Spain

All Poems, Málaga, Museums, Spain, Trips and Places

Roman Theater

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Every day since arriving in Málaga, I’ve passed the Roman Theater.

In use from Augustus till the third century.

Nestled into the curve of the hill.

Like a child pressing against its mother.

Beneath the Alcazaba walls.

Palace of Muslim rulers in the eleventh century.

Site of Phoenicians before that.

Then Carthaginians.

Visigoths.

Romans.

Arabs.

Reconquered by Christians in 1487.

All reminding me that history is long.

One civilization atop another.

I wonder if the birds are descendants.

From those early times.

Roosting and squawking still.

Upon the tops of ledges.

Watching years march by.

Gawking at people.

Who wash streets.

Walk dogs.

Jog along.

People who try to grasp the scope of years before.

But focus on the squabbles of today.

While birds hoot and holler from above.

Warning all will change, will fade away.

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 9, 2023

 

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Humor, Málaga, Spain, Stories, Trips and Places

The Birds in Málaga

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The birds in Málaga are sensible.

To choose such a beautiful place to dwell.

A playground for avian antics.

Terraced roofs.

Chimneys.

Steeples on churches.

Branches of palms, orange trees, jacarandas.

First, I saw pigeons in parks, plazas.

Not simply gray ones.

Multicolored.

Variegated.

Palominos.

White all over.

Then, seagulls circling above.

Falcons and kestrels poised for prey.

But, screeching drowned out sound.

Shrieking from all the trees.

What kind of bird is that? I wondered.

Unable to identify it.

Wishing I had the answer.

The noise was deafening, unremitting.

Right in the center of town.

It took a day to find the answer.

When I saw and heard green parrot-like birds.

In Plaza de la Merced.

Where I wandered in the early mornings.

There was the unmistakable sound.

The high-pitched crying.

From the hooked beaks of the green birds.

What are those? I asked myself snapping some photos.

Where are they from?

What did I learn?

Some fifty years ago, they escaped from ships.

Anchoring from South America.

Likely enjoying the Mediterranean clime.

The Andalusian hospitality,

So, those monk parakeets just moved in.

Stayed. Naturalized.

Never tried to hit the road.

Now seen all over.

Málaga, their fixed zip code.

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 8, 2023

 

All Poems, Humor, Málaga, Spain, Stories, Trips and Places

First Early Morning in Málaga

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My first early morning in Málaga, I awakened late.

Later than my usual time at home.

Likely catching up from two plane rides.

A six-hour change in time.

And a sluggish sunrise.

Once up, I bolted out the door, down five flights.

To the street, Carreterría.

Which glistened with water.

It was, in fact, slippery.

Was it rain? I wondered.

Though the sky was clear.

No predictions for rain.

But every sidewalk and street was wet.

The following morning, I set out earlier.

To solve the mystery.

Resolve my uncertainty.

And there was the answer.

Plain and simple.

La Limpieza de Málaga.

Legions of sweepers, hose wielders, sprayers.

Scrubbing every alleyway.

Corner.

Walkway.

Plaza.

Men and women in yellow jackets.

High water proof boots.

Tasked with making Málaga shine.

Polished, bright, spotless, clean.

Not a speck of dirt or grime.

Disinfecting hygiene team.

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 8, 2023

 

 

All Poems, Food, Humor, Málaga, Spain, Trips and Places

Pick Your Way

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Málaga is full of aromas.

From hundreds of restaurants.

Bars, taverns, bakeries.

Lining streets, plazas, alleyways.

Tables inside, outside.

But don’t sit down.

Pick your way through the city.

Go to Atarazanas Market.

The place to search near the river.

For fruits, vegetables, charcuterie.

Meats, chicken, seafood.

Stand at a table outside.

Order tapas.

Clams, mussels, langostinos.

Stop here and there.

Sample, smell, taste.

Sip hot chocolate, coffee, wine.

Try dried fruits, nuts, cheese.

Graze malagueño for divine.

Fill up on specialties.

