What did Picasso Say to Me?

August 2023

What did Picasso say to me?

In late August I arrived in Torremolinos on the Costa del Sol on Spain’s south coast and holiday mecca. I knew nothing about it, but my friend needed a holiday. I was happily sitting at Vanilla Café Copas with a beer enjoying the lazy summer afternoon waiting for him to arrive.

In front of me the plaza was open and pleasant. Some rainbow-coloured flags fluttered here and there, and the scenery looked promising. A couple of very! nice looking guys walked past! Nicely toned, and courtesy of the hot weather and beach proximity, I had quite a lot of information to go on.

I took another mouthful of my beer and checked my phone. My friend was on his way and would arrive soon. Another appreciative glance around the plaza, and I was impressed at what I could see. Three more men walked past, one showing even more than the others. I checked them out.

Yes! Ladies can do this too!

Definitely some choice snippets. I should have come to Spain much sooner!! But did you pick up on the clues that I missed?

A particularly fancy version of a Russian Salad.

The café waiter came out with a menu. I was a little peckish. I asked about the sandwiches and the russian salad as two more very nice 6-packs greeted each other near the entrance to the train station. The waiter answered me pointing out his husband’s favourite.

I rolled my eyes at myself. My gaydar wasn’t fabulous, but it seems on that day it was totally broken!

As it turns out, we had picked the gay capital of Spain’s Sunshine Coast, the Costa del Sol for our stay. Since we were staying in the flat of a gay friend’s husband, it should hardly have come as a surprise that their ideal location would be Gay-Central.

I love Torremolinos, as well as Malaga and Fuengirola (can you roll that off your tongue from memory faster than I was able to? Don’t worry, you’ve weeks of headway on me!), and trip back regularly. My friend and I were in for a week’s treat of feasting on the eye-candy. Not only the gay capital, but they were there to show off. I was only sad that the luscious looking candy wasn’t on my menu!

I would say from observations that about 80% of the people walking around through the day were gay couples and friends. As the day shifted into late afternoon, families and couples added to the mix, and the gayfarers focused on one of the many nightclubs and bars located in the maze under the building immediately behind the café.

But gay-gourmeting was definitely the order of our time. When I met Picasso in Malaga later in the week I asked about this and other things, I was most surprised at his answer.

Waiting for my friend at Vanilla Café Copas – (Vanilla Coffee Cups) in Torremolinos was the beginning of another Spanish misadventure. I had by now been for 2 quick visa border trips to Ceuta on the African side of the water with land borders with Morocco, but this was only my second time to Spain proper (besides a 2019 visit to Valencia seeking secrets to a paella).

My first time the year before had been a 100% culture shock. Not because Spain is such a strange place – it’s one of the countries I love, frustrated only by my interrupted efforts to learn Spanish. The culture shock the year before was because I had at that point been almost 2 years in Morocco without leaving.

Sunrise views of Spain from near Sur Ma’agasin in Tangier.

Daily I had walked to the cannons at Sur Ma’agasin next to Café de Paris to look across the water at Spain and wonder what it had been like in centuries past to be stuck on the Moroccan side and not be able to get over to the Spanish side, so close by. It was almost an obsession. Could I have somehow been walking in the footsteps of a past life? But then, in historic places my head will always imagine what things might have been like in ages past. (From Australia, everywhere else is historic.)

I went back to Morocco in January 2021 at the tail end of covid, planning to stay for a couple of months and put some money in my pocket while I was sorting a job in Asia. The money-in-my-pocket thing worked very well. All the native speaking English teachers had gone home and schools were desperate. The two-month bit is where I failed.

The schools in China were keen (at this barely-out-of-covid point, the only possibility for work in Asia). Getting sorted with paperwork for China was another matter, proving challenging and expensive. When I worked in China in 2002, I just showed them my degrees after arrival, and they stamped my passport. By 2022 it was a quagmire of proving that the proof proved that the document of proof was proven and valid, with a seemingly endless string of stamps proving the validity of each previous stamp of proof at a string of official departments to prove that the last was validly valid.

And then I simply ran out of time. Contrary to my ongoing plans, most countries have age limits on their work visas. China’s is 60, and I had my birthday. So I simply stayed put in Morocco. When I finally did the first visa run, I had been in Tangier for nearly 2 years, living on Moroccan dirhams like a queen by Moroccan standards. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, ate wherever I wanted, and was still saving money.

My first foray into euros was a very different matter. Not only did they require me to walk on the footpaths and obey stop lights, but the price of everything was a major culture shock, typically 5 to 10 times as much as I was used to spending.

My first afternoon in Tarifa I happily enjoyed my beer in the sun, but by the time I’d negotiated my way around available restaurants, I was totally freaked out at the prices. I chopped my 3-night plan for a mini holiday, and fled back to the ferry terminal early the next morning – twitching and jumping at ghosts from the after-effects of the Post-Traumatic-SpainEuroShock-Distress.

