And Malaga will never be Brussels.
She is Spanish and fierce, taking you out on late breakfasts in the sun. She has a lot to offer, from gorgeous city views, castle visits, ocean side walks, rooftop bars, sangria for lunch, a joie de vivre that is so Spanish my Belgian heart starts to question itself. Am I really Belgian? Am I sure I'm not a warmblooded Spanish fury? The nice thing about life is this: you can be who ever you want to be. So during this freezing weekend in February, I was Spanish. Soaking up that sun like I had never known anything else to even exist.
Every terrace was tried and tested, every glass of tinto de Verano emptied. From fiesta to siesta and back. Of course I had to visit the castle, marvel at the ocean views, wrap myself in a blanket of Picasso paintings in his museum, eat cake in the botanical gardens. So I guess that makes me a Belgian tourist in Spain, more than a true Spanish mujer. Malaga sees right through me, waves me goodbye as I step on the plane into my lovers welcoming arms. It's been nice, but Brussels has never been better.