I don't have a rooster here. Instead, I have my seagulls. In our little port town of Puerto de Mazarrón the fishing boats go in and out twice a day. One shift leaves in the evening and returns with the catch around 7 am; the next shift leaves shortly thereafter and returns in the evening. On many morning as I clean up my breakfast and have my last drink of warm tea before heading downstairs to catch my ride to work, I have a minute to watch the morning catch enter the port. The entry to the small port is situated so that at this time of the year, the rising sun appears on the horizon behind the port it at just about the same time that the morning catch comes in. In the growing and silvery light, we watch hoards of seagulls clash with each other around the fishing boat. They dive for the smell of fish and to catch what they can of entrails dumped into the water by fishermen cleaning the catch. From up high in our apartment, the morning scene is quiet except for the squawks of seagulls, those ocean rats, battling for breakfast.
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The population of the Puerto de Mazarrón, the port town on the Mediterranean coast of Spain which I am happily calling home this year, changes drastically from the summer months to the winter months. With about 10,000 or so year-round residents, the center of the port remains lively enough regardless of the time of year. Walk several blocks away from the hub of town, however, and you'll be greeted with nearly empty streets. “To rent” signs dot apartment building faces and bougainvillea plants fragrantly engulf the front gates of homes. Cats trot alone along sidewalks and squeeze through holes in crumbling rock walls. Seeing a car parked on these empty roads seems inconsistent with the “ghost town” feel. The same goes for the occasional child peddling into sight on his tricycle, coming from around a corner and just as quickly zipping back, out of sight. But make your way back toward the main streets of the port and very soon there are more children playing, scooters zooming, bakeries tempting you with olores de pan, women going to work in the greenhouses, TVs outside of cafés streaming today's soccer game, fishing boats making their way into and out of the port past the lighthouse, waiters serving marinera tapas with cañas, and all the good signs of a living community. I know the Puerto de Mazarrón is far from a ghost town because of the constant buzz of life below my apartment window can attest to that, but the empty summer houses along the coast attest to something more, something quieter. The economy isn't booming in this town, nor is it in this country where just this past Wednesday, November 14th another General Strike (“Huelga General”) took place during which thousands of people sacrificed their daily wages to go to the streets in demand for more equitable government spending and cutting. Maybe these homes are a sign of a falling economy. Or maybe they're a sign of the port town's fading heyday as a place to live. Or maybe they are just waiting for summer. I don't know if the homes are just temporarily empty or forever abandoned, but I like it that way. This unknown is eery and magical and I love it.
Whether it is to be active or to be calm, the beach and the ocean together satisfy me in a way that other forms of this earth have not. Recently I have found myself near and in the ocean for a variety of reasons. What I love is the variety of beaches (a beach is not "just any beach") and the meeting of land with water you find at each and every one. Currently I am in Málaga. This city lies on the Costa del Sol in Andalucía, along the southern coastline of Spain. To the left and to the right are beaches. Sand and rocks going for miles, interrupted by ports and harbors and docks, apartment buildings, and chiringuitos (small restaurants and snack shops dotting the playas). Some beaches are crowded and cigarette-butt-laden, others are prim and groomed. Others are a little more wild and a little less touched - such was Playa Almayate which I sought out today with my boyfriend Ryan. We wanted to leave the city for the day so around noon we took a regional bus from Málaga to the town of Almayate. We had to guess where to get off because none of the stops were marked. After what we hoped to be enough time had passed on the bus for us to be in the right town, we descended and walked along the highway until we found a sign advertising a chiringuito pointed toward the right, toward the ocean. We followed the sign and walked a quarter mile through pepper and squash fields until finally we were greeted by the ocean and the bright, bright sun. Here I am, above, with our shade-providing shrub. Pablo Picasso grew up in Málaga, though after the age of 19 he is said to never have returned. The Museo Picasso Málaga displays a small portion of his paintings and sculptures. So, in honor of Picasso whose hometown I am visiting, and of beaches where the ocean meets land, here is a painting by Picasso named The Beach (La Baignade) - Of course, there are seasides made better for sitting than dipping. If the shore is rocky there is perhaps still beauty to be had in the view. If there is more trash than sand washing up on shore, then perhaps there is something more interesting to be seen just a bit inland or a trash-less beach not too far away (to mind comes the port of Essaouira in Morocco in 2010, where in the port area closest to the old town seagulls dove constantly to the bottles and bags piling up on the rocks, whereas a quarter of a mile south lay a long, sandy, and spotless beach perfect for a walk).
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yes blog is currently 'archived'yes blog started when I moved from the States to Spain in 2012 and documented the results of saying 'yes' - to the people and learning opportunities - that came my way. Archives
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