usually) and if it wasn't for the economy, they'd live there. They told me they visited a beautiful village near Granada, where the tarmac turned to dirt in minutes. Where men still travel with donkeys, (Irving's sort of place). They showed me the pictures of the quaint village where the 70 folk who live there in the winter become 300 in tourist season. They bottle a special brand of water there, but you wouldn't visit for the water. The couple (who have three children in university, all Queens, one had just graduated) are probably in their sixties. They told me that their rental covered about 4,000 miles. They've seen most of Spain, but have plenty still to see. When they aren't in Spain, he drives a taxi in Belfast.
It's a wonderful thought. The mundane and the extraordinary. If he didn't keep living in Northern Ireland, there would be nothing extraordinary at all.
It makes you think. Perhaps there's people who come here looking for an element of difference, and find it too? Tourists who see the green hills and Giant's Causeway and gasp. I remember seeing a competition on a Cocoa Pops cereal box in Spain, advertising an Irish holiday. We laughed at the thought that Spaniards would want to come anywhere near Ireland, but that's bias. They probably don't know why so many people come to Spain (minus the obvious ones who come for the sun tans).
Okay.We come for the sun tans too.
I think the only way to discover yourself and your culture is to compare it to others. Something that cannot be done at home, or by a book, but through a steely determination, some funds and a car with enough petrol.
I should probably learn to drive then, 4,000 miles is a lot of walking.
Until next time, adios.
*Oscar. Yeah. We figured it was Dutch.
