Three Perfect Days Malaga

Day 1

Pablo Picasso, Roman ruins, and Michelin-starred tapas

I wake up, and Wham! No, I haven’t fallen from the bed in my all-white room at the Gran Hotel Miramar; I’ve literally woken up to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” which serves as an alarm that’s impossible to ignore. (It’s a personal travel hack of mine.) I’m confused, though: It’s still pitch-black behind the linen curtains, yet my phone insists it’s 7 a.m.

It turns out sunrise is much later in this part of the world, but I rise anyway and pad downstairs to a buffet served in a glass-walled room overlooking a sparkling blue swimming pool. I fill a plate with jamón and Manchego and dine as dawn breaks, silhouetting palm trees against a magenta sky.

The Gran Miramar has a wide exterior staircase off the pool, and from the steps I can see out to the Alboran Sea, a western section of the Mediterranean that’s home to loggerhead turtles and long-finned pilot whales, in addition to being a watery highway that fostered the development of polyglot Southern Spain. Málaga’s first major culture bearers, the Phoenicians, came via these waters. The Romans followed, then the Moors, who were eventually driven out by the Christians. Evidence of these influences becomes apparent in ways both enormous and tiny as I walk along tree-lined Avenida de Cervantes toward the historic city center. I pass the Baroque Revival City Hall building and stroll into the linear Parque de Málaga, which was constructed in 1896 and planted with bio-diversity in mind. Beneath one of the city’s signature ficus trees, I stop to smell an electric-purple rose.

It was the Phoenicians who brought Spain her most beloved plants—olive trees and grapevines. The fortified wines of muscatel and sherry have deep history here, and both clearly remain top city pours, as I pass numerous wine bars with doors propped open for early deliveries. Málaga’s Islamic past, meanwhile, rises on my right, in the shape of the Alcazaba, a 1,000-year-old fortress atop the sheer hillside. Next to it, amazingly, are the ruins of a 2,000-year-old Roman amphitheater.

Phoenician sailors and Roman emperors are all well and good, but my interest is piqued by two other men of Málaga: Pablo Picasso and actor Antonio Banderas, both of whom were born here. I have it on good authority that the latter—my ultimate ’90s crush—goes for a 9 a.m. daily run starting at this very spot, as his penthouse overlooks the theater.

I don’t spot Banderas in running shorts (teenage hopes dashed), so instead I get a lesson on Picasso’s legacy; 2023 marked 50 years since his passing, and I notice posters announcing the milestone outside of Málaga’s oldest church, the Iglesia de Santiago Apóstol, where he was baptized. Inside, an image of the Apostