It’s 10 o’clock when I land.

That’s the problem with booking the cheapest flight. It always lands late.

“Take bus number 1,” she texts. “Our stop is number 422, in front of El Corte Ingles. You know, that shop you hate.”

I haven’t seen her for years.

Well, two years.

But it feels longer than that.

I find the bus stop. Get on. Let her know I’m on the way.

“So do we need to share a bed tonight?”

“Why? Are you going to shower if we do?”

“Nah, gonna eat lots of burritos.”

“Clown. We got bunks.”

It’s rare for me to travel with a girl. With anyone, really. Especially a girl I’m not, you know. Dating.

“I’m guessing you’ve taken the bottom?”

“Most definitely.”

“How you gonna reach the stars from down there? Be ambitious.”

I actually asked her on a date once. She said no. Of all the no’s I’ve gotten from girls over the years, hers might be the only one I agree was a good idea.

“I was waiting for you to go eat. Super hungry now.”

“We’ll eat late. In true Spanish style.”

“Nothing will be open!”

“It’s Spain, everything will be open.”

I get off the bus at El Corte Ingles. It doesn’t take long to find the apartment. One wrong street, one wrong turn. That’s all. Often it takes a few more than that.

She buzzes me in from upstairs. I get in the elevator, the size of a shoebox.

Ding.

Ding.

The front door is already open. She appears just as I’m about to step inside, smiles like a mother when she sees me. We hug.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

I drop my bags in the room. It’s the cheapest Airbnb in town. Tiny. Two bunks. Both have pillows. Both have sheets. Bargain.

“Eat?”

Mallorca is lifeless when we step out onto the streets. Some cars. No lights. No people. Nothing open. It’s not even midnight. We walk through town to the main plaza. You always know when you’re in Spain; wide streets, stone sidewalks, old buildings, not tall, not short, rustic. When we get there it’s dead, everything closed. Except Burger King.

I don’t have many female friends. I mean real friends, not Facebook friends. The girls I have real phone calls with, multi-hour phone calls, the girls who call, just to see how I’m doing; they’re girls I’ve been romantic with, at one stage or another. A female friend who was always just a friend? I don’t think I have any.

Well, I have one.

That’s why I think it was a good idea.

I sit and watch Fernanda eat her fries. That’s her name. Fernanda. I don’t eat. Then I eat one. Then eleven or twelve. I’ve never seen anyone eat fries like Fernanda. She doesn’t dip them. She holds the fry, gets the ketchup packet, then she squirts ketchup onto the fry itself, right along the fry, from tip to tip, in a perfect line. Then she eats it. Gets another fry, does it again. I watch her do it six or seven times. People always ask about the big things – job, house, degree. But it’s the little things – how they arrange their wardrobe, if they say please, the way they eat their ketchup, that really tell you if you know someone.

The next day, we get the tourist stuff out of the way early – do the Palma walking tour, look at some castles, try a Mallorcan ensaïmada. When evening arrives, we take a walk along the waterfront, all the way to the end, until there’s no waterfront left. We talk about a girl that’s been on my mind.

“Really tall. And just, beautiful. Odd thing we’ve had going on.”

It’s good having a female friend. It’s like you’ve got the other team’s offensive coordinator there, sharing all the team secrets. While a poor girl thinks you’re at the kick off you’ve already seen the next ten plays of the game.

The next day, Fernanda suggests a day trip to Sóller. Google highly recommends it. It’s a two hour bus ride, through winding mountains, valleys, lots of green. It’s beautiful, but sometimes, when you’ve seen a good amount of the world, bus rides become a sort of limbo, the scenery becomes background noise. You need to actually stop and remind yourself, hey dickhead, this is beautiful, appreciate it.

When we arrive in Sóller, it’s late. And it’s Sunday. Much of it is closed. Streets mostly empty, apart from the odd wanderer. The main plaza is more lively, with tourists and tapas restaurants and tables with big umbrellas. Fernanda and I walk through, explore some side streets, find ourselves back at the main plaza. Turns out, the main plaza is the only plaza.

“That’s it?”

“I guess so.”

We take a seat at the emptiest restaurant, have a drink, order some vegetarian croquetas.

“I just don’t get why he disappears, and then he starts replying for a week, and then he disappears again?”

