A city in Spain

The marble streets of the Old Town glisten with the yellow lights of the evening, and beautifully dressed women walk past languidly. Sitting outside on a wooden stool, a sherry barrel serving as my dinner table, I dine on fried chorizo and fish. The bar is especially popular with Dutch tourists, for some reason. A drunk beggar missing most of his front teeth appears and begins a mournful ditty. His voice is grating and he stomps and claps, before touring the tables in search of money.

          After I finish my dinner, I wander the streets. Bored waiters amble back and forth outside restaurants, most of which are deserted after 10 o’clock. The illuminated cathedral looks breathtaking, its sole tower seeming to point to the stars and moon. I pass signs of the economic crisis, like the four homeless guys crashed out inside an ATM vestibule on the main drag. On my way back to my hotel, I walk along the pavement above the bone-dry river, which looks dreadful. Four dim figures in hoods sit on the concrete bed, huddled round an invisible game, a small collection of bottles in the vicinity.

          That was Málaga a few years ago. I wonder how long it will be before I have the chance to go back.