After spending the day in northern Spain, we zipped around the Iberian Penninsula and docked at Malaga.
Warning: I forgot to tell you something. If you take a European cruise, be warned about that trip from France to Spain. The Bay of Biscay is the roughest water in the Atlantic. I was fine, but some of my fellow cruisemates took a trip to Barf City.
Regardless—it was a lovely day when we arrived in Malaga.
Malaga is a small city on the south coast of Spain, just past the entrance of the Mediterranean at Gibraltar. As we sailed in, we stayed up until 3 a.m. to watch the Rock of Gibraltar pass—until we realized it was the middle of the night, and the Rock of Gibraltar does not glow in the dark like magic. Therefore, we couldn't see it. So stupid.
In Malaga, a popular pastime is bullfighting.
I was none too excited about this tour stop. Do you know what bullfighting is really about? The matador uses his spears to stab the bull in the shoulders, to sever the muscles it uses to run, which slows it down. I wish that bull would win, every time. How rude. If you consider the fact that Michael Vick went to prison for killing dogs injured in fights—and he would electrocute his dogs, to kill them quickly—I don't consider bullfighting to be much different.
There was no fighting in the bull ring that day. But there was fighting on the tour. Photo essay of an argument:
After touring a historic fort of some sort, we headed into town
where we could walk around and take never-ending photos of buildings. Because that is what tourists do.
And then we ate tapas. Food in Spain is so tiny.
But after three glasses of wine, it's just enough. Drunk at 11:30 a.m.!
Although not everyone was eating tapas.
This is a CHEERS. In Spain! And it was filled with Americans, talking endlessly about how they loved experiencing the culture of Malaga...a city famous for its tapas. How pathetically ironic. This is worse than tourists coming to Miami, praising the Latin culture, and then waiting in line to buy coffee at Starbucks when the cafe con leche place next door is empty. Lazy tourism drives me insane.
My little moment is over, I'm moving on. Despite my gripes about its corporate-branded Irish pub and its theater of animal torture, Malaga is fabulous.
Construction projects dot the city, rehabbing the original beauty of the old buildings. The stone streets along the winding alleys were flat and smooth. Click clack go the heels of the chic Spanish women, as they saunter by on their way to buy their next pair of giant sunglasses.
You know what else you do in Malaga besides drink photograph buildings? You shop. Clothes in Spain are, like, totally cheap. I didn't take any photos of that process, I was too busy searching for stuff.
But I did go to a Spanish supermarket—my favorite stops for true cultural anthropological research—and I took a photo of the hams. Because I was so horrified.
It's just a pile of pig carcasses. Do they need to leave on the toes? I guess in a country where animals are tortured for sport, this is nothing. I know I eat hams and I know this is where they come from, but this is a bit gruesome to me.
I bet those hams were delicious, though. Mmmmm.