Where's the Mediterranean? A WALK on the wild side.

Today, I wanted to find the beach (la playa).  The Avenida de España at the end of my "the tease" street leads the way, so off I went about 11:00 a.m.  The morning breeze was gentle through my hair and my notebook was tucked beneath my arm.  It was 65 degrees.  I was ready.  I was on the prowl for a Calahonda street map and the Tourist Office (oficina turismo).

I call Calle Monte Paraiso a "tease street" because from the Avenida de España it begins flat, goes down a little incline and flat again (nice).  And then poof! (on the way to my house from this direction) It begins to climb, climb and climb some more.  So, the beginning teases me into thinking it will be a nice easy walk.  When I left through my grilled, security gate, I was walking at a pretty good gait.  It was all down hill toward the Avenue de España.  Past the Crown Resort, past the twist in the road and then left down the main avenue - straight south toward the Mediterranean Sea.

A couple surprises along the way.  A real phone booth on the sidewalk...a lot of different ethic restaurants.  None made me laugh except the Indian Restaurant...

On and on I went (all downhill) toward the big roundabout until I saw cars zipping by on the A-7 highway.  I think there are 2-3 lanes of traffic going east and west...  I'd seen several pedestrian bridges over the highway, so I kept walking and until I saw the ramp.  Blue steel framed the cement walkway and it was empty.  Good, I had it all to myself.

What I wasn't prepared for was the anxiety when I got to the top of the steps.  How could I have gone through so many crazy adventures since I landed in Spain only to be caught off guard by a walkover walkway, I asked myself.  I didn't like it at all...

I looked across and knew the sea was there. But, I was safe where I was.  It was narrow.  And I sort of stumbled with trepidation.  I paused.  Good grief.  But, gripping my notebook, I put one foot in front of the other and stared only at my feet as the cars whizzed noisily below me.  Once I gained the other side, my brave steps paid off when I saw my view.

When I exited the ramp, I was unsure where to go.  No signs pointing to a boardwalk that my new friend, Tony, told me was "worth walking on."  In fact, the cement walkway at the bottom of the ramp looked like a kid had mixed it and pushed it smooth with a toy shovel.  I went to the first street going south and stood there with indecision.  A woman came around the corner, saw my dilemma and shook her head NO while pointing down the street running parallel with the highway.  I said, "gracias," and went off in that direction swinging my Fitbit-clad arm in tandem with the notebook in my other hand.  I walked about three blocks, past bougainvillea, flowering trees, apartment houses filling the skyline.  Still no signs.  When I spied the family in bathing suits and a picnic basket, I followed them.

Down, down and down some more to the sea.  The sun on the turquoise water spun diamonds across the expanse and I stopped to stare at the beauty.  And I followed the sidewalk around to the left until it ran out, past a cafe, past a little shed and then.  Uh-Oh.  I had a problem.  Rocks, bare cement steps to nowhere and more rocks.  Where was the boardwalk?  The beach to lay on?  The hamacas (hammock)?  I felt like a little girl dodging the rocks and by the time I got down to the water, I thought wouldn't it be horrible if I turned an ankle on the rocks and couldn't get back home?  My mind was obviously in overdrive.

A family of four was dodging rocks too, so I used my "ayudame, por favor" (help me please) line.  In English, they responded to my query.  I should have turned right at the end of the sidewalk, not left.  Oh, brother.  I noticed that all the many cement steps led up to locked, private gates.  Back I went.  Sometimes I am so focused, I miss the forest when I'm lost in the trees.  Or is that I miss the forest for the trees?  Or.. .? I found it.  And it was just past a water-side restaurant that I'd like to return to.  La Capricho Restaurant is beautiful (and I walked right past it and the flower-clad entrance to the boardwalk earlier.)  I imagined myself inside staring at the sea, with my turquoise summer dress blowing in the breeze from those pull-open window doors... Seafood, a bit of wine.  But I digress.

The boardwalk was long and ran along the sea wall.
I found the hamacas.

I found the water.  And then my mind flew to a place where it could rest as I walked.  Dogs chased birds.  Couples walked hand in hand.  Children laughed along with their mother as she washed ice cream off their faces.  Benches littered the walkway and several people were using them.  Since the boardwalk went on so far, I couldn't see the end of it.  My feet made slapping sounds on the wood as I walked along leisurely and listened to the surf splash against the rocks and lap up toward me.

When I heard the music, I added a bounce to my walk and I headed that way.  The La Pirata Beach Cafe was as far as I was going to go.  Little plastic tables and chairs were sitting on sand.  A young Spaniard was keeping time to the music as he wiped off a table.  And he was smiling so wide, I couldn't help myself.  I stopped.   It was a perfect respite for a café con leche.

Dropping into the bright red chair, I slipped off my shoes.  The beat of the music made me happy.  I had my coffee on the lime-green table quickly and I began writing my post notes.  It was a perfect morning.  I lingered over my coffee as long as it was prudent before I headed eastward again.

Back up the sidewalk.  Back down the street.  Up the ramp and onto the pedestrian bridge again.  And again, I didn't want to go across.  The cars below the bridge seemed too close.  The bridge was too narrow and I was a chicken.  But I did it.  Whew!  Once across, I decided to look for my map and tourist office.

I passed more restaurants, all ethnic.  I saw a shop with Irish Butcher on a big sign.  By the time I read it, a huge man walked out the door and leaned against the doorway.  He had bright carrot-red hair.  The Irishman for sure.   I asked three shops about a map.  None.  I asked in the post office where the tourist office was?  None.  Oh goodie.  I was in a town with no map.  The only way to get to Fuengirola was by bus and that was the next town where I will need to ride a train if I want to go anywhere.  Of course, I still have the rental car.  But I haven't moved it since I arrived.  Wednesday will be soon enough when I bite that bullet...

At the cafe, putting my toes in the sand had sounded like a good thing to do.  Afterward, walking back home I decided it wasn't so smart.  Little pieces of sand clung to my feet and inched their way into my sandals.  And the entire route was now all uphill.  It took me 25 minutes to get to the beach and 45 minutes to get home again.  And it's the first day since I arrived that I worked up blisters on my feet.  The sand, of course.   I'd taken 9,274 steps, but I'm sure my Fitbit couldn't have logged all my steps... It had to have been at least 20,000...

But, after a nice hot bath, I spent another day on the patio with my book and I was good as new.  This book is very good and I am learning about flamenco dancing, flamenco guitar playing and an in-depth story about the Spanish Civil War.  It is fascinating to finally read about it so it gets into my mind and sticks to make terrible sense.

Tomorrow might just be another lazy day for me.
And I am looking forward to that too.