Famous.Last.Words.
Leaving Moscow on a Saturday night around 4:30PM to catch a 7PM flight is actually a civilized time, we thought to ourselves. Too bad one of us (I honestly can’t remember which one of us was responsible for saying it out loud so I’ll call it a draw) mucked it up. Through check-in, security, passport control and at the gate in 25 minutes seemed too good to be true.
Our flight was to depart at 7PM and arrive at the Malaga airport around 10:30PM, giving us the day to relax, prepare, pack and lounge without having to get out of bed at an ungodly hour, struggle to raise our collective levels of consciousness to basic functioning and then deal with the “Moscow crush” at every waypoint on the way to the aircraft.
Sitting at the empty gate as quietly and patiently as only Canadians do, (well Mr. U was - I was fidgety, apparently) we watched as the area slowly swelled with our fellow travelers heading out in search of sunshine and warmer climes. The Russian passengers were still bundled up to their teeth even in the waiting area on their way to the Costa del (not-so-much) Sol. I was already melting in my t-shirt and jeans.
True to form as the indicated boarding time drew near, a “line” spontaneously formed at the gate. It is amazing how people can be waiting for hours for their flight at the gate and yet they somehow aren’t the first ones in line to board the plane. People seemed to come out of nowhere and join the queue not at the tail, but wherever they wanted, mostly at the front. I wasn’t having any of that so I placed myself squarely in line while Mr. U watched with a bemused look on his face. Nobody was going to get in front of me. I like to think it was my look of fierce determination that prevented anyone from butting into line but in reality it was probably the slightly wild, somewhat crazed expression on my face that made others not want to deal with the “foreigner” that kept them away. Come to think of it, even Mr. U didn’t join me in the queue until just about boarding time.
Boarding time, right. About that. Since we were off to such a great start, it was a narrative imperative that things would go slightly awry at this point. Time ticking away well past the designated boarding time and rapidly approaching scheduled departure time, I began to realize that the boarding agents’ behaviour was not quite following SOP. In fact, they were darting back and forth between the small desk and the security doors too often for my liking. It was becoming painfully obvious that something was amiss. As Charlie Brown’s teacher was in charge of the airport announcements, there was no clear indication that any flight details or updates were forthcoming. The gate agents continued to pace back and forth like caged tigers and the crowd was beginning to exhibit impatience as people were moving closer together and constantly pestering the agents for information. Eventually the two agents gave up and retreated behind the secure zone gates for a reprieve from the masses. At this point I was having flashbacks to our aborted attempt to escape to Las Vegas for MM’s 40th B-day three years prior. That story ended with us deplaning ourselves after a 4 hour delay on board, followed by a 6 month struggle for reimbursement from WestJet Vacations.
A gate change (NOT announced over the PA, by the way) and further 2 hour delay later, we were finally on board and ready to go. Thankfully the rest of the flight went according to plan save for the headwinds that delayed our arrival in Malaga even further.
Moscow may have a personal space issue but Spain, it seemed, had a staffing issue. The passport control officers weren’t at their post and no airline staff members were there to greet us upon arrival. Some poor security official had to escort a plane full of eager, tired, cranky and somewhat stinky individuals who do not, as a general rule, do the waiting thing all that well. Bringing us through two check points of stop and go, the crowd behind us began to jockey for position dragging all sorts of carry-on, duty free and sundries. Again, I was not letting anyone get in my way and was determined to stay at the head of the pack. I may have left Mr. U behind at one point. Not to worry, he caught up with me and I daresay there was a gleam of pride in his eyes. Of course, that could have been tears of frustration but I choose to think of it as pride.
The passport control agent took my passport, gave it a cursory look, sneered at me and begrudgingly stamped an arbitrary page. He tossed it back at me and shot me a bleary-eyed look when I said “gracias” in my best Spanish. The entire exchange took less than 15 seconds.
Since I checked a bag (normally carry-on only is the standard for our travels), we had to go to the baggage arrival area and retrieve my luggage before hailing a cab in the pitch dark to get to our quaint “villa” (villa may be overstating the sweet, little, two floor apartment but I choose to see it as our Spanish villa for the week). Since we were not arriving from western Europe, we had to claim our bag in a secure zone and then pass through Spanish customs. The “secure zone” was a glass-walled area with a baggage carrousel. The customs area (aka the departure point from the glass-walled area) was a doorway with a metal table on one side and two customs officials standing watch. Needless to say, we marched right through that gauntlet and out into the warm, fresh, night air.
The taxi stand was a bit of a goat show but we waited no more than 5 minutes in line for our driver to pull out of the queue of waiting cabs. During that time we were treated to a bit of a show replete with hollering, honking and hand gestures. I’m pretty sure that one of the statements by the controller was, “Oh, come ON, man!”. Too funny. Welcome to Spain.
It was difficult to tell what the area looked like in the pitch dark, but the palm tree-lined streets reminded me of our trip to Athens in the Spring. That only stands to reason as we were really just further down the Mediterranean coast. It turns out that Torremolinos is a sleepy, seaside town with a bustling boardwalk and many sprawling, sandy beaches. The Costa del Sol is renowned for, well, its sunshine (Sol = sunshine). I’m sure it is there during peak season. It is too bad we didn’t experience too much of it this trip. Apparently they haven’t seen this much rain in about a year. I sure am glad we were able to bring a large quantity of much-needed precipitation with us. **Note the sarcasm in my voice.
Despite the rain and the cooler weather (both hazards of traveling during off-peak season), R&R were on the schedule.
Mission accomplished.
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| Mediterranean view |
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| beach view |
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| Mojitos all around! |
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| our "villa" patio |
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| cafe con leche |
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| This isn't a "retro" napkin holder - I'm pretty sure that it is original to the diner. |
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| weekly (mock) bullfights and flamenco shows |
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| rolling waves and grey skies on the Costa del not-so-much Sol |
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| 5€ to rent a beach chair |
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| off season boat storage |
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| a quick dip in the Mediterranean |
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| sand castles for your viewing pleasure - please tip generously |
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| lush greenery |
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| A great place to take a cat nap! |
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| beachfront bar |
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| shoes for sale |
dinner for 4
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| You can tell it is low season - houses boarded up for the "winter". |
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| tourists |
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| locals |
