A Change In The Weather

About a week ago as we visited the Castillo de Gilbralfaro, a cloud moved in over the city and it has not left. We have seen very few clear skies since, and the forecast provides little hope for sun soon. Some days are deeply overcast and misty while on others, the sky is hazy. The temps have dropped too, and the wind has picked up. I know sometime in the days ahead, we will recall these cool, cloudy jacket-days when we are parched by Spain’s hot, dry summers.

Oh, but recent rains have made the landscapes green! Nearby vegetable fields lie vibrant in greens, blue greens, and tiny blossoms. And Malaga’s parks are bursting with vibrant colors and heavenly fragrances. I wish I could package all the sweet scents. These rainy days are most welcome here because Spain and other European countries are in the midst of multi-year droughts. But ask any Spaniard, they will say while rain is welcome, this is not the week for it. This is Semana Santa (Holy Week), a time for the long-awaited religious parades. The custom in this Easter tribute to Jesus Christ begins with yearlong preparation by Catholic churches and their religious brotherhoods for this grand event. When Holy Week finally arrives, great daily parades take place in nearly every Spanish city. As penitence for their sins, Nazarones, barefoot men dressed in identifying red or white pointy-hoods, carry huge and very ornate pasos (floats) of beautiful wooden statues of Jesus or the Virgin Mary on their shoulders in the parade through the town. Gilded in gold and silver, some floats weigh hundreds of kilos and require as many as 200 men to carry them. Accompanied by loud brass bands and drum corps, these processions can march on for 9 or more hours to the end of the route.  Ticketed people and VIPs watch the proceedings from portable grandstands set up in key plazas along the route. Otherwise, people line the parade route on the curbs.

The first day of these elaborate processions was to have taken place on Palm Sunday with daily parades through Good Friday. So far, the weather has caused total cancellations. The floats are far too precious to chance any rain or wind damage. 

Imagine the disappointment brotherhood members must feel when all their planning and work must wait another year before fruition. 

We are hoping for tomorrow. 

Stan and I venture in to old town Malaga quite often. There is so much to see and the food there is always something to look forward to.  

This past Sunday, however, we boarded the ALSA bus in the other direction away from Malaga to the town of Torre del Mar. This wonderful resort town has a wide promenade along the beach decorated with palm trees and a beautifully landscaped park. Visitors can take in the air and the sea; they can also peruse vendor booths featuring colorful items like linen shirts and skirts, candles and crafts. Families push young ones in strollers while older kids sail by on electric tricycles having great fun. Aromas of food being prepared at numerous restaurants and chiringuitos tantalize the appetite. What a place! But on our day in Torre del Mar, the weather was horrific. Not only was it rainy but the wind raced at over 20 miles per hour. The ocean was angry. Waves tore at the beaches and sprayed water over restaurant patios and the beach paseo. All was not lost. Everyone made the best of it and so did we. Torre del Mar is a place I know we will visit again and again to explore this place more fully. Already though, we feel like insiders having now discovered this lively jewel town that is so popular with mostly only Spanish tourists.

We could not resist having a delicious lunch of fire-roasted Dorado and a bottle of vino Blanco there. Our good luck reigned again as we just happened to choose a restaurant on the promenade that had only one table not already reserved. It’s a thing here. If you want to dine out for lunch on Saturday or Sunday, these are family days, and a reservation is nearly always required. All tables are reserved well in advance. During the next couple of hours, as we sat at our tall bar-table directly in front of the door, we watched family after family trickle in, gathering together for their family-day feast. Some had 15 or 16 people at one table. Most hinted they might be “regulars.” All dressed up, they came in and passed hugs and kisses between the family members and with the restaurant operators too. It was obvious, they all know one another very well.  Watching several generations of family, the mama, the papa, aunts and uncles, and their adult children and spouses chatting and enjoying one another while cousins played games or dolls at the table, brought to mind similar family traditions at home when all the family gathered at grandma’s house for Sunday dinner. Sweet.

Seaside villages in Costa del Sol cook fish in a special manner seen only in Spain. They call it Espeto. Most restaurants have ice-filled cases displaying the fresh catch for patron’s selections. Outside the restaurant but in clear view from the dining room, is a small boat or canoe filled with sand. The process begins early in the morning when a big olive-wood fire is started on the sand in the boat. Later, when a lavish bed of red-hot coals is formed, fresh fish bathed in crunchy sea salt are skewered lengthwise on sword-like blades that are then stuck in the sand near the fire and slow-roasted. Fresh sardines, which are wildly popular here are skewered sideways like shish-kebobs, one next to the other. Cooking espeto-style is an ancient practice going back to Phoenician times. It is a spectacle to watch; the aroma is pure summer, and the fish is delectable. There is nothing else like it. 

One last note about my mini-garden. I now have a batch of Basil micro-sprouts and my tiny tomato plants are slowly growing stronger even in these cool temperatures. Meanwhile, Stan and I trimmed and cleaned out pots of succulents that were barely surviving on the terrace when we arrived. We separated root-bound aloe plants and formed two nice pots from the one. We found discarded wandering jew cuttings and made a pretty pot of purple vines. While we are not sure our Airbnb hosts will appreciate our work, we don’t care. Caring for our little garden feels natural to us and makes life here seem normal.