Turn the city to a fair.

Each day is a mystery.

Find nibbles everywhere!

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 7, 2023

All Poems, Christmas, For Children, Málaga, Spain, Trips and Places

Three Kings Day

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We settled into Málaga.

In time to walk toward the center.

Join festivities for the parade.

In anticipation of Three Kings Day.

Listen to music.

Watch floats.

Fold ourselves into excitement.

Of children, their parents.

Wander streets.

Still lit with holiday lights.

Dazzling, glittering, towering.

Six hours ahead at home.

But several days behind.

For Christmas ended in the States.

While it continued here.

With Epiphany, the holiday highlight.

The twelfth day.

Imagine children.

Putting out shoes.

Not for St. Nick, but for Magi.

To fill with gifts they’ve wanted.

Sip chocolate, munch roscón rings.

Go to bed with expectations

for treats from three wise kings.

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 6, 2023

Roscón rings are special cakes made for Three Kings Day.

All Poems, Heathrow, Málaga, Spain, Trips and Places

Landing at Heathrow

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We landed at Heathrow.

As the sun rose.

Opening eyes in a British Airways jumbo jet.

Seats configured in a ying-yang maze.

Rather than in rows.

So, we took off, landed facing backwards.

Exited on a jetway.

Descended a staircase.

To a bus.

Traveling miles to a terminal.

People buzzed in all directions.

Zigzagging, waggling.

Making their far-flung connections.

Caught in the middle of the crush,

waiting to catch our plane.

Though the flight to Málaga delayed.

Soon, we’d eat turrón in Spain.

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 5, 2023

All Poems, Deception, Spain, Stories, Trips and Places

Credit Card Escapade

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The credit card drama was tedious, Bob said on Wednesday.

In the limo on the way to the airport.

It had played out over three days.

Once again, hostage to a sprite.

Who had escaped for sunshine down south.

Leaving us to think we were free of pranks, deceits.

At least for the winter.

But, the escapade started with a text.

Then an email on New Years Day, Sunday.

Alerting Bob that his card had been used in Florida at 7 am.

Damn, he muttered, as he called Mastercard.

Cancelled the card.

With the promise they’d overnight a new one on Monday.

Before the international trip to Spain on Wednesday.

Monday came.

Monday went.

No Fex Ex delivery.

He called again.

Reassured it would arrive Tuesday.

He saw a Fed Ex truck pull up at a neighbor’s.

Ran outside.

Nothing for him.

He phoned again.

On tonight’s truck, he was told.

He taped a sign on the door.

We’re home. Ring bell.

No bell rang.

So, Wednesday morning, he called again.

Channeled my late mother, Leatrice.

A legendary spitfire.

To demand that Mastercard and Fed Ex coordinate.

Get on the line together.

Affirm that the card was at the local depot.

Would be loaded onto the truck before we left.

Arrive before the ride to the airport.

Before the month-long trip.

Miracle of miracles.

The Leatrice card worked.

That wily sprite retreated.

The card, delivered to the house.

Mischief once more defeated.

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 5, 2023

 

 

Aging, All Poems, Friendship, Málaga, Spain, Worry

Packing

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I am packing to go to Málaga.

A port city in southern Spain.

Where the weather is temperate.

To visit museums.

Catch trains, buses to other towns.

Meet up with friends.

Who will rent a car.

Drive to national parks.

To ramble, take in views.

So, I’ll pull out hiking gear.

From years ago.

Trekking in Perú, Argentina, Costa Rica.

But, I confess, I’m worried.

About steep hills, stamina, balance.

Only moments ago, I heard two stories.

From two different women.

Both about my age.

One couldn’t scale a sheer rock in the desert.

Needed two people to hoist her.

Then trembled so much, had to descend.

The other slipped on a slick driveway.

Both gave me pause

to ponder capabilities.

Limitations, endurance.

My years, vulnerabilities.

I will definitely take

hiking pants, rugged boots.

Steer clear of obstacles.

Risky, strenuous pursuits.

 

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 3, 2023