My father always loved the warm sun and convertibles. He never understood why people would subjugate themselves to living in the cold and especially the misery of New England winters when there were so many places where there is warmth and sunshine all year round. Knowing nothing different, I didn’t fully understand his position growing up. But at 50 years of age I could absolutely be fine if I never spend another day of my life in temperatures below 55 degrees again. Watching the East Coast getting hammered by one Nor’easter after another, I can’t say I’m missing calling that part of the world my home.
Born in Madrid, my dad quickly re-located to the more mild temperatures of Sevilla once he finished his schooling and headed out in the world to make a name for himself. From there he moved to the Costa del Sol, a 100 mile coastal strip of land made up of the Andalusian towns and communities in the province of Málaga from Manilva to Nerja. And it was in Fuengirola, a small beach town smack in the middle of the Costa del Sol, where his main dwelling in Spain was located. That became my home-away-from-home when I moved in with him after my graduation from CU in 1985.
In discussions with my Primo Fernando about the things I was most interested in doing while visiting with him in Málaga, I mentioned my strong desire to return to Fuengirola and re-visit my old stomping ground. He suggested I borrow his BMW K100 motorcycle, enjoying a fun ride down the Autovía del Mediterráneo (highway A-7) which winds along the hillsides, down the southern Mediterranean coast. The 30-minute drive from Malaga to Fuengirola providing spectacular vistas and views of the coastal towns from a bird’s eye view.
Although I hadn’t owned a motorcycle since college, trading in my love for my two-wheeled friends for a wife and children, I have owned countless ATVs and all manners of motorized vehicles since. There was definitely some trepidations about jumping on my cousin’s heavy 1000cc monster bike and heading out on a foreign highway in a foreign land solo. But I left my fears of the many possible dangers with the rest of my belongings at my cousin’s house in Málaga and headed for my old stomping ground.
What a great day for a road trip. The warm sun filled the clear blue sky, yet another idyllic and picture-perfect 70 degree heavenly late October day in paradise. A bit warm with my heavy leather coat in the city traffic as I made my way to the A-7, once I opened up the throttle on the open road, with it went the excessive heat and all my cares in the world.
There is something magical and unexplainable about being out in the elements on a motorcycle. With just you and the machine you’re saddled on propelling you through space, one experiences a type of meditation that clears your mind of the unnecessary. You find mindfulness and inner peace while riding, a feeling like you’re a complete human being as opposed to being an insignificant part of something else. While riding with the wind hugging your body you experience an even greater connection to your surroundings, one that can be difficult to articulate but something all motorcycle riders can attest to, and something that bonds us all in a common brotherhood.
My initial fears that I might get lost, quickly faded away. And being lost is subjective – anywhere the muse took me that day would have been absolutely fine. Traffic was light, and as the six-lane highway opened up so did my view to the majestic rolling hills and beach towns below. I felt completely free, as if I was an eagle soaring through the heavens. If there could be a “perfect moment” in life where all was good with the world and I wouldn’t change a thing, this was it for me. I was present and in the moment, my heart beating strong and a ear-to-ear grin adorning my face.
As I approached Fuengirola, the many thoughts of the wonderful experiences and adventures I had with my father over the years in Spain started racing through my mind. And exiting the highway I found myself behind my father’s old Renault 4 Fourgonette. Coincidence? It was a small transit van type vehicle my dad used in support of his many business ventures. A European workhorse built from 1961 to 1991, so seeing one still out on the road today was not something which was completely unexpected. But once I was in town driving around and found myself at a traffic light behind the car my father used as his last daily driver and hadn’t been in production since 1982 – a Seat 133 – that was no coincidence. At that moment, I knew my father’s playful spirit was floating around following me. He was joining me on my little travel adventure down memory lane.
Once parked in the middle of town, I walked around exploring the heart of Fuengirola. What I saw was impressive. It was a town in transition, much more commercialized and built up than I had remembered it to be. There were people everywhere you looked, the streets buzzing with activity of all kinds. But even with all the industry and commerce, the organic restaurants and endless trinket shops catering to the vacationers and ex-pats living there, it still retained it’s small town charm. They did a great job modernizing and expanding the city center while still keeping the plazas with greenery and fountains and the old world touches. There was absolutely no blight, and as with Málaga and Sevilla, they were in the process of eliminating car traffic by converting roadways to cobblestone walkways, to help the flow of safe pedestrian movement as one got closer to the beach.
Turning a corner, I was so busy taking in all of the familiar sights I almost walked right into this man walking towards me. Looking up, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stopped right in my tracks, motionless, my jaw dropped. It was my father – Papaito. Well, it wasn’t actually him. But this guy was a spitting image of my dad. I stood there frozen looking at him in absolute amazement as he briskly passed by me. It was completely surreal. I couldn’t help but wonder what he must have been thinking as I stood motionless staring at him incredulously. “Crazy tourists!”
