La Cala

La Cala

Up in the air.

Then down on the ground.

I hope there’s enough ham to go around.

Bottle of wine.

And a mountain view.

The road is for cars, and donkeys too.

Fish in the hills.

Then more fish in the town.

Málaga, Spain is where it all goes down.

Málaga is another one of these de-montaña-al-mar towns.

The taxis line up, ready to ride.

The smaller taxi doesn’t accept our fare.

There’s more taxi parking down below.

And religion up above.

It’s a bit too cold to swim.

But the beach is fun anyhow.

We head back for the heights.

Keeping our wheels on the ground.

To a city that spans a chasm.

Wow, look at that chasm.

It’s a good place for selifes.

Some never look directly at the camera.

But I know how to make good eye contact.

Yes, it’s a good place for selfies.

And for driving down stairs.

The chairs are painted with rabbits.

The paella is painted with squid ink.

The trees are painted with oranges.

The hills are painted with sunlight.

The signs are painted with danger.

The donuts might be dangerous.

Or is the danger the bulls?

But who will protect us?

Or are we doomed?

We are not certain.

But I’m sure we’ll be fine.

At least once we get some coffee.

Or some brains.

As long as we don’t forget anything important.

Some towns are whiter than other towns.

They could use a pop of color.

Or a pop of avocados.

The craft brew is rich and diverse.

As is the wildlife.

Or is it just hungry?

It might need a nibble.

And we need many nibbles.

Of scallops.

Of polpo.

Of squids.

Of dragons.

We’re not exactly sure what this town is up to.

But the ninjas and mages should protect them.

We need a tour guide to protect us.

From dangerous cliffs.

From long drops down.

From fear of heights.

Just don’t look down.

Except on the stairs.

We survive the stairs, and we’re pretty proud of ourselves.

Will we survive the bridge, too?

Sure, it’ll be fine.

Everything will be fine.

Won’t it?

The view will be, anyway.

The mountain goat will be, anyway.

Its baby will be, too.

Well… probably.

Just one more stretch to go.

The safety rules are reiterated.

“blah blah don’t fall off”

“blah blah don’t step in the holes”

“blah blah don’t stop”

“blah blah watch out for monsters of antiquity”

“blah blah don’t take shortcuts”

But it’s really all quite safe.

As long as you can’t read spanish.

And the chain link holds.

Which it does, so we head home safe and sound.

For the warm comfort of churros.

And the slimy comfort of octopodes.

And a couple of street-snatched oranges.

Back down by the sea where the quakers roam free.

The quakers are making a biiiiig nest.

Nobody calls the ambilamps.

Nobody recycles the olive oil.

But somebody does order more squid ink.

On the final day we find the special gazpacho.

And more squid ink, why the heck not?

And a ridiculous fake castle.

In honor of the discovery of America.

With the Niña, Pinta, and Santa Maria.

We hunt the grounds for edible snacks.

But all the tasty treats are guarded.

So we must sail away.

We just grab some garbanzos for the road.

And some pasteis for the flight home.