“Guys do that sometimes.”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well. Sometimes we just don’t want to talk to you.”

She shakes her head.

“I mean girls do that too, right?”

She smiles. I smile. We both nod and eat a croqueta.

A couple of days later, after trying every vegetarian cafe in Palma, we book a rental car to explore the island. I book the cheapest car, from the cheapest company. Pick up time is 11 a.m.

I walk down to the waterfront to pick it up, right on time. Fernanda stays at the room and mothers the bags. I almost walk right past the rental office, it’s so tiny. It’s tiny, and it’s packed with people.

“We don’t have any cars right now,” she tells the guy at the counter. “All these people are also waiting for cars.”

“But we’ve booked! We booked it for this time!”

It’s some British guy with angry hair. His world is falling apart, apparently.

“We’re overbooked sir. You’ll need to wait for two hours, the cars will be here then.”

When he’s done, I give the lady my booking. Same story. I text Fernanda.

“Need to wait two hours, they have no cars.”

“What the fuck!”

“Let’s go eat.”

Fernanda meets me on the waterfront. We find an American diner, I have the strawberry pancakes. We’ve spent the last four days binge eating; there’s no stopping us now. The two hours zooms by. When you’ve spent your life sitting in airports, two hours is like a toilet break.

We walk back to the rental office. It’s a different lady now. The other one is probably in court, getting sued by the British guy. I hand over the booking form.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re an online booking. There’s no cars, you’ll need to wait an hour or so…”

She hasn’t even finished speaking when Fernanda turns hostile.

“He was here at 11 and you said the same thing! We’ve been waiting two hours already!”

The lady tenses up, looks at me sheepishly.

“Really?”

I nod.

“Sorry, I didn’t know.”

She looks back down at her computer, clicks a few things.

“I’ll need to give you a slightly bigger car, is that okay?”

I nod again.

“Okay, they’ll bring it right out for you. Do you want to buy insurance? It’s only 50 euros and you’re covered for everything. Otherwise any damage is an excess of €1,200.”

We don’t buy it.

Fernanda and I go outside to wait for the car.

“Why you blowing up at the nice lady for?” I laugh. “She didn’t know.”

“What, you were just going to say okay and wait for another hour?”

“Of course not. I was just about to win her over with some charm. Then you brought the fury.”

We get in the car. It’s been a while since I drove on the right hand side. It’s been a while since I drove, period. We’ve barely been in the car ten minutes before I krrr krrr krrrrrr the side mirror against something.

“Brendan!”

“It’s fucking weird! Driving on the other side.”

We spend that morning driving out to Cala d’Or. It’s a little tourist village, on the west of the island, our new home for the next few days.

I drive badly while Fernanda describes the map badly. Like Bonnie and Clyde. Well, not really. More like Donkey Kong and Dixie Kong. Except Fernanda is older than Dixie and can’t read a map. There’s a rumour that women aren’t good map readers. Must be true. There’s also a rumour that Asians can’t drive. Definitely not true. Well, maybe just today.

Cala d’Or is a typical beach holiday town. Lots of hotels, tapas restaurants, supermarkets with those rotating racks of sunscreen on the footpath. Fernanda and I check in, then go in search of dinner.

Every restaurant in Cala d’Or is the same. Pizza, pasta, tapas, seafood. Fernanda examines every menu like it’s an ancient artifact, decoding the scriptures in her head. Eventually she finds one she likes.

“Table for two.”

The guy smiles and walks us in.

“Sit anywhere you want, you can choose.”

I point to Fernanda.

“She can choose.”

The waiter laughs, leans in to whisper.

“It’s always the same, huh?” 

He gives me a giggle, a friendly shoulder pat.

We order the unhealthiest food on the menu. Pizza, nachos, something else that we probably regretted later. Our waitress is a little blonde girl. I guess German. Wrong. Dutch.

“Where are you guys from?!”

We explain we’re both from New Zealand, even though our faces are Brazilian, and Chinese.

She’s chatty, starts telling us about Cala d’Or, how long she’s lived here, some of the fun things we could do.

“Oh, we’re not together,” I tell her.

“Oh?”

“You thought we were a couple? “

Well…yeah.”

“Nah. Fernanda’s going through a mid-life crisis. I just came out here to support her.”

