La Costa del Sol
This trip took me back—ten years ago, after Iceland, a quick escape into Andalusian heat, when the contrast between glaciers and flamenco had been too much to comprehend. Now, a decade later, it was different. A return, a final dip into the Mediterranean before autumn crept in and the cold seeped back into bone. It was the perfect end to summer, a slow unraveling of golden afternoons, long drives, and sea salt drying on sun-warmed skin.
In Málaga, the journey began in the heart of the old city, where Picasso’s birthplace still hums with an artist’s spirit, where the Alcazaba, a Moorish fortress older than the Alhambra, watches over the port like a sentinel from another time. The streets wove together history and hedonism—cobbled alleyways of tapas bars, the scent of frying calamari mixing with sweet orange blossom. In Málaga Central, time slowed in the Plaza de la Constitución, the afternoon pressing down in waves of warmth, the only relief found in the shade of the cathedral’s stone walls, or in a cold glass of tinto de verano, condensation slipping down its sides.
Up in the Mijas Mountains, whitewashed villages clung to the hillsides, their narrow streets curling like ribbon around the cliffs. It was a place of silence, broken only by the occasional church bell or the distant clatter of hooves—donkeys still used as transport where roads refused to carve their way through. The Ermita de la Virgen de la Peña, a chapel carved into rock, stood as a quiet reminder that some places are meant for lingering, for whispered prayers and stolen moments where the view stretches beyond comprehension.
Further east, the coast turned wilder in Nerja, where the cliffs fell dramatically into the sea, the Balcón de Europa jutting out as if daring the land to challenge the water. Here, the Mediterranean deepened into impossible shades of blue, the kind of blue that makes poets mad. The caves below—prehistoric, vast, their walls lined with paintings left by hands that lived thousands of years before—spoke of a Spain that existed long before tapas and tiled courtyards. It was a place where the past never fully faded, where the sound of the waves echoed in underground caverns and on the cliffs above, where late afternoon swims stretched until the sun bled into the horizon.
In Marbella, Spain slipped into something silkier—golden sand, bronzed skin, the hush of designer boutiques and the clink of champagne glasses on Puerto Banús. But beneath the glamour, the old town remained untouched—a maze of bougainvillea-draped balconies and orange trees, where the scent of jasmine curled through the night air. This was where Andalusia’s duende still thrived, where the fire of flamenco smoldered beneath whitewashed walls, where the sound of a guitar on a quiet plaza could still turn the night into something sacred. The south of Spain has never been shy about passion, about fire, about the art of seduction—whether through music, through wine, or through the way the heat presses against the skin and lingers, refusing to let go.
In Benalmádena, Torremolinos, and Fuengirola, the coast stretched on, each town rolling into the next, like waves against the shore—different, yet the same. Here, the beaches were livelier, speckled with striped umbrellas and the occasional scent of grilled sardines wafting from the chiringuitos. The boardwalks were alive with movement—families strolling, vendors selling handmade jewelry, lovers wrapped in the kind of golden haze only Spanish sunsets can cast. Benalmádena, in particular, carried an air of quiet extravagance—where wealth whispered rather than shouted. Home to some of the richest of the rich, its marinas gleamed with million-dollar yachts, and its grand villas overlooked the Mediterranean like watchful sentinels. Its fortune grew not just from tourism but from its coveted real estate, its casino-lined coast, and the allure of luxury wrapped in Andalusian charm. In the harbors, fishing boats swayed lazily, the sea gently reminding them to rest before another night of work. And beyond, always, the mountains loomed—watching, whispering, reminding anyone who dared listen that Spain is not just a place, but a feeling.
The last swim of the season was just as it should be—salt clinging to skin, hair tangled from the wind, the Mediterranean lapping at sun-warmed shoulders, reluctant to let go. Summer always ends, but Spain? Spain stays.