But this time, I was mentally prepared. And I was meeting my good friend. Not to mention my looming disagreement with Picasso.

Whichever way you talk about Italy, food is the first topic to cover. Spain is not much different. And of course, Spain has the lovely tapas culture. It is no longer the free thing of the past (except in some very small villages around Granada). But it is a typical way of eating when out.

The next morning, we breakfasted at Vanilla Café Copas, me with my eggs and my friend with his croissants and omelette. We very sensibly drank coffee and tea. I noticed that even at this fresh hour, half of the patrons were having a beer with their breakfast. By the time we’d eaten, it seemed impolite to fly in the face of local customs.

We wandered a few minutes around the first corner, found a bar with stools around a tall keg for a table, and ordered a white wine and sangria. On our second one, we gave in to the smells and ordered a plate of grilled pimientos (peppers). The boquerones, we were reliably informed, was not only a special of the area, but the best buy at that bar. So we ate that too – sardines soaked in vinegar, olive oil and garlic – as we chatted and discussed the eye-candy strutting past.

Grilled pimientos, or peppers, usually not very hot, but definitely good to eat.

We dined on top quality – on both counts.

I sighed over my sangria, as my friend scaled up to beer. Why don’t straight guys tailor themselves like the gays!

Now we are getting close to the heart of what Picasso said to me.

A short 5-minute wander through the shops to another bar. This time my friend wants a favourite – pulpo, a weird sounding one, until you realise it’s marinated octopus salad – and an old Spanish classic and mainstay – tortilla, a very solid and filling egg ‘cake’ for want of a better word, with potatoes, known as frittata in Italy.

Grilled calamari and vegetables.

A little browse, until another likely looking bar is found. Placing ourselves strategically for the best views of the street, I switch to tinto de Verano, literally ‘red summer’ – red table wine with soda and a hint of lemon. It is usually cheaper than sangria, and the bottled version is perfectly decent. It is the version of sangria favoured by the Spanish. Or to be more accurate, sangria is the tourist version of tinto de verano, a little fancier with some fruit added for effect and an added dash or two of spirits. Most places have their own recipe.

We order patatas bravas – potato mouthfuls with garlic, of course, solomillo – pork tenderloin in a whisky gravy and especially popular in Seville, croquettes filled with mouth-melting potato mash with tasty tidbits lightly crumbed and fried.

Solomillo - pork in whiskey. Pork and whiskey just sound like they were made to go together.

It’s about that time. We look at each other.

“Dinner? Before the show?”

We are quite full. So it’s just the beers and wine. And then the show.

Did I mention that Torremolinos is a Spanish gay mecca? Spain has a reputation of being one of the freest and most open-minded countries in the world. We feel and appreciate the comfort zone that surrounds us – especially when we have both lived for years in Islamic Morocco. Morocco may be one of the most relaxed Muslim countries (most of the year), and young people might be pushing for change, but it is still ruled by the conservative Islamic views. Most Moroccans insist that there are no such thing as gays in Morocco...

Our Spanish friend is away, but we meet up with his husband, Ziggy – a German who has settled in Torremolinos. He is now retired, but he still enjoys embracing life at every opportunity. His name is a perfect fit!

He takes us around the corner, through the maze of mostly gay bars which are now alive and buzzing, and to his favourite show.

No, it is not a play. But, yes there is music. It is a most classic and unashamedly drag queen show with dancing and singing in sync. The full works, with all the trimmings, an enthusiastic audience of mostly regulars, and all the drama that gives a queen their label.

To say we had a blast with top-notch entertainment of the queeny-est kind, left me wanting another dose of a favourite movie – Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. If you haven’t seen it, it is an iconic Australian movie that is well worth the watch – 3 drag queen friends take a road trip from Sydney across Australia’s less queen-ish countryside to Uluru in the centre. Get out the popcorn, maybe even dress up for it, and have some fun watching a classic. I recommended it to Picasso, but he was more focused on the question I’d asked.

Ziggy’s husband is back in town the next day, and just to break with patterns, we head into Malaga – a 20-minute train ride away – to do the tourist thing, and of course, more tapas!

We start early by meeting their friends for breakfast. This is a treat in Spain. While a Spanish breakfast is typically tomato-mash on toast, it is also common to have a sandwich with thickly sliced bread. These are small, and cheap, and always work with coffee.

Some breakfast sandwiches - well, ok. This wasn’t quite breakfast time, but who’s checking. Fresh off the ferry from Morocco, I orderered the pork solomillo, the bacon and egg, and the ham and cheese roll. I wasn’t missing pork - really….