Fernanda rolls her eyes. I laugh like it’s a joke, even though it’s kind of true. Because it’s always kind of true, for everyone. Life just seems to be made up of a series of mid life crises. One after the other. Eventually you realise that’s just called life.

The next day we drive out to a beach that will look spectacular on our Instagrams. Fernanda knows where it is, how to get there. She takes the keys, says she’s driving today.

The roads are quiet. As we pass through the towns, I know these are the same roads we drove yesterday, but for some reason I don’t recognise them. They all look the same. Until eventually I recognise one: The road with the funny intersection, the one where it looks like you can’t turn, but the sign with the blue arrow appears just in time, and then you realise you can.

But today we go a little further from the towns. We hit the open road, lots of fields, lots of orange and green, lots of houses with too much land, vineyards maybe, farms.

I read the map to her, left, left, right, left. 

Eventually we come to a dirt road.

Left here, I tell her.

The road is gravelly, uneven. She drives slowly.

It gets narrower. Hedges and trees on both sides.

Leaves brush against the car mirror.

Slowly, I say, watching the branches tickle the side of the car.

We keep going.

Surely it must widen up soon.

Nope.

Narrower again.

Branches drag against the car. We hear scratching. Is it really scratching?

It’s probably alright. Keep going.

Krrr.

That sounded bad.

Too late now. Can’t go back.

Krr. Krrrrr.

We look at each other. It might be okay, we say with our eyes. We hope.

Eventually it clears. We get out to the main road, drive down to the beach.

As soon as we park I jump out and check the doors.

I start laughing. Fernanda looks at me, smiles nervously.

“We’re so fucked,” I tell her.

She gets out, runs her hands along the panels.

“Oh my god.”

Then I take a step sideways, look at it in the sun.

“Okay, it’s not thaaaaat bad.”

I crouch, change angles again.

“Actually it is that bad.”

I look at her.

Chuckle.

Shrug.

“Worry about it tomorrow.”

Eventually we find the beach we’re looking for. It’s hidden, down a long flight of stairs. But we follow the small trail of tourists to a lookout, up on a cliff where we can see the lagoon below. Fernanda looks horrified.

“What the hell?”

I’m not sure what she’s what the helling about.

“This isn’t it, is it?”

I shrug my shoulders. I’ve never seen this place, never heard of it.

She pulls out her phone, shows me a photo.

“This is what it’s supposed to look like.”

I study the photo. I can recognise the boat ramp, the far cliff. But that’s all. The sand in the photo is white and perfect. The sand in real life is brown and covered in rocks. The water in the photo is turquoise and glistening, the water in front of us looks likes sewerage.

I burst out laughing.

“That’s hilarious.” Catfished by Instagram.

After dinner that night, we stop at a small ice cream shop by the hotel. It’s one of those fancy ones, where they have nice tables outside with dim lighting, and overcharge two euros for each scoop.

“I just. I don’t even think I want to work anymore. I want to be a housewife.”

I turn my spoon upside down, suck the ice cream off like a lollipop. The same way I’ve eaten it ever since I saw someone do it in a movie when I was ten.

“But, this is exactly what you were wanting last year.”

She nods.

“You wanted that apartment. And that job. And Berlin.”

She nods again. Smiles as if she’s already had this conversation with herself last week, and the week before. And a few weeks before that.

“I think I’m just lonely.”

I scrape at my ice cream again, not even eating anymore, just drawing patterns in the half still left.

“Yeah, well. So am I. Sometimes. It’s not always a bad thing you know, to be lonely.”

The following day, we try a new target. Fernanda’s found a different beach. Again, it’s supposed to look spectacular on Instagram. Again, she drives.

Before leaving we stop and load up on snacks at the SPAR, healthy-ish ones. As we arrive back at the car, I run my hands across the side panel, seeing how deep the scratches run. Fernanda smiles anxiously as I do it. I smile back.

“Worry about it tomorrow.”

I fire up Google Maps and we head for the coast. I recognise these roads a little more now. I remember the double street, the one that confused me when we first drove into town. And then the big roundabout that comes after it. A few minutes on, there’s the big Santanyí sign. And then of course the funny intersection, the one where it looks like you can’t turn but you can.

