coconut.

Sunday.
I meet the redhead in the baggage claim hall of the Malaga Airport. We’re both rather bedraggled after sleepless nights spent in our respective airports before boarding obscenely early flights out of the U.K. for the Costa Del Sol. We make our way through a sea of tourists. Families who all appear to be vacationing on the ‘half a dozen snotty-nosed pox-ridden children or more’ discount plan, and London financier boys looking suspiciously fastidious despite their softly crumpled Lacoste leisure wear and dragging golf bags the size of 2-seater Peugeots behind them.

The journey from the airport to the hotel runs like clockwork. We master both the metro system and pleasantries with the Spanish cab driver. Our dignity appears to be regained in the area of foreign transit after a setback resulting from several embarrassing gaffes in the labyrinthine metro system of Brussels a few months back. Of course, we dejectedly note, we only get these things right when we don’t have witnesses. Inevitably, elevator signs are mistaken for washrooms and accidental ventures into dodgy ends of cities before being rescued from potential muggers by sweet old French women only occur when an audience is present to shake it’s head in disbelief. Nonetheless, this does little to tarnish the glory of our masterful travel skills exhibited here. Take that, Magellan! I’ll see you one circumnavigation of the globe and raise you one seamless trip from the Malaga Airport to the cutest little boutique hotel you’ll find nestled in the pseudo-red light district of the city centre.

Naturally after a sleepless night and upon entering a climate fifteen degrees hotter than what you’re used to, there’s only one sensible thing to do at the hottest point of the day. We put our smashing idea into action and hike up the slick, blazing hot marble tiles to the Castillo Gibralfaro atop the local mountain, clad in flip flops and sundresses. We marvel at the views of the city centre, the bull ring, and the sea before dragging our exhausted, slightly parched and slightly crispy bodies back to the hotel.

We sprawl out in our hotel room trying to find an English television channel featuring anything other than an irate newscaster banging his fists on the desk and demanding David Remnick’s crucifixion for the Obama New Yorker cover while we toast our highly successful first day of vacation. Sure we’ve had some minor travel mishaps in the past –suitcases stuck in the underground gates, trains accidentally exited in the middle of the countryside, overweight luggage prompting fistfuls of clothes being heaped in garbage bins, pill popping cab drivers, sobbing conversations with British Airways attendants while waving battered shoes in the air for dramatic effect – but that’s in the past. Those days of young travelling naivety are behind us, replaced by pure relaxation.

Monday.
Glad we got off to a good start yesterday. This is the only full day we’re in Malaga before we venture out to the villa in the countryside. There’s so much gorgeous city to take in, it’s going to be a full day, starting of course with the Picasso Gallery which is a quick and easy walk from the hotel.

***

Fuck. After some time spent locating the gallery (I’m sorry, but that four story Picasso mural hanging across the building really is not a clear enough indicator of the entrance) we find that the gallery is closed on Mondays. Not a problem as we’ve got plenty of other stuff on the agenda. Onto the cathedral.

Not only does it score high marks for being easier to locate than the gallery, but the cathedral is genuinely lovely. Sandstone and imposing, although the redhead notes that it could be improved by the addition of a few gargoyles. There are some great views of the façade from the courtyard and we stop for a photo session. Oh look, a charming Spanish peasant is offering us carnations. Better wave her and the flowers away. Ningunos gracias. Alright, she’s insisting we keep the flowers in exchange for a few pennies. We rummage for any coins we can find in our possession. Oh god, she’s ranting rather loudly now. Either it’s some sort of blessing or she’s speaking in tongues. Dammit, why isn’t this is the phrase book? She’s pulling on the redhead’s purse. And now, she’s repeatedly stabbing my clavicle with a flower stem. This is all very bizarre: perhaps it’s a religious custom, or how they welcome visitors into the church. Well, the peasant is now yelling into the redhead’s purse and attempting to shove flowers down the top of my dress while ranting louder than ever. I think we’ve seen enough of the cathedral and it’s about time for a beverage.

***

Fuck. Upon opening my wallet to pay for my beverage I find that the peasant has absconded with a good sized roll of bills. I’ve just been robbed in a church by a praying woman wielding flowers. Apparently God does exist, and he’s giving me the finger.

A brief search of the grounds reveals that the peasant has conveniently vanished into thin air or, quite possibly, the local Hilton. We walk towards the port in an attempt to salvage the rest of the day when the redhead has her first encounter with a local: an elderly man yelling excitedly at her while he alternates between flapping his arms wildly and pointing at her bare legs. “Ay dios mio! Muy blanco! Muy blanco!” Or, as some flipping through our phrase books reveals, “Oh my God, very white! Very White!”

We walk our very poor, very pale selves back to the hotel and bask in the prospect of heading out to the villa in the morning. The city is beautiful, but maybe we’ll fare better on its outskirts.

