The Muslims have Mecca, Catholics have the Vatican, the Irish have the nearest pub and the British have the Costa del Sol. This place represents a sun-drenched place of pilgrimage for Geordies, Scousers, Brummies, Cockneys and everyone in between. Certainly my family has made a significant contribution to the Andalusian economy with a much loved aunt and uncle (who, sadly, are no longer with us) so devout that they used to make said pilgrimage twice a year. Their favoured bolt-hole in Torremolinos was a sanctuary where they could get a tan that may last a couple of weeks and escape from the relatively miserable weather of Manchester.
So we Aussies (Brisbanites, more specifically) who have the Gold Coast an hour to the south and the Sunshine Coat an hour to the north wondered what all of the fuss was about. Our two day stop over on this expedition gave us a clue.
But before we got there we passed through Gibraltar, one of the last remaining bits of the British Empire. However, being Sunday and for all intents and purposes being a part of the U.K., most places of commerce were closed. Fortunately we found one t-shirt place open so I could buy my boganic symbol (see Part 4). We also had a pie with mushy peas and a pint, photographed the Barbery apes and had a spin round the rock courtesy of a guide with an intriguing English/Spanish accent. That exhausted the range of Gibraltar activities so we took the main road out (and in) across the airport’s runway and continued on our way to Torremolinos.
I used to work for a Brazilian company so spent a bit of time in Rio de Janeiro and invariably stayed in a hotel on Copacabana beach. I was told by a local that Brazilians are extremely body conscious. In this regard I could only think of the old anecdote that goes when a woman looks in the mirror she sees all of her imperfections whereas when a man looks in the mirror he sees the potential to get back down to his fighting weight and the emergence of a six-pack, with a bit of work.
Thus it was at Copacabana with the pneumatic female supermodels and their sculpted bodies and the more mature men not afraid to sport the immaculately tanned beer gut hanging over the budgie smugglers (speedos for the uninitiated). Eggs on legs. I have to confess to trending in this direction but hey, six months at the gym and the six-pack will re-emerge and I’ll be able to intravenously absorb red wine again.
Which brings us back to Torremolinos. After a few hours drinking beer and perving, sorry, people watching, I came to the conclusion that apart from some different colours, body image or lack of it is universal. There’s something about 35degC, sand and salt (and beer) which strips away inhibitions (and items of clothing which wouldn’t normally be stripped away on Blackpool beach, for example, in the case of some females) and bravo, I say. Who gives a toss what someone you’ll never see again thinks. The trouble is you’re probably with a group of family and/or friends and there’s a good chance you’re a repeat visitor like my late aunt and uncle were. In these cases you will see some of them again. Tough.
Oh, and the colours mentioned in the paragraph above. White and red. Most Brits start out ivory white and by the end of day one, after strutting around shirtless, are lobster red. If any of them had cause to read this blog I would direct them to the entries entitled “Skin in the Game” and “Skin in the Game – Part 2”. Then they might think a little longer term than which bar to patronise that night and which bird to try and pull.