Fuengirola is a city close to Málaga.
Only forty-five minutes by local train.
You might ask why people flock there.
Lots of reasons.
To bathe on blue ribbon beaches.
Bring children to play.
On the wide Plaza de la Constitución.
At the Bioparc zoo and gardens.
Where crocodiles, hippos, gorillas are not caged.
At Sould Park with its amusements.
To visit the Sohail Castle citadel.
Replete with watch tower from the tenth century.
Or the Finca del Secretario.
Roman bath ruins from the first.
But, Bob and I pilgrimaged to Fuengirola.
For none of those reasons.
Not to see any of those sites.
Rather, to walk the paseo marítimo.
For miles along the Mediterranean.
Listening to seagulls flapping.
Waves beating against the shore.
Winds walloping us from behind.
Reading plaques and monuments.
Like the one honoring the peseta.
Coinage ended with the debut of the euro.
Reading menus of chiringuitos.
Little tapas bars or eateries along the sand.
And scouting for Las Palmeras.
The hotel frequented annually by our late aunt and uncle.
In winter months for many years.
Where, once, a cousin, a son and I stayed as well.
On a winter holiday.
We looked up as we reached the marina.
There it was across the street.
On Calle Martínez Catena, 6.
We went in to poke around.
Study lobby, bar, restrooms.
The hotel was renovated.
Refurbished since we stayed there.
Wear and tear takes its toll.
Leaves buildings in disrepair.
But senses conserve tastes and smells
of good times and comradery.
Of the hotel, the way it was
when we bounded, young, carefree.
Lynn Benjamin
January 18, 2023