Tuesday morning.
As it turns out, the villa is not so much on the city outskirts as it is a two and half hour drive through the mountains away from the city. This small detail comes as a surprise to us and our charming host who has joined us for the journey to the countryside.

The villa is a classic red stucco affair, conveniently placed between the mountains, the golf course and the beach. That’s really all the geography I need for this holiday. I notice how eerily silent it is as I survey the pool over the top of my sunglasses from the back veranda. The redhead is scurrying around the house with her open laptop, trailing cables on the terra cotta tiles, feverishly trying to find an internet connection. Apparently there’s no phone, internet or other communication with the outside world. I’m not quite sure how we are going to occupy our time. This will be an interesting week. I predict the redhead will catch wild pigeons and attempt to persuade them to carry messages back to civilization. We’re not really accustomed to venturing away from communication technologies or out of the comforts of the city, and I’m still labouring under the impression that using a coffee maker in one’s own kitchen instead of walking to the café makes one something of a pioneer. Our host seems confused at our slight discomfort in the silence and isolation. Apparently she’s eased right into this atmosphere of so-called relaxation. It shall be an interesting week.

Tuesday afternoon.
I’m getting into the spirit of island living. I realize we’re not actually on an island, but I’m on holiday and by a pool where it’s hot and sunny – in lieu of any maps being present, I shall think of it as an island lifestyle. Apparently being in flip flops and a sundress is quite substantially better than pinstripes and heels. I’m even enjoying the sun, albeit from the shade of a hat so large that I had to upgrade my luggage size to accommodate it. (In attempt to be helpful, the redhead suggested I take advantage of the airline’s luggage offer for skis and other “specialized and oversized sporting equipment” to check in the hat. Convenient as it may have been, I refused to have my hat classified as “oversized equipment”. That might have given the impression of being high maintenance.) Nonetheless, the shade is welcome in the heat, although one might think the frostiness between the redhead and our host would cool things down a bit.

No doubt that will all be over by tomorrow.

Wednesday.
My worries about filling up the days without work or technology have been put to rest. I’ve found a rigorous island schedule to fill my days.

1.) Sun until hot. Pool until wet. Sun until dry and hot. Shade until cooled off. Repeat.

2.) Reading. In the pool. In the sun. In the shade.

The great thing about all this swimming is that you don’t need to shower in the morning! There’s no point in getting dressed either, it’s all bathing suits and big floppy hats. Why doesn’t everyone live like this all the time?

Glad I’m keeping my schedule full as it avoids being in between the others. The redhead and the host haven’t spoken at all and are occupying opposite sides of the villa. I’m choosing to believe this is the kind of comfortable silence between old friends who’ve graduated beyond verbal communication. They’ll be chattering away in no time. I can’t worry about this now, I’m too busy with my island schedule.

Wednesday evening.
I’ve just discovered a hammock on the porch. Perhaps this is God’s apology for giving me the finger via his peasant thief. I’ve been taking naps in the hammock punctuated by breaks of consciousness to peer over my toes at the mountains. This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m thinking about getting rid of my bed at home and replacing it with a hammock. For practical reasons I’ll invest in a guest hammock to keep rolled up in the closet that I’ll pull out when I have company.


Thursday morning.
Skipped down to breakfast in a bathing suit and wrap to find the redhead eating green olives in the breakfast room. She looks at me funny which, as she tells me later, is attributed to her observing me mixing various tropical juices in a glass. After eliminating the possibility that I’m making Pina Colodas at breakfast, she is mystified by my drinking fruit juice as she’s never seen it happen. Then again, I point out, I’ve also never voluntarily stopped showering and bothering to get dressed. Upon this admission, she cracks the first smile I’ve seen since we arrived at the villa and suggests I get a coconut to break in half and use as a cup for my tropical beverages.

Thursday afternoon.
After hours of silence, host and redhead have begun to exchange pleasantries on the porch while I observe from the hammock. A gentle breeze prompts a worrying creaking noise to be emitted by the hook securing the hammock to the wall. “If you fall out of that hammock I will never stop laughing at you,” remarks the redhead, not looking up from reshuffling her cards for her game of solitaire.

Thursday evening.
We await the arrival of our charming host’s family to the villa from the beachside bar over sangria. Although still tenuous, the relations between the host and the redhead seem to be improving. We wander back to the villa to the front hall bursting with luggage and people popping out of every corner. The island silence is gone.

Introductions are largely omitted, but one girl is kind enough to ask, while literally looking down her nose at us from her perch on the veranda railing, “So, like, who are you, and what are you doing here?” I’m imagining the pleasing slapping sound my sandal-clad foot would make while a well-aimed kick unseats her from the veranda and relocates her into the pool below. I marvel at her ability to intone each and every sentence in exact opposition to the correct manner. Her flaws exhibit a precision and consistency that is aspired to by many an elite Swiss watch maker. I gather, through her largely incoherent ramblings, that she’s summering in Italy while completing the fifth year of her four year degree at a university prized as much for its mediocrity among students as for the variety of excellent shellfish restaurants in close proximity to the campus.

Three times over the next few hours during faux pleasantries I’m asked about my career. Each time the question “How did you manage to get a job?” is the main focal point, causing me some confusion. “They don’t apply for jobs or make resumes. They just get jobs from their families,” the redhead explains in the deserted kitchen as the hoards prepare to head out for dinner while I try to coax a little more coconut rum into my glass of pineapple juice in an effort to dull my growing sense of annoyance at these intruders to my island paradise.

Thursday dinner.
Stories of boarding school shenanigans and the mocking of the day students at said boarding schools are ricocheting off the walls during dinner and I begin to envy the waiters who don’t speak a word of English. How pleasant the happy chatter of gibberish must sound to them.

Little Miss Summering in Italy omits periodic gems of brilliance including, “Like, do you, like, think the, like, waiter could like teach me Spanish in, like, ten minutes?” I’m convinced the violent lilting of her speech is making me seasick. I toy with my salad fork while thinking back to first year neuro-anatomy lessons and trying to recall the location of my cerebellum while thinking how much more pleasurable it would be to insert my fork there than endure another moment of this Sartrean hell.

From another corner of the table I hear a few members of the party harkening back to their glorious high school days. The glory days before you reach university age and admissions rest on more than the clearing of a cheque. (Not surprisingly, the bulk of stories here end after the high school diploma when the name dropping becomes significantly less prestigious.) While discussing the distinguishing factors between various boarding schools the words, “It’s all Asians and Jews, but sometimes they’ll throw in a Caucasian to mix things up” reach my ears preceding a shrill giggle.

“First bus back to the city tomorrow,” says the redhead. I’m unsure if it’s a question or a statement of fact. Either way, I wish she’d said tonight.

Friday.
We hurriedly pack our belongings to escape from our fallen paradise. The redhead’s arms are dotted with swollen bug bites after a night spent sleeping on a sofa practically on the veranda. Bidding a farewell to our charming host we head for the door dragging our luggage and big floppy hats. “Don’t forget the coconut rum,” I’m reminded. Is it too late? Can I make it back to the kitchen for it without running into anyone? I can already hear people stirring in the rooms upstairs. I scurry back and stuff the chilled bottle into my purse. The bottle neck sticks up about 4 inches over the top. We’re like the marines: we don’t leave anyone behind.

And this is how we bid our hasty goodbye to the villa and my island life. We may have been shuffling down a dusty Spanish road through a golf course, but to me, we’re being airlifted out a lush Vietnamese jungle. My one hand clings desperately onto the undercarriage of the helicopter, while the other trails at my side clutching the bottle of coconut rum.

Friday afternoon.
The bus pulls into Malaga after a pleasant drive through the mountains. Most of the journey is spent shaking our heads bewilderedly and jotting down some of the more outrageous quotations into notebooks. Upon arrival, I pull the redhead’s suitcase of the luggage storage under the bus. Mine is no where to be seen. The bus is getting ready to leave and I look away to try and get the driver’s attention. When I look back I appear to be alone. I realize that the redhead has climbed into the storage area in search of my bag. This has got to be a terrible idea. The only Spanish I’ve mastered involves variations of “Thank you” and “Good night”, neither of which is an especially good substitute for, “Please stop driving away as you have prematurely closed the luggage doors and my friend is still inside looking for my bag.”

A few more minutes of rummaging and she emerges with my bag. I’m relieved it’s been found but more relieved she didn’t get stuck in the airless metal compartment. I tell her that I appreciate her selfless effort. “Are you kidding?” she’s asks, incredulous, “You already had your cash stolen, if your bag was gone, there’s no way I was coming out.” Apparently she would rather risk asphyxiation hiding inside a vehicle headed towards an unknown destination than face the inevitable hysteria involved in the reaction to another robbery. Smart girl.

Friday night – Saturday night.
Back ensconced in the city. I’ve returned to showering and putting on real clothes, although the flip flops remain. I’m only drinking tropical juice in nightly cocktail form. Slowly, island living is being bled from my veins.

The Picasso gallery is now open, and is spectacular. We spend two glorious days exploring the city, eating paella and not being robbed blind in the streets. Most of Saturday is spent lying on the beach, eating mango popsicles and getting up every 20 minutes to rotate our lounge chairs into the every-moving shade of our cabana hut. Perfection.

Sunday.
I’m shocked when a black London city cab pulls up in response to concierge’s call. I wonder if they’re planning to drive me home. There’s no way I’m picking up the tab on that taxi metre.

Inside the cab I find adverts boasting ‘real London cabs and service on location in Spain’. Back in real clothes, complete with closed toe shoes, tucked inside the dark taxi I almost feel at home already. This is how I leave the Costa Del Sol, with a black cab as a hearse carrying the lifeless form of my island living alter ego back to the airport.