My favourite has become a thin slice of pork lightly grilled. Simple, good, and after 4 years in Morocco and other Islamic countries where pork is haram (forbidden), still almost a mainstay for me. Of course there are all the usual Spanish suspects, such as jamon and cheeses.

We eat at a little café right in front of Picasso’s house – at least, one where he lived for a long time. Well, maybe a year or two, when he was born and before he remembers anything. This is off Plaza de la Merced square in Malaga. And in front my friend and I sit to chat with Picasso.

We laugh a little over the irony that you can visit his birth house as a museum to remember things Picasso has himself forgotten, being a baby and all at the time, and a bit of a chat about his contemporaries such as Matisse in Tangier. Then he frowns at my question, and is initially reticent about answering, maybe thinking about his answer.

From there we check out Malaga’s church with 1 and a half bell towers. Apparently this has a very simple reason. I have sat many times with a view of it from one café or another in the area – Spanish lifestyle is very outdoors. Even in the winter, in the colder places there are the outdoor fires and often also blankets – making a very cosy evening outing, even in winter.

Apparently, when building the cathedral bell towers, they simply ran out of money and never got around to finishing the second tower.

The muscat wine tasting. After all, it was after 10am.

After breakfast, we do what any respectable person in Spain does – something to do with drinking. Our friends take us on an excursion around some famous muscat bars. This is a sweet, fortified wine made in the region from moscatel grapes. I was introduced to it many years ago as a main ingredient in a desert called zabaglione, a light Italian whipped desert. Besides the muscat, a little beaten egg yolk and cream and a lot of sugar shape the muscat wine into a more edible form.

Of course, these ‘tastings’ are accompanied by tapas. After all, this is Spain!

By then – I mean after we’d finished our muscat tasting and tapas – it was lunch time, so we take a break from our wine tasting to head to Malaga’s markets. There are central markets in most sizeable Spanish cities. Malaga’s markets are notable for the amazing stained-glass murals at each end of the building above the large doorways.

Malaga markets, and its extraordinary stained glass mural above its huge doors, depicting the one and a half bell towered cathedral, and Malaga’s casabah - which I eventually realised was the Spanish word for kasbah, or castle, like the one I lived next to in Tangier.

Inside there is all manner of food you could imagine – not just fruit and vegetables, but everything related. Juices from local and exotic fruits, sweets and savoury snacks, cheeses and jamons.

The Spanish jamon (said har-moan – we call our basic version ham) is a special treat. Whole legs from special piggies are cured over months and years. The longer the curing, the stronger the flavour, and the more expensive, of course. They are loaded onto a stand to hold it, then shaved with special knives. This is a skill, an art form. They can be part of a delicatessen, or even shops where it’s the only thing sold. I have no doubt that Picasso had a favourite variety, but this wasn’t exactly the question I asked him.

Another treat of these markets is that there will always be places to eat, and these places will include some of the best eats in Spain – what’s more, at decent prices.

Our friend steers us through the markets to one of his favourite spots, and treats us. We have our fill of tapas – loads of classic dishes! Calamari and fish, pulpo and boquerones? Montaditos which are mouth-morsel treats on toasted bread, and bocconcini salads or ‘baby’ mozzarella (meaning fresh – the white balls of soft cheese are made daily. Mozzarella is stored and hard.)

Finally we sit back – some time well into the afternoon and nearing the setting of the sun. There will be no more tapas for us tonight – our stomachs need a little rest before we start our next day’s journey around the tapas bars in Torremolinos.

My friend leans over and whispers to me. What did Picasso end up saying?

I thought my joke was spot on, but Picasso didn’t seem to share my humour. I guess dad-jokes weren’t as much of a thing back then. I’m not sure now if my friend was laughing with me, or at me.

I sit back, completely satisfied and hoping we won’t move too soon. ‘He didn’t agree with me about which tapa was the best.’

‘Which one was his favourite?’

It is our last day in Torremolinos. We are sitting, checking out the eye-candy. Of course. It is after dark, in that special summer way – balmy nights and if feels good to be out in the late cool of the evening in the Mediterranean way. We’ve had rather more beers today than usual. And wines. And tinto de veranos.

A slice of tortilla. Usually there is no edge, more like a cake than a pie.

Between us there is a proper spread of tapas, all ours and Picasso’s favourites – the sardines and patatas and jamon and solomillo. My friend’s favourite is of course the pulpo – marinated octopus salad. But he agrees with Picasso over me, preferring the tortilla. Picasso loved eggs and potatoes.

That left more for me, my favourite dish as the centrepiece of the table.

Langostinos. Or gambas. Big fat juicy king prawns or shrimp, comes to the table still bubbling, and so loaded with the clear garlic butter and oil that there is only one way to finish:- soaked up by the delicious Spanish bread.