Past that, it’s new territory. It’s a new beach this time, on a different coast, with different roads to roam. On the stereo we listen to a song one of her musician boyfriends wrote for her. The same song we were listening to yesterday. The same guy she keeps talking about at meal time.

“…what you want, what you want, doo doo doo, what you want…”

“It’s catchy, right?”

Yeah, it is actually.

Like the rest of Mallorca’s beaches, this one seems to be hidden too. We park the car, wander around the little red teardrop on Google Maps. No beach. But again we follow the trickle of tourists, along the rocky cliff, up the hill, through a little wooden gate. Behind the gate the path is well trodden, a hint that it’s here. Five minutes along the path, we find it. It’s down, far, far down, in a little cove under the cliff we’re standing on.

Fernanda shows me the photo. It kind of looks the same. But in the photo it looks majestic, the kind of place where you’d build a palace up on the cliff after winning the lottery. In real life it just looks like a cove. The kind of cove you look at for five minutes, take a photo, and leave.

We look at it for five minutes, take a photo and leave.

That night after dinner, Fernanda and I poke at a piece of mediocre cheesecake.

“My Mum talked to me. She thinks I’m lost. Said I should write down some goals. Asked me if I’m…drifting.”

Fernanda looks at me.

“Well, are you?”

I think about it.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe.”

I scrape at the cheesecake again. Turn the spoon upside down and eat it.

“I think I’m with your Mum a little bit. Your life’s too easy now. Not that you didn’t work for it, but…”

I nod.

Drifting.

Fernanda can see it, now that we’re sitting here talking about it. But Mum can see it better, from halfway across the world. What would we do.

The following day is our last day in Mallorca. We drive out to Mondragó National Park.

It’s late afternoon when we finally find the beach there. It’s a medium sized bay, pretty, walled by rocks on either side. It’s empty when we arrive. I take off my flip flops. We walk along the sand.

“There’s a seat there.”

She points up on the rocks lining the water.

“Where.”

“There.”

She stops me. Points at the rocks. Makes sure my eyes are following her finger.

“Oh. There.”

We climb up onto the cliff, sit on the little seat in the rocks. It’s a bit odd, like a park bench someone has hidden there, disguised. We chat for a while, then just sit in silence. The tide is coming in. I watch the swell crash against the pile of rocks below us. It comes in cycles, a few small waves, then a big one, a few smaller ones, then a bigger one.

As they crash in and out, my mind drifts, segues, as it usually does by the water.

Happiness. Loneliness. Mum. Fernanda.

Each time a wave crashes on the rocks, my mind hits pause for two seconds, just to see if this one will make a splash big enough to reach me. And then straight back to wondering.

Tanzania. Car crash. Where to go next. Why. Drifting.

Wave. This one looks big. It’s going to splash me.

Ooh, nearly.

Half an hour goes by. An hour. Maybe two. No idea.

Mallorca. How many people wait the whole year for a week in Mallorca…

Fernanda says something.

I flinch, ask her what she said. I’d nearly forgotten she was sitting beside me.

“Maybe this one,” she repeats, raising her eyebrows towards the water.

She’d been watching the waves too. This whole time. Waiting for them to splash us. Just like I was.

The wave collapses onto the rocks, loudly. It plunges deep, then, as if launching off a trampoline, shoots up towards us. It splashes the tips of our toes, barely.

I look up. The sun is just starting to set.

“Let’s go?”

The next morning Fernanda wakes up before me. Packs her stuff before me. Tells me we’ve got five hours until we fly. It’s time to worry about the car.

“Google it. How to fix car scratches,” I say, stuffing toiletries into my bag.

I hear the mumble of Youtube videos, her flicking through different ones.

“Toothpaste?” she says, puzzled.

She keeps watching. I look up at her, see her eyes fixed on the screen.

“Oh my god,” she laughs. “Fucking toothpaste.”

We check out and hurry down to the car. I give her my toothpaste, grab two dirty socks. She wets one, toothpastes it, starts buffing the door.

After a few seconds she pulls her head back, examines it like an outfit she’s holding in the mirror.

“Oh my goddd. It works.”

She buffs harder, starts laughing.

I take the toothpaste, start polishing the other side.

A couple walks past, looks at us confusingly, a Latina and a Chinaman furiously polishing their rental car with socks.

