First we had to cover the 300 plus kilometers that stood between the fabled land of never-ending high-rise beach condos and us. The drive took longer than expected, and was actually much more boring than I anticipated. While I was imagining an endless line of white-washed stone villas and bucking stallions carrying Antonio Banderas, instead I got the Inland Empire. Imagine Fresno to L.A. and you have the picture – miles of dusty yellow farms, the occasional gas-station, and a warm wind that tossed our Citroen Golf Cart around mercilessly. There was the odd Spanish hillside town, but for the most part we could have easily been racing down I-5 or I-99 just north of Bakersfield.
Eventually we climbed over a small mountain pass and descended to the coast, emerging above the sprawling city of Malaga. In this way it was exactly like reaching Los Angeles over the Grapevine (reference for Southern California readers only), with box-like condominiums stretching to the shipping docks visible a few miles away. The Autovia snaked to the left and east along the coast, bypassing the urban area. I was glad we were not staying there, as the dusty cities of Portugal seemed far more enticing than this coastal port.
Seeking lunch and a potential beach stop, we pulled off the expressway and on to the coast route about 15 minutes past Malaga. Disappointment rang in with our first glimpse of the beach – mostly rocky and dark sand. Not exactly the blindingly white sand of the Portuguese coast. Undeterred we continued on to the next town, but found all signs of development resembling Fort Lauderdale in the mid-80s. Row upon row of similar looking condos loomed over tight streets with double-parked cars. The word tacky came to mind. Twenty minutes later we gave up and returned to the highway.
The reason I go on such a tangent is to build up how reassuringly nice it was to arrive a few minutes later in our final destination, Nerja. Carrying a “Rick Steves certification,” the old town of Nerja was perhaps one of the few surviving places with charm along the coast. Whereas the other areas we passed were merely uninspired tourist zones, Nerja has a scattering of cliffside villas, a Moorish-influenced old town, and breathtaking views. The Sierra Nevada mountains form a stunning backdrop behind the town as we weaved through white-washed buildings. We parked outside the pedestrian only zone, and quickly found ourselves standing on top of Spain’s Taormina. The glittering Mediterranean opened before us at the end of a palm tree lined promenade. We had arrived at the Balcony of Europe.
The Balcony of Europe – whether by design or merely a marketing ploy to capture the all important pound (British tourist dollar) – could be perhaps one of the nicest places in the continent to take a stroll. In fact, the name itself dates all the way back to King Alfonso XII of Spain, who stood on the very spot in 1885 and declared it so (a forward thinker in terms of marketing.) Lush palm trees offered shade over a handful of ice cream carts. Street performers and horse-drawn carriages vied for your attention. Ambiance filled patios spread out under large balconies. Put it this way: if I was stuck in the movie Groundhogs Day, I would petition for it to take place here. At the terminus of the walkway a sort of round stage had been built on the cliffs jutting into the Mediterranean, where you could stand and literally have the sea wrap around you, albeit a hundred feet below. It was like 360 degrees of perfect.
Blood pressure fully reduced, we embarked around eight on a mission to find dinner. This is a tough decision when every few feet you encounter a friendly Spaniard offering cheaptapas and sangria. The warm air made it comfortable enough to just stroll, an event known to the locals as the paseo. In this time honored tradition, well-dressed Spanish women accompanied by distinguished gentlemen passed, deep in conversation or content enough to just smile, offering a contrast to some already tipsy British tourists. We walked unhurried deeper through the maze-like passageways until we found a Greek restaurant along a cobbled sidestreet. Here we discovered the sweetest tasting Sangria, with a deep red color and small pieces of apples and oranges floating with the ice. I smiled contently, thanking Rick again for such a wonderful recommendation.
