Chasing the Cup - Chapter Three

The trip to Dublin was merely a short stay before leaving for Malaga, Spain. As we flew over the hills of coastal Spain, the plane made a sharp right turn towards the Malaga airport. This was the stuff of dreams – the bright white and pink of stucco buildings nestled in the arid hillside, rolling down into the incredible blue of the Mediterranean. I couldn’t wait, as this was a part of the world I had not seen and was a favorite of Dad’s. I anticipated Spanish food, the warm sea air, and even warmer crystal waters lapping the hot sand of the beach.

But first, there was a price to pay. Finding the hostel. The first was bringing of all the luggage from the airport to the train station, which would take us to Los Boliches, outside of Fuengirola. There was a long, hot walk (we had dressed unfortunately for the brisk May of Ireland) to the train station over the highway and up the stairs. We looked completely out of place with the rest of the flip-flopped, reddened faces of the mostly English crowd that made their way from one town to another commuter style on the train.

We arrived in Los Boliches only to find a disappointment, the Amigos Hostal, which Dad dearly loved, was closed. Apparently those plans I had made, then cancelled, and begged would be made at some time before our departure, were of no help now.

We moved along the narrow streets of Los Boliches, with one storefront, internet café, bank, and money changer after another. We came upon a small plaza and moved east towards the large avenue that connected the Costa del Sol towns. Eureka, or however one would say that in Spanish, we found a hostal – the Hostal Nevada. This would be our home base for two nights before we experienced the rest of southern Spain. The room was wonderful, albeit with a tricky set of terrazzo-floored stairs up which we had to pull the seemingly expanding luggage. The room had a small kitchen, sunlit eating area, a small living room with TV and two bedrooms as well as a bath twice the size of the kitchen.

We were hungry enough so we walked to the beach to find lunch. Dad brought us to one of the numerous beachfront restaurants, each of which seemed the same as the one 50 feet down the beach. The restaurant had an overturned dinghy with grilled fish laid out for everyone to see. The other boat was modified to operate as a huge grill, which was tended by a passing waiter and emitted wonderful smells and embers to thrill the passing beach goers.

We took a table outside, with a wonderful, beachy breeze, and ordered – I craved something grilled so I got a selection of meats which were perfectly cooked, with just a touch of herbs and olive oil. The next fixture of southern Spain introduced itself to us, in the form of African men selling knock-off wares in a very aggressive manner. Dad was once again thrilled – unsolicited interaction with other members of the human race! It was the time that the young man took my daughter’s arm, clasping a watch to it, that I stepped in on this particular social experiment. "That’s enough," I said, "NO thank you." Dad was mortified, I had seemingly insulted his new friend. The young man didn’t back off, but neither did I, and it ended abruptly. Apparently, it was only his living; was his method "against the law?" I was asked. "Yes, against MY law," I chided him back. That was that. If nothing, my father and I could reach an understanding as quickly as it broke to pieces.

We then went our separate ways, Dad and Mike back to the room to rest and Rosie and I to the beach. The rest of the day was spent in idyllic rest under a large umbrella of palm leaves and watching my daughter experience the Mediterranean. The next two days were spent working on our sunburn, and then we moved onto Ronda – the raison d'etre for my father and his many sojourns to Spain.