After twenty minutes we’re done. In the right light, it looks brand new. In the wrong light, it looks like we’ve tried to cover our car scratches in toothpaste.

We laugh at each other, proudly. We did our best. It’s in fate’s hands now.

I drive today. We barely need the map anymore. I make my way out of town, one last time. Along the confusing double road. Around the the big roundabout. Past the big Santanyí sign. Through the funny intersection, the one where it looks you can’t turn but you can. From there, it’s onto the highway, our final Mallorca road. Ample lanes all the way back to Palma.

We pull up at the rental office an hour later. It’s the same lady at the desk, the one that got sued by the British guy. She’s gossiping with a workmate.

I hand her the keys.

“Any problems?”

“None at all.”

She glances at the car out the window for less than a second, tells me to sign a form, hands me the return slip.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” she smiles.

She waits for me to walk out. As I close the door, I see her quickly go back to gossiping. I check my credit card for weeks. They never charge it.

We share a cab to the airport. Fernanda’s going home to Berlin, me, onward to Amsterdam. She waits for me to check my bag in, we shuffle through security together. Soon we get to the end of our shared walk through the airport, the part where her gate is this way and my gate is that way.

She drops her bag. We hug. She puts a hand on my neck, pulls my head down towards her. Kisses me on the cheek.

I smile, wrap my arms around her.

The last time Fernanda and I said goodbye, it was a goodbye that said maybe we’ll meet again, someday. But this time it wasn’t even a goodbye. It was a call me when you land, remember to read that book, don’t worry about the twenty euros, I’ll send you that recipe, did you give me back my toothpaste? 

And I knew, from now on, there would be no more goodbyes between us. Only take cares, and see you next times, laughter about this holiday we took when we were kids, the beaches we couldn’t find, the food that cost too much money, all the conversations that came in between, along Mallorca roads.

But as we broke our hug, turned to walk our own ways, I didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t need to.

Like the waves on the rocks at Mondragó, she already knew.

B

It was just happenstance that I found myself back in this city. I’d just finished the Camino with my family, and after some wandering we’d ended up here, in Málaga. After a few days in town, they’d all boarded their flights back to New Zealand, and here I was, in the middle of Plaza de la Merced, on my own again.

I can’t lie, that’s always a funny moment when I say bye to my family on the road. First, it’s a little bit awkward. There’s a hug and another hug and then they say bye. Then the taxi drives off, and I kind of smile, like oh ok, they’re gone.

As I walk off, it’s just numb for a while.

And then it comes. For about fifteen seconds, an overwhelming gush of loneliness. It’s like when you say goodbye to a good travel buddy, but a million times deeper, a million times more real. That feeling of someone leaving you, of you leaving someone, in a foreign place. It can’t be described. Sometimes, I struggle to fight back tears. Because suddenly it’s not just oh, they’re gone, but it’s like oh, they’re gone.

And then, a few seconds pass and you shake it off. You have to. And that vagabond feeling comes rumbling back. You realise it’s just you and the road once more.

So many possibilities now.

This is what we live for.

This is what we do.

The first thing I did was check into a hostel. Of course Mama always books nice guesthouses for us, but once she’s gone I’m back on the backpacker budget. I find a place pretty close by, a dorm bed is nine euros a night. Nine euros is good. I can do nine euros all day.

When I get there, I’m greeted by a petite Italian girl, who has the most Italian accent ever. She’s the receptionist. I follow up her up the stairs, and the first thing I notice are the blackened soles of her feet. That’s the tell tale sign of a hippie girl. Always walking around barefoot, with dirty feet. Usually in short shorts or elephant pants. And messy hair. Check, check, check.

I get to the dorm and collapse. It’s like a tradition now, when you get to a new dorm. Maybe you’re not even tired, but you just put your bags down and then just collapse on the bed. Then you lie there for a while, wondering what the hell to do.

Eat? Nah.

Walk around? Mmm. Nah.

Just lie here and do nothing? Yeah. Good plan.

The next day, I decide to go shopping. I need to buy shoes, and shorts. I head to a big department store in the centre, El Corte Ingles. Once inside, I wonder why on earth I came here. Everything is expensive and shitty. Shoes for $200 with a stupid crocodile on the side.

