A little blurb of Selby.
“Grabbing my dust covered suitcases I walked the few yards to the RENFE Station where an escalator quietly conveyed me down to the platform beneath the street. Here modern electric trains ran between the cities of Malaga and Fuengirola every half hour entertaining their passengers with a background of classical music while they enjoyed the view of the various beaches en route. It was only a couple Euros to Fuengirola on the train ─ a taxi would have been at least fifty or more.
After 30 minutes enjoying the view and listening to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake wafting from the overhead speakers, we arrived in the bustling city of Fuengirola. This modern beach town in the middle of the Costa del Sol is a Mecca for tourists who travel from all over Europe on a budget ─ a polyglot of humanity attracted by the comparative low cost of hotels, restaurants, cheap booze and plenty of sunshine. They all swarm onto the sandy beaches joining the semi-nude sun worshippers with their arses in the sand and their nipples to the sky. Nobody gives a shit what’s hanging out while toasting their buns and stuffing themselves at the dozens of fast food counters along the beach.
In the evening they spend their Euros, Dollars and Pounds at the hundreds of bars and restaurants jostling for customers in every nook and cranny along the sea front.
The Casa Grande Pension where I had reserved a room was within walking distance of the subway station, but my suitcases were heavy. While wondering what to do I was approached by a shifty looking young man, his face grinning at me like we were old friends.
“Hiya,” he yelled. “Me name’s Skeets. You want some help carrying them cases?” he asked.
“I certainly would. It’s only to the Casa Grande just across the street.” He smiled, picked up both cases like they were full of feathers and headed across the street to the Pension.
The Casa Grande Pension was a typical old Spanish white stucco covered building decorated outside by scores of wire baskets filled with brightly colored flowers hanging from the windows and balconies. The owner had just finished watering them and stood outside admiring his handiwork. He wished me Buenos Dias and followed me inside where Skeets was waiting for me at the reception counter.
“You don’t know how grateful I am,” I said, taking out my wallet and handing him my last ten-dollar bill. “I have very little Spanish money, but I hope you can change this.”
“Course I can. Look Mate, if you needs me help as a guide, I knows all the right places. I told ya me name’s Skeets and I’ll come back and see ya later on,” he replied in a broad cockney accent. He then vanished into the street as quickly as he had appeared.”