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Malaga, a Spanish city still unknown to me. the perfect location for a mid February flee from cold Brussels. I had just found a job and a place to live, the idea of a settled life in Belgium itching my feet for small adventures abroad. Instead of making a big move to the other side of the world, like I tend to do every time life gets a bit too stuck in certain places, I decided on a dedication to my new lover Brussels, with little weekend getaways to sunnier places. She understands I need my space and vitamin D. She knows I will be happy to come home to her after a few days, because true love beats a superficial adventure every time.

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.

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