I leave and walk around some other shops in the centre. As I walk around, I slowly rebuild the picture of these streets in my head.

You see, this isn’t my first time in Málaga. I came here seven years ago, on my first ever solo trip, to study Spanish. That trip changed my life. The friends I made on that trip, the things I learned about myself, about the world.

As I walk along the old streets, I realise I still remember everything.

That’s where Philip drank two large Cokes that morning because he was so hungover.

That’s the place we all ate tapas and the Swedes drank too much.

That’s where I bought that blue shirt that I still wear today sometimes.

I remember it all, how special it felt at the time. Nobody forgets their first solo trip. It was the trip that changed everything. It inspired me to see the world.

Now here I am again, seven years later, and I’ve seen the world. As I chat in Spanish to strangers on the street – much of it learned at that school just a short bus ride away – wandering solo like it’s just an ordinary Wednesday, I think about how much life has changed. Walking these streets again is like returning home to see an old mentor. It’s like I came back, just to say thank you, and to let them know, I did it.

That next day, I meet a French girl cooking in the hostel kitchen. Until now I’ve been the only one cooking in the kitchen. But now there’s a French girl in the kitchen. She’s using my pot. I mean it’s not really my pot, but I use it all the time, so I feel like it’s my pot. She’s a quirky, artsy girl.

Actually, I have no idea if she has any quirk, or artistic talent. It’s probably just the dark rimmed glasses.

Her name is Kathy.

I can’t remember what Kathy and I talk about, but we talk for a long time. Now that I think about it, Kathy was telling me a lot about moving to Málaga, and she couldn’t find a place to stay, so she was staying here. So my pot was cooking, and I sat on the bench listening to her, while she cut up her salad, which looked like absolute shit.

I ask her if that’s classic French food. She laughs. She knows it looks shit. From this conversation, I can already tell, Kathy is gonna be my hostel buddy.

In every hostel you go to, you have a hostel buddy. It’s like the first person you meet, usually you arrive at the same time, and so you have this weird bond. Like hey, I met you on my first day, so we’re like, friends now.  That conversation was enough for Kathy and I to become hostel buddies.

Later that evening, I walk into the lounge and see Kathy talking to some guy. His name is Dino.

Dino is a short, wiry, smiley Englishman. I don’t know how old he is, but I’m going to guess early forties. He’s one of those bike guys – those guys who just ride their bicycle everywhere, and chill out at the bar in bicycle shorts. They’re actually quite common on the hostel circuit. Right now he’s riding his bike all around Spain, or something. That sounds kind of fun. I should do that some day.

The next day I decide I need some exercise, maybe from seeing Dino’s rippled forearms the day before, so I head down to the beach. It’s a half hour walk, and there’s a public outdoor gym there, I guess for people to burn off all their late night plates of paella. I pump iron for about half an hour, then hide in the shade. Spanish sun is serious business.

Then, in the distance I see a girl sunbathing topless on the beach.

It’s weird.

This isn’t a topless beach.

She’s the only one.

And then I get the smart idea to go and talk to her.

Me: Brendan, don’t be stupid, leave her alone.

Other me: No Brendan, face your fears, this will be good for you.

Me: Seriously, you’re just going to go talk to her? She’ll think you’re a freakin weirdo.

Other me: Who cares what she thinks bro, just go, this is how legends are made.

This conversation goes on in my head for half an hour while I sit in the shade. My heart rate is elevated. This will be a first, I’ve never gone and talked to a girl on the beach before. When I hear myself say that, my mind changes. Because if you’ve never done something before, you have to do it. Are you really going to die having never talked to a topless girl on the beach?

I stand up and walk up to her. I’m dripping in sweat, wearing the most homeless looking clothes ever.

No excuses. Just go.

[in Spanish]

“Uhh…..hi….

…I was just walking by, I wanted to say hello.”

She’s actually smiling. Is she fake smiling or real smiling?

“Oh. Hello.”

She sits up to talk to me. This is going 300x better than I expected.

“Do you always sunbathe without clothes?”

“Yeah, I like it this way.”

“You know in my country, you can’t do that. Police will come and tell you to put your clothes back on.”

“That’s strange.”

“Yeah, it is.”

We continue to talk for a few minutes, about small stuff. Then I start to feel like a weirdo, so I decide it’s time to go.

“I’ve gotta go. But shall we get a drink?”

She looks at me.

“Now?”

“No, later some time!”

“Sure.”

I save her number, and high five her, and say bye, and walk off. My heart thumps so hard, like I’ve just survived a near death experience. Maybe I have.

As I walk back to the hostel, I feel invincible. Everything is possible now. I’m a legend. I can already see life changing in my head. I’m going to text her, we’re gonna go to a hipster bar and have a drink. We’ll tell each other stories and she’ll laugh at my accent. We’ll go on a second date. We’ll talk about our favourite songs and our dreams and go for a long romantic walk along the beachfront. She’ll show me a secret side of Málaga I never knew. Maybe I’ll end up staying here for weeks, months. We’ll travel Spain together and create something beautiful.

A few hours later, I text her.

She doesn’t text back.

That night, I cook some spinach and chicken, then go and sit in the hostel bar to do some work. There’s a bunch of locals in there. They’re all friends of the owner. The owner of this hostel is a crazy man. But he’s a friendly crazy man. The good kind of crazy man.

One of these locals comes over to my table and greets me. She’s much older than me, maybe in her forties. Her name is Lupe. She asks me to help her paint her nails. I smile at her for a moment, trying to figure out if she’s serious. She is. I tell her I don’t know how to paint nails. She insists that I try. I try. Turns out, I’m a natural. We both have a good laugh, and then she tells me to come join the rest of them at their table.

After I finish up on my laptop I go and sit with them. Of course, they only speak Spanish. That’s not a problem, I’ve been practicing mine on the Camino for the last month, it’s all come back to me. I sit there and chat with them. Lupe comes over and puts a beer in front of me. Her gay friend, I think his name was Miguel, eccentrically plants a cigarette in my hand. Everyone introduces themselves enthusiastically. The Spanish know how to make you feel welcome.

Sitting opposite me is a man and his teenage son. He commends me on my Spanish, and asks where I learned. I tell him I studied in a few places, for a few months, a few years ago. I talk to the kid. Seems like a good kid. Another old guy joins in the conversation, asking me a few questions, about a few random things. It hits me, moments like these – these were the reason I wanted to study language in the first place. To be able to go to a random bar and talk to people. To hear people’s stories. To understand the world. Now I’m here, I’m really doing it.

A few days later, I wake up and I’m nearly suffocating. There’s no air conditioning in this place, so the afternoons are lethal. The July sun in the south of Spain is a weapon of mass destruction.

I lie on the couch, paralysed. I can’t move. I can’t eat.

Now I know why they have siestas in Spain. In this heat, anything other than sleeping is torture.

Later that evening, while still stuck to the couch, Kathy walks in. We sit and chat. Haven’t seen her for a few days, but she’s my hostel buddy, so we’re always cool. And she is cool. Most French girls aren’t really that cool, but Kathy is cool. She’s like that girl, who is kind of nerdy but still cute. Those kinds of girls are always cool.

Dino comes in a bit later. Bad news. His bike’s been stolen.

Since he’s a bike guy, I already know this is really going to screw with him. You can’t steal a bike from a bike guy, man. That’s the lowest of the low. Just evil. We sit and talk about it for a while. Dino is sad, obviously, but he’s chill. He tries to smile about it, turn it into one of those life lessons.

Kathy asks him how much it will cost to buy another bike. Dino gives her a look.

“That’s not the point. That bike has been with me all over Europe, I’ve been everywhere on that bike, on that bike. You know?”

Yeah Kathy. Don’t you know?

I feel really shitty for him. Who the fuck steals a bike from a bike guy?

Later that night, Dino, Kathy and I sit outside in the bar with a few drinks. Nobody’s there except us. Out of nowhere, Dino pulls out possibly the fattest joint I’ve ever seen in my life and asks if I want to share it with him. I say sure. Dude just lost his bike, you know. Gotta support him and all that.

As the night goes on we have one of those talks about life, about nothing. We talk about our travels, about Britain’s colonisation of the world (funny how that always comes up), about where we’re all heading next. I can’t remember what else we talk about, but as Dino takes off to bed, I remember thinking what a cool guy he is. Still out here, living the dream.

There’s a new guy in my dorm today. He has a guitar. And he’s wearing old Chuck Taylor’s. Kinda like a wannabe John Mayer. As soon as he opens his mouth I know he’s British. He tells me how he just sits around all day and busks. If we were anywhere else, I’d ask him to play us something. But my ears don’t work in this heat. The only things that work are my eyes, and the only thing they can do is shut. And my sweat glands, of course. Those are definitely working.

That night, there’s a big barbecue in the hostel bar. The owner is a grill master, firing up all kinds of different meats. I sit on the steps with the Italian hippie girl. I forget her name, but certainly not her personality. She tells me about how she’s travelling around Europe with her cat, who I’ve noticed wandering around the hostel every day. And how she kind of just got stuck here in Málaga, working at this place, getting comfortable.

That’s a common story. Everyone who backpacks for more than a few months gets stuck somewhere. Even me. We all say we love the road, but there are always times when we crave a home as well. Getting stuck somewhere tends to give us the best of both worlds.

The next people to check in to the hostel are these two Dutch kids. They’re young, maybe 18. They’re staying in Kathy’s room I think.

That night, we all decide it will be a good idea to go out. We head to the plaza nearby, and order some dirty cocktails. As we sit around the table being typical drunk travellers, it hits me…I’m the old guy now. These kids aren’t even out of university, and I’m the thirty year old backpacker drinking cocktails with them. I’m finally that guy. And I mean, that guy has always been around, and that guy is always cool. But now I’m him. It never occurred to me that one day I might be him. But now I am.

It’s a long, drunk walk back to the hostel. Kathy and I are laughing about something. That’s what happens with your hostel buddy. It feels like you’ve known each other forever. We get to the hostel and go sit in the kitchen in the pitch black and talk. It’s weird how we even have anything to talk about.

We really don’t have anything in common.

She’s a blonde French girl from a little town, I’m a Chinese kid from New Zealand. She’s in school, I’m like some homeless blogger writer guy. But we have the road in common. I guess that’s enough to make friends out of anyone.

A few days later, Lupe asks me out for a drink. Since I’m just so busy, I decline.

Just kidding. I have absolutely nothing to do. I go meet her at the bar nearby.

I think Lupe is old enough to be my mother. I don’t know how old exactly, but she’s around there somewhere. I wondered for a moment, if she was trying to seduce me. But I think, she just wanted someone to chill with. We sit out on the terrace with a pair of gin and tonics and talk. We talk about all kinds of mature topics, like the refugee crisis and traditions and family stuff. She smashes through her pack of cigarettes like they’re Skittles. She laughs a lot. Really doesn’t seem to give a shit about much. She’s really cool, Lupe. I start to wonder what she was doing, hanging out at a hostel bar on the weekend with a bunch of backpacker kids.

Maybe she was one of us, back in the day.

Maybe she can’t let it go.

Maybe that will be me some day.

When I get back to the hostel that night, Italian girl is sitting outside on the balcony with her cat. Guitar guy is out there too. Kathy is inside on the couch. I sit with Kathy and we catch up. I notice she’s got a world peace wristband on. I ask her about it.

“Guess how much it cost.”

“3 euros.”

She shakes her head.

“7 euros.”

She shakes her head.

“1,000 euros.”

She laughs.

“It was ten euros! I got it at a festival. It was for like a fundraiser thing.”

“Can I have it?”

“Sure.”

She slips it off her hand and gives it to me. I take it and put it on. I don’t know how I knew she would give it to me, but I just did. Probably because I would’ve done the same thing.

Suddenly, I’m so grateful I met her.

Suddenly, I feel like Kathy and I have everything in common.

That night, I book a flight for the next day. When we find ourselves in these cities, these hostels, where we’re not here for any reason other than to be here, there comes a time when we know it’s time to go. That night, while lying in bed, I knew it was time to go.

I check out early the next morning. I hugged Italy goodbye and took a few selfies with her. Kathy was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Nor Dino. Nor guitar guy. Nor the Dutch kids. In fact, I don’t think I said bye to anyone. But sometimes it’s better that way. As long as the moments were good, the goodbyes can remain unsaid. Because we already know what’s being said inside. Besides, if we learn one thing out here, it’s that the road is a circle so, there’s a good chance we’ll see each other again some day. Anyway.

To the memories of Málaga,

B