Besides drinking in all of the memories which surfaced from the depths of my subconscious as I wandered around my old spanish stomping grounds, there was one objective I had to accomplish while I was here. Lunch time beckoned and my stomach was letting me know it required my attentions. And there would be only one option for my meal choice today. Papaito had a weekly ritual for La Comida on Sundays, the large mid-day meal in Spain. The staple protein on our table was the most delicious and finger-lickin’ rotisserie chicken recipe known to man. It had been about three decades since I was there last, but I was on a mission to find the restaurant in question and began inquiring with the locals.
It was fun to see the man’s eyes I stopped in passing light up when I explained what I was looking for. I asked about the Asador de Pollo, the king of all chicken rotisseries where the line every Sunday wrapped around the block, twice. He certainly knew of the restaurant I was talking about. But to my chagrin, I was told the place had closed about 10 years earlier. But… there was a new restaurant right around the corner that he promised was “igualmente adecuado“ (just as good). Truth be told I was sceptical – Just as good? – I followed his directions in search of my lunch.
The best part about this dish is that you can smell it from several blocks away. Once you are closing in on the rotisseries one only needs to close their eyes and follow your nose.
And there they were – rows of young chickens on skewers delicately roasting to a shimmerings golden brown. Had a nice talk with the owner explaining although it had been about 30 years I could still taste my last rotisserie chicken I had in Spain. We discussed bringing it over to America, how it would do exceptionally well there and how he could be the next Colonel Sanders. He was a bit standoffish at first letting me know he would share his secret recipe with no one, but I assured him my intentions were good and only wanted the rest of the world to be able to know the poultry perfection I had found in this small Spanish town. I took his business card and my chicken, stopped by the market for a fresh loaf of bread, some water and a gorgeous looking comice pear, and headed for the beach.
So one of my most favorite memories of my time spent in Spain was when a traveling troubadour named Arturo who had taken refuge in my father’s best friend’s bar invited me to join him for a meal. We went to the store and picked up half a chicken, some salt for seasoning, cheese, melon and a bottle of Cruzcampo beer. We found an unoccupied patch of beach at the end of el Paseo Marítimo Rey de España at Torreblanca. Arturo then gathered some driftwood, found an old piece of chicken wire for our grill top, made a fire, and placed the chicken over the flame. He lightly salted it, cut some cheese and handed it to me with some bread, passed around the beer, and played his guitar as we watched the sun set and the waves roll in. An incredible life lesson for me that the best moment’s don’t require much. In this case – friendship, about $10 euros worth of food, a secluded strip of mediterranean beach front, and a freshly rolled canuto to take the experience over the top. As if that magical evening happened yesterday, those are precious memories I will take with me to my grave.
As I reached the beach and crossed over el Paseo Marítimo Rey de España, I noticed we weren’t in Kansas anymore. Although the strip of beach and the typography of the coastline were familiar, that’s where the similarities of what my eyes saw stopped. To my chagrin, the quaint little beach town I remembered so fondly had been built up and taken over by every form of commerce and tourist trap known to man. And although I hadn’t eaten at a McDonald’s since my children were small and I was a single father in search of a meal that would make my two little hungry monsters happy, seeing they had the only outside eating area where no one was sitting, that is where I settled in. We were in Europe after all and not America. The Spaniards as a culture are too nice to kick someone out of their McDonald’s for eating there and not purchasing any food from the restaurant.
The chicken was as delicious as I had remembered it to be. My stomach full and my body nourished, I gave the other half of my uneaten meal to an older woman who was begging in the street. She seemed somewhat appreciative for the food, but immediately put out her hand and asked – “Dinero por favor?”
Making my way back to my trusty steed, I pointed the BMW away from the beach and headed up to where my father’s villa used to be – Campo Mijas. With all of the new construction and the new roads which had been introduced since I was last there, it took some doing to find his house, but I did. I think. The property was there but the villa I remembered was nothing like the structure I found. A large privacy wall had been constructed up to the edge of the road, completely obscuring the house itself from view. Although the traditional red clay rounded shingles were still on the roof , the white washed walls were now a dark grey. The quaint little community of locals living up in the hills had been taken over by ex-pats, and with them came their own sensibilities and color schemes.
Learned long ago there is great danger returning to revisit your old stomping grounds. The realization was that the experiences we treasure most are often best left in one’s mind’s eye and not revisited in-person. Some things are best left to the imagination. But Fuengirola will always have a very special place in my heart. It reminds me of the good times I experienced living with my father when Spain was my home. A kind and gentle way of living, away from the hustle and bustle of the daily grind. A place where people appreciated their neighbors, and sharing food and conversation with family and friends trumped just about everything. Other than the siesta which was a staple for the residents in the South of Spain, something I was wishing I could enjoy at that very moment. But instead, I jumped back on the A-7 and headed back to the capital of Andalucia, drinking in the beautiful scenery and temperate coastal weather.
And it was at that moment nothing could have been more certain to me – Life is good baby!