Old Malaga is a bent labryth of alleyways and slightly wider, tiled more often then paved, "calles." During the day, trinket shops and cafes welcome onslaughts of tour bus delivered seniors.
At night, the city breeds a whole new generation of cohorts and hobnobbers.
Nightlife in Malaga's vibrant central district is, as the kids say, crackin'. And maybe that's because the scene here is completely over-run by kids.
The drinking age in Spain is, I believe, 18. But it's clear that, even in public, the kids start much earlier. Each cantina is packed with the newly privelidged, while the slim streets and alleyways collect the overflow of those who've had too much, and those who aren't quite old enough yet to belly up to the bar.
On first glance, the Malaga is scene youthful, exciting, and everything the closet hipster trash inside me has desperately wanted participate in. On a second, closer glance, it hits a level of douche-aucity that would give the asshats from Jersey Shore a run for their money. The girls are overly made-upped, the boys are overly manicured. Almost everyone acts like a bro.
The 15-17 year old crowd forms huddled subgroups withing the protection of store front thresholds. They desperately suck down cheap wine and cigarettes, while the rest of us try not to miss a step on the slippery piss spotted street tiles.
It all makes me feel older than the remains of the Phoenician civilization buried underneath my feet.
Today we embark to the ancient town of Ronda on a tour bus that's likely to be filled with the smell of Ben-gay and the sounds of rattling prescription bottles. It's just the kind of reassuring-of-my-youth crowd I need to kick it with right now.