This Fish Needs A Bicycle

the roaming bull: malaga, spain

I wonder if I will always say that the best cup of coffee I ever had was made for me by a Portuguese man named Paulo. I think I will.

Paulo runs a hostel in Malaga. Please note that I use the term hostel quite loosely in this case. The Roaming Bull is a condo in the foothills overlooking the Mediterranean, bunk beds in three of the bedrooms for the travelers who come and go. But that is as hostel as you’ll get with Paulo. He makes a mean paella, an even meaner sangria and a worthy adversary in the fight for the toilet in the morning.

“I’m too old for this shit,” he moaned, hungover.
“Even I’m too old for this shit!” I countered and made a dash for the bathroom.

Instead of heading to the beach or the plaza for dinner and drinks, we’d stayed in that second night in Malaga. All of us. Henry, the young American, Nino & Roman, the South Africans, Jen, Paulo and I. When the sangria was gone (or Paulo got tired of making it) we drank beer… with Jack Daniels. We played “I never” and something that involved clapping and hand signals. Trick-or-treaters came and were given the bottle of whiskey. I was back at the dining room table, a stranger's hand on my knee, unwisely ignoring the water that Jen had brought me from the kitchen.

Call it… doing my part to help foreign relations. Or call it hormones. But my appointment as goodwill ambassador to South Africa is sure to come any day now. He was young and likeable. He smelled really good. And, boy, could he kiss. When I crawled into bed at six that morning I was pretty sure the hangover I’d have on our trip to Morocco would be worth it.

It was.

Viva España.

Incidentally, I’ll likely fail to do any justice to my experiences abroad. Maybe when the jetlag wears off I’ll be good for more than a quick story. But for now, that’s what we’re working with.

Posted by This Fish at November 8, 2004 12:39 PM