I’m still desperately trying to
catch this blog up. Today, Sunday, March 5, I'm writing about what we did starting exactly a week ago.
Our first full day in Málaga
was a beauty, sunny and mild. We set out late in the morning to do the
obligatory walk suggested by Bart, our landlord, through the old town, past the
Roman theatre, Moorish palace and cathedral to the seaside parks and the beach.
A few blocks south of our
apartment begins the pedestrian zone, with its narrow, winding streets. We
barely consulted a map, just walked in the direction we knew everything was. We
came to the Roman Theatre first, which sits under the walls of the Alcazaba,
the 11th century Moorish palace. (There’s also a Moorish fortress on a higher
hill above it, but it’s closed until April.) Actually, we came first to some
cool street art on construction hoardings near the theatre. I’ve yet to find
out the story behind it, but it was clearly commissioned, and executed by an
accomplished painter who did not sneak around, Banksy-style, in the night. I will
do some research on it eventually.
We also noticed a statue with a
tourist information post beside it. The English text said it was a statue by a local Jewish scholar of the 11th
century. Wow, I thought. This statue is almost 1,000 years old, which was weird
because it looked very modern in style. Then I checked the Spanish text.
It was not a statue by the renowned Jewish scholar, of
course – renowned scholars are rarely accomplished sculptors as well – but of the man, or of what some modern artist
imagined he might look like. The English text on these tourist posts, which are all
around the city and appear to be fairly new, is generally pretty good. At least
they mostly make sense. But there are mistakes.
Some of the English in other tourist
information – at galleries and museums, for example – is laughable. Why would
they think that some Spaniard, semi-fluent in English could do a creditable job
of translating such texts, or that Google could do an adequate job, which is often what it sounds like they used? And why, once the text was
public, and scores of English-speakers had mocked its risible mistakes, as no
doubt they have, why would the officials responsible not replace these texts with corrected versions?
There should be a market for
someone like me to do second-pass fine translations and rewrites of tourist
information, after a local translator has done a first pass. But I doubt there
is a perceived need. It’s clearly not often being done. It would cost
too much is probably the excuse for not doing it. But what is the cost in lost
credibility?
We walked on down towards the
sea, past the imposing old customs hall which now houses the Museo de Málaga.
It opened last year to showcase the province’s existing fine arts and
archaeology collections. I was struck by the tall spindly palm trees out front
with their heads leaning in towards each other.
The city and province have been
pushing the idea of Málaga as a cultural magnet, a city of museums. Three new
museums have opened in the last two years: this one, a Russian Museum and the
Pompidou Centre. It’s reportedly costing the city a million euros a year to
have the Pompidou branch plant here for five years. A 2015 Guardian article claimed the city had invested €100-million over
the previous ten years in new cultural attractions and enhancing existing ones
such as the Roman Theatre.
A little beyond the museum, you
come to the lovely tropical gardens between the Avenida de Adalucía and the
N-340, the old main highway through Málaga. It’s a lush space with lots of
greenery and exotic blossoms, especially birds of paradise at this time of year.
The trees are home to scores of raucous parrots. We’ve seen them elsewhere in
Spain. They were blown over from Africa, apparently, and have adapted and
thrived here. They’re a a bright green with yellowish beaks. They sound a bit
the way squirrels do at home when they’re upset and squawking at some predator
or rival – except all the time. There are pathways weaving through the gardens,
with play areas, fountains, a bandshell and sitting spaces.
Beyond the gardens is the
harbour area, which has been tarted up fairly recent - by the looks of it, at
no small expense. There is a very nice semi-covered walkway, the Paseo de
Muelle Uno, that on this sunny Sunday was crowded with strolling tourists and
locals. We were struck by the attrative undulations in the awning over the
walkway, which are echoed in the lounging benches/sculptures in the gardens.
There was a large boat docked
by the Paseo. We thought at first it might be a cruise ship, but then realized
it wasn’t big enough or clean enough to be a cruise vessel. It was a sea-going
ferry. There was something printed on the side about Tenerife (in the Canaries),
so we assumed it was a ferry to the Canaries. It takes about 30 hours to go by
ship from the mainland. But on further research, it appears there are no ferries that go from Málaga to
the Canaries. Maybe it was just going to the Belearic Islands in the Med and
was named Tenerife.
The Paseo circles an inlet in
the harbour and passes slips for big sailing vessels, with views across the
inlet to the ferry dock and the big ferris wheel further west down the
coast. On Sundays, the Paseo is lined here with market stalls selling crafts
and other gewgaws. We walked to the end and then out along the Paseo de la
Farola, a narrow spit, towards the cruise ship terminal. As far as we
could see, it had no ships docked.
The light was very hazy and
diffused, and the views back to the beach with its skyline of 1970s-through-1990s
highrise towers was surprisingly pretty. There were lots of small vessels out
on the water just off the beach, including rental sailboats with distinctive
squared sails.
We walked along the beach a
short way and then cut back to the harbour shopping area, passing the Centre Pompidou
Málaga, with its bright-coloured plexglass cube, and eventually back to the
apartment by a slightly different route that took us by the cathedral. The Málaga
cathedral is a massive structure in a mish-mash of architectural styles. It
dominates the old town, an ever present landmark.
The plan was to have lunch at
the flat and wait for Shelley to arrive later in the afternoon. Which is what
we did. She arrived a little after four. We sat around the flat for a couple of
hours, then set out for another walkabout to reacquaint Shelley with the city.
We wandered up and over the hill that the Alcazaba is on, and back along the
Avenida de Analucía gardens.
We wanted to eat out, but
being Sunday – when Spaniards typically go out for a big lunch, then home for
family time – many restaurants were closed. We eventually found an Italian place
not far from the flat and had an inexpensive meal: pizza for Shelley and I (pretty good),
chicken and salad for Karen. And so back to the apartment for more wine and
chatter.
Monday was market day. After
breakfast – for Karen and I; Shelley doesn’t eat breakfast until later in the
morning – we walked to the central market, which is about 20 or 25 minutes from
the flat, south and west of us, over near the river, the Guadalmedina. It’s a
busy market, perhaps more so on a Monday when everybody was restocking their
larders after the weekend.
Shelley was anxious to buy some
chicharrónes (marinated pork pieces) in garlic oil, which she’d had and loved
on previous trips to Andalucía. We found some. We also shopped for dinner that
evening – sausages, it was decided, and asparagus. At the butcher, we fell into
conversation with an American, Daryl from Hawaii, who had been living in Málaga
for six months. He was a musician of some kind, and sounded like a bit of a
vagabond. He had lived in many places, including Montreal, and claimed to speak
five languages. He was also involved in some kind of expat meet-up group in the
city, which he urged us to come and join. We won’t, of course. But he seemed
like a nice enough fellow.
We meandered back to the flat,
stopping along the way so Shelley could have a coffee and sweet bun for her
breakfast. Karen and I had a proper lunch back at the apartment, while Shelley
nibbled.
We went out again in the middle
of the afternoon with the idea of visiting the Roman Theatre. Shelley is a big
classical ruins fan. The sun was shining, and we wandered in a not very direct
route. Along the way, I spotted an interesting ceramic arts shop just across
from the cathedral, Alfajar. We went in and found some lovely stuff, including distinctive pieces with images that reminded us of a cross between Picasso and ancient Greek sculpture. Shelley got
interested in the idea of buying something as a wedding present. Karen saw a
purse she wanted. But we left – this time – with nothing.
When we got to the theatre, we
weren’t really paying attention and ended up entering the Alcazaba, the Moorish
palace, instead. The entrance to it is right by the theatre. There’s not much
to see of the theatre that you can’t see by walking by it in any case –
although there is a free interpretive centre that we haven't explored yet.
The Alcazaba was inexpensive –
65 cents for Karen and I as seniors, €2.20 for Shelley – and a pretty place. So
no harm done. There’s not much in the way of interpretive information, and even
less of it in English. But we did follow a self-guided tour of sorts that wound
up through various levels and gardens, through keyhole stone gates, past
flowering bushes and blossoming orange trees, into water gardens and over to
lookout points with wide views across the harbour area. It’s no Alhambra, but
still an interesting place.
We meandered back to the flat
again. The plan for the evening had changed. We had discovered that the following
day, the Tuesday, was the Andalucían national holiday. It meant that businesses,
if open at all, would keep Sunday hours. For her last evening in the city, Shelley
had wanted to take us to a Moroccan restaurant, Al Yamal, that she’d discovered
the last time she was here. After a phone call to the restaurant she found that
it wouldn’t be open for dinner on the Tuesday, only lunch. So we’d decided to
go tonight instead.
It’s a fair walk, past the
market, across Avenida de Andalucía, west of the harbour area, in a
nondescript-looking neighbourhood. Shelley had said it was a hole-in-the-wall
kind of place. It’s not. It is small,
but it’s nicely decorated with Moroccan colours and knicknacks. And the food is
very good, for not much money. We had probably the best hummus I’ve ever had
and lamb kebabs for starters, then the traiditional tajin (fragrant meat stew)
and couscous with vegetables and meat (but not pork). All of it was excellent.
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