Nuevas Navegaciones I
El Jardin, nestled next to the Cathedral formal garden
“Nuevas navegaciones, pensó. Y así hasta el final.” – Isabel Allende, ‘Largo Pétalo del Mar’
My year abroad had been over for a couple of months when I decided to go to Spain. I had spent the year in Pavia, Italy, a small university town on the Ticino not far from Milan. It was a quiet place, but with a thriving international scene. I ended up befriending Spaniards, Frenchmen, Turks, Poles, Americans, Canadians and Italians. Throughout the year we travelled a lot and generally swapped out lectures for aperitivos, to a burnt-out Cambridge student it was beyond a breath of fresh air, it was a gale which I was more than happy to let carry me away. When I touched back on English soil, it’s not cliché to say that I left a part of me over there, and to be honest I would wake up over the summer and wonder if it ever happened at all. It was on one of these nights that I finally decided enough was enough, and if there was no gale carrying me away, I would make my own wind.
I had wanted to properly explore Spain for a while, and felt it calling me after spending most of the year speaking Spanish to my mates. The irony has not been lost on my DOS that I spent all year in Italy and now only study Spanish. I had cooked up a two-week itinerary through Andalucía and parts of Valencia, and was lacking only one thing: someone to go with. As the summer sped by and my friends remained as busy as ever, I was faced with the choice between not going, or going alone. Suffice to say I was bricking it at the prospect of a fortnight solo backpacking as I had never really travelled alone before, but with some motivation from my friends (thank you Aimee!) I decided that the fear wouldn’t stop me. I burnt the boats and booked my plane tickets; the die was cast.
A few weeks later I landed in Málaga, alone, with my enormous hiking backpack for clothes and carrying a second, smaller one for my camera. In the smaller one I also carried a notebook in which I had scrupulously planned my trip to try and assuage my fears – my route would take me through Málaga, Granada, Córdoba, Sevilla, Valencia, Elche, and finally Alicante, deliberately booking my flights on opposite sides of the country so I couldn’t wuss out and go home straight away. I consulted the small map of Málaga I had Pritt-sticked into the notebook, and began to navigate from the train station to the hostel. I had only booked one night there, its reputation as a Brits abroad Mecca had made me wary but damn was I proven wrong. Trekking past the enormous orange stone cathedral, palm trees languidly waving under the forty-degree Andalusian sun, it proved undeserving of its bad reputation. In high spirits, I checked into my hostel and lived every MMLer’s nerdy fantasy of having the receptionist look at me in aghast when, not knowing a phrase in Spanish, I switch to English and he exclaims, “Pero, tú no eres Espanol?!”.
The cathedral bell tower in the centro histórico and one of Málaga's many beautiful street murals.
The hostel had a fairly corporate vibe, but it was at least clean. I hastily stashed my things and grabbed my camera to explore. Málaga really is a tale of two cities; the Jekyll, forgive me for mixing my literary metaphors, of the ancient casco stórico, with its renaissance Cathedral, painted murals, colourful mosaics, Moorish fortress and Roman amphitheatre, and the Hyde of the ultra-modern seafront spotted with behemoth cruise ships, and an endless latticework of Irish bars. Exploring the city consumed the daylight, but by nightfall the biggest fear of solo travellers had begun to creep in: loneliness. The hostel was full of suited people on business trips, so I ultimately resorted to a hail Mary of responding to a random guy, an Aussie called Darcy, in a group chat on the hostel booking app. I and a few other randoms agreed to meet in a nearby Irish pub for a pint and, hoping Erasmus had honed my small talk skills, I set off to find them.
I approach a vaguely Australian looking table of guys and ask them if any of them is Darcy. They stare at me like I have four heads, and I quickly explain that it must be the wrong table, looking like a comically disorganised spy. My second try bore more fruit, and I was soon a few pints deep with Darcy, an Austrian girl called Luana, and Ian, an American. We fall into step straight away, and begin trading travel stories, before randomly realising that it was not only our collective first solo trip, but also our first night solo travelling. We grab dinner at a nearby restaurant (Valencians would have shuddered at the sight of that paella, but it was fine for the tourist palate) and commend each other on our bravery for having come travelling for the first time.
The night ended, of course, in another Irish pub, and I miraculously echo-located my way back to the hostel, waking up the next day at midday, fully clothed in the sketchily-high top bunk. I spent the rest of the day attempting to resuscitate myself to life on the beach, and penning a journal entry into my little notebook with a stray cat I’d found. I swam a while in the sea with a hefty view of the Alcazaba perched atop the mountain, before gathering my things to leave. My newfound friends were all doing the same loop of Andalusia as me (Málaga, Granada, Córdoba, Sevilla), but at slightly different timings. I text them farewell and hope I see them again, before donning my backpacks and setting off for the station to catch my train to Granada.
The Málaga seafront with its enormous docked ships, my writing buddy from the beach and La Playa de la Malagueta.
All images belong to Asher Porter, unless otherwise stated