Last week, I had the opportunity to visit Malaga for almost five days. My friends invited me to stay with them in the town of La Cala del Moral. So, on Thursday morning, I took the high-speed train from Atocha Station, bound for Malaga.

The plan was that I would arrive at the Maria Zambrano bus station in Malaga just after 12:00, and then take the bus to La Cala del Moral, where my friends would meet me. I had been given clear instructions on how to get there, so imagine my anxiety when I arrived at the bus station and discovered that the ticket booth was closed, and my only option to buy a bus ticket seemed to be on a machine; a machine which told me that there were no bus tickets available. I tried different machines, called my friend, and was finally able to speak to a real person who informed me where the bus was, and that I needed to buy my ticket there. With about ten minutes to go before the bus was supposed to leave, I made it on. I breathed a sigh of relief, I knew what stop to get off, and I was almost there!

But wait. My stop was coming up and there were no buttons to alert the driver to stop, like there are on the Madrid city busses. I saw my friends waiting for me, and then the bus driver called out something, and kept driving right past my stop. I sat back down, having no clue what I was supposed to do. I decided that I should try to get off at the next stop and figure out where I was from there so I stood up and began to walk forward to speak to the bus driver who was letting people onto the bus, and he told me to go back to my seat. I could not have looked more lost and touristy in that moment, and immediately, half the people on the bus who were sitting near me began talking loudly and rapidly in Spanish, asking me where I was trying to go. I told them, and they all gestured behind me, stating what I already knew, that I had missed my stop. They talked amongst themselves, arguing about something, then one short little abuela walked straight to me and said “Donde vas?” “La Cala del Moral”, I replied. She took me by the arm and led me to the back doors of the bus, yelled at the driver to open the doors, and when I said to her “Necessito mi maleta”, she called back at him to hold the bus so that I could get my bag. I grabbed my bag as quickly as I could, thanked the old lady, and walked past all the people standing at the bus stop, staring at me.

Once I was away from the onlookers, I began to look for an Uber, and texted my friend that I had missed my stop and was now stranded a 20 minute walk from where I was supposed to be. She insisted on picking me up, and 15 minutes later, I was in the car and safely on my way.

It’s difficult to put into words just how beautiful and serene Malaga is, and what a treat it is to stay with a Spanish grandmother. It reminded me of when I spent a week with Mila, my host mom, and how comforting her cooking and demeanor was. We went to the beach every day, and swam in the Mediterranean, the water being much warmer than the cold lakes in New Hampshire. The sand was dark and so scalding hot that you couldn’t walk on it without sandals, even on overcast days. I soon realized that the nude beaches that I thought could only be found in France, were in Spain, too. After getting over my initial shock and surprise at seeing topless women walking around, I enjoyed the openness and comfortability of a culture that doesn’t look twice upon seeing you in your natural state; a great example of how little notice Spaniards give to this, is my friend holding a friendly conversation with a woman who was sitting in the sand, smoking a cigarette, tits fully out, as if they had known each other for years. Europe is clearly much more advanced in the #FreeTheNipple movement than America, to which I applaud.

I learned a new Spanish word during my stay in Malaga, and it is my favorite one too: “Chiringuito.” A “Chiringuito” is a beach bar, and I had the pleasure of eating at one such place on my first night in Malaga. I tried Espetos (grilled sardines), malaquena, and boquerones, all traditional Malaga foods. Fish and white wine? The epitome of the ‘Mediterranean Diet’, and one which I could happily live off of.

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One of the highlights of my time in Malaga, was visiting the Picasso museum, and seeing the outside of his birthplace. I had never fully appreciated Picasso and his work until I learned a bit more about him through this museum, and the lens through which he painted. Another highlight was the outdoor markets, filled with clothes and jewelry, that stretched between the brightly colored buildings.

Malaga is truly different from Madrid, but in the best way. The Andalucia region is what I had pictured in my mind of what Spain would look like, before I came to Madrid; I’m sure that this won’t be the last time I visit Malaga, and I’m looking forward to exploring more of the south in the coming year. On Saturday, I will get a little taste of the north, as I’m traveling to Galicia for a few days: Galicia, home of Albariño! I can hardly wait.

Till then…