I’ve heard Malaga is littered with unfinished buildings and smells like poo. A city to miss on the Travel circuit because, well, it’s on the “Tourist Circuit” *nose wrinkle*. The thing is, it’s one of the warmest bigger cities in Europe’s only Spanish speaking country (coincidentally enough known as Spain) and I’ve met at least 6 people just in the past 2 months who used to live there and say it’s wonderful. It’s also super cheap as well as right next to the sea and some pretty rated paragliding spots. Just perfect for someone looking for a pretty place to learn Spanish and hole up on the cheap in the sun for a few months while tackling a first attempt at a book. A first attempt at professional writing, actually, but hey I’ve never been one for half measures.
I should be in South America, soaking up the warm rays of a similar climate to Australia’s this time of year.
But something wasn’t right with me and South America. Maybe I was sick of travelling alone and wanted deeper friends around. Maybe the craving for life purpose and a lounge room I can pad about in wearing PJs and fluffy multi-colored socks overtook me. Or maybe the student of a Native Indian Chief I met somewhere up the backside of one of Columbia’s mountains was right and my energy lines don’t align with its magnetic flows. He suggested feathers and a song. I booked a ticket back to Europe instead.
So it is with a bit of trepidation that I walk off the plane into the airport. To say you’re going to go live in a city without actually ever having been there is a bit like going on a blind date. If it sucks, you’re stuck for an awful long time in a whole lot of awkward.