In Spain

The buses had stopped running for the night. Pédro, my trusted friend and fellow world traveler, joyously exclaimed that the only recourse was to get drunk. Dutifully, I agreed. I even offered to buy the first drink.

“Tequila? Beer?” I said.
“Tequila! Cerveza!” Pédro echoed.

The proprietor of the first bar was an attractive lady, forty, big chested but slim, with long and beautiful legs, specifically designed to be explored by ardent travelers such as ourselves. We told her as much, only to be countered by a weak and ordinary smile. She was not a very happy or willing person. I ordered our drinks and, half-starved from our excursion to the white cliffs of Gibraltar that very morning, a plate of fritura malagueña, or fried fish. Much like Gibraltar, I felt detached, even removed from my home. In fact, I had no home. Not counting the beach, the streets, the alleyways. The hotel bar. What the hell was it that I was doing in Spain again?

We thanked our host for food and drink, then ventured to El Calvario, a quieter area north of the main road. The sun, long since tucked away behind the Cordillera Bética Mountains, had given way to the cool blanket of evening. The second bar we found was less refined, a few angry Anglo-Saxon tourists as its main occupants. More beer, more tequila, a game of darts. Courtesy of Pédro.

Moving on. Our goal was to escape the average tourist. We, as Pédro explained, weren’t average tourists—we were travelers, explorers, wanderers. My great uncle from Germany would have been proud. Wanderlust, he called it. The desire to wander, to explore. To live life for a change! Oh, yes, a bunch of bull, if you ask me. Great in theory, much like capitalism, socialism, pacifism, Mormonism, and a host of other isms too numerous to mention. But not a lot of fun when you’re near penniless, in a strange country, with odd customs, and a barely decipherable language. Where was I during Spanish class? Thank goodness for good friends, like Pédro, part-time translator, full-time inhabitant of Earth.

We came to a dead-end street, with an available bar in need of a few thirsty men. Our third stop of the night.

“Tequila? Cerveza?” Pédro said.
“Tequila! Beer!” I echoed.

I learned to drink from this man. Let it be known that these conquistadores know how to drink. I checked my pockets but my wallet wasn’t where I had left it. Not much IN it, per se, but enough to feed a man’s thirst. Here, in Torremolinos, where I had felt warm, happy and loved, I had now been stung by greed, another casualty of capitalism. The poor fellow who stole my wallet was its first victim of the night.

“Bastards!” as Pédro exclaimed. Yes. Poor bastards.

An abrupt end to the night, to be sure, as we thumbed our way back to the hotel. A kind of anti-climactic boxing match, where the young hopeful goes down for the count in the first round.