…and an irrational battle with the contents of the suitcase, in which there was no clear champion
Time to take a deep breath.
I’m many miles from where I woke up this morning. After a bout of being home in England, and feeling comfortable in my surroundings, I find myself face to face with a large mirror I’ve never seen before reflecting back a room which until a couple of hours ago, I’d never entered.
The clothes are the same. They’re flung haphazardly across an unfamiliar bed as if war broke out of the suitcase. It’s the electric plug converter’s fault. It was hiding. Then it took me so long to find the light switch I started to worry I was going mad.
What sort of room has it’s only light switch nowhere near the door?
All at once the strange environment (which really isn’t all that strange) seemed overwhelming. Everyone is far away and I am alone. I want to tell the cheerful Brazilian chap, who’s helpfully pointing out great places for tapas on the map, to please shut up.
I don’t. I want to know where he recommends and I’m curious to understand his adopted city. Plus, he seems lovely.
Part of my grouchiness is a lack of sleep. It’s very rare I cannot sleep, but the night before I fly it’s guaranteed. I keep on waking and prodding my phone to see the clock, paranoid that I’m going to miss my flight. You would have thought with the amount of flying I’ve done recently I’d get over this.
It’s ironic that the time I came closest to missing the flight I actually arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare. So much time that I treated my sister to a proper breakfast. We relaxed, started chatting about our plans and lo and behold when we finally thought to look at the screen our flight to Vienna was being boarded.
None of my many alarms failed me this morning, but it was still dark and cold outside all the same and I still awoke, worrying, many times throughout the night.
It’s hard to remember that worry is entirely internally generated and unnecessary once when there’s a multitude of different alarms on different devices all set.
Arriving in Malaga, making sure the Internet works on my phone, finding an ATM and cursing as it’s stingy about the ratio of paper to Euros was all fine.
As a side note, I listened to a podcast the other day that pointed out that just because you arrive at an airport you don’t have to rush through it, you can sit down and catch your breath for a while. You don’t have to leap right into the stream of people amassed outside of the arrivals hall. I consider this wise advice.
I was also fine getting the bus and even in hopping off at the right stop. A version of ‘fine’ from the newer version of the Italian Job.
John Bridger: Fine? You know what “fine” stands for, don’t you?
Charlie Croker: Yeah, unfortunately.
John Bridger: Freaked out…
Charlie Croker: Insecure…
John Bridger: Neurotic…
Charlie Croker: And Emotional.
John Bridger: You see those columns behind you?
(Columns of San Marco and San Theodoro, St. Mark’s Square, Venice)
Charlie Croker: What about them?
John Bridger: That’s where they used to string up thieves who felt fine.
Charlie Croker: After you.
A few hours later I’m in a different state of mind.
The most important stuff has been extracted from the suitcase. I’ve had a cup of tea (there’s a packet of PG Tips here?). And taken a wander outside without following the commands of Google Maps around each corner or dragging my suitcase behind me. I find a statue of a friendly chap playing what looks to me like a tambourine. He seems ever so jolly.
It feels like someone caring put together this place. Someone with an eye for detail. There are random bits of coloured tiles mashed together. It is beautiful. Floral decorations accentuate balconies and I can’t help but think that Cairo could learn a lot from the brightly coloured shutters.
I like shutters. Places with sunshine have shutters. It’s a promising sign.
Big paintings on public walls draw your eye. But so do the small flourishes on signs and doorways. Minor amusements, like the clinic for bicycles amuse me. Cambridge has one of these and both the one here and the one there have half a bicycle stuck up on the wall. Spain isn’t that far away really.
Picasso was born here.
I’m excited to step outside with my sketchbook and grateful for my paints. But not tonight.
I’m feeling happier by the time I’ve bought pasta. I shocked myself by understanding that the woman at the till was asking if I wanted a carrier bag ‘bolsa’, because it’s so similar to the Italian ‘borsa’, even without her pointing or holding out a bag (yes I know it’s a guessable question at the check-out, but still, you’ve got to appreciate the little achievements).
My spoken Spanish is non-existent, but how much I can read is a pleasant surprise. Context of course is everything.
I buy vegetables in the greengrocers. I stare at the courgette and the cucumber wondering which is which before making a random choice. I get back to the apartment in time to Skype my sister and tell her I’m well. I discover it is indeed a courgette as I hoped.
This span of traveling comes with a purpose. I’m in the city centre. My room is spacious, indeed is contains a substantive desk at which I now sit and a double bed where I shall sleep. I have books, my notebooks and a clear plan for writing. To find restaurants and bars, or a plaza with sculptures, benches and coffee shops takes no more than a minute or two, it’s all just outside my front door.
Malaga is a different colour to England. More tints than tones. Travel pours images and characters into my imagination, without which there would be no stories begging to be written. A woman harvesting herbs from her balcony. A child with his whole body pressed up against a glass pyramid twice his height, staring down through it into the roman remains below the street.
What’s more, I’m not rushed. I’ve got plenty of time to explore my surroundings, and plenty of time to sit still.
Sitting still is important too. It’s easy to talk about writing without actually putting a pen to paper, or to put a pen to paper and be prolific with the word count but stingy with the produce or quality. Well-meaning isn’t enough in practice. You can be well-meaning and still wreak havoc.
If you can’t read what I write, it doesn’t count.
My routine is broken. I’m here, free, and that means there can be no excuses and no complaints. I’ve got pages and pages of draft material that deserves a second look. My job here is to refine it and learn something from it. There’s space in my mind. Everything slows down to accommodate this shift of pace and I stare around me with wonder.
The slower pace suits my writing.
The to-do list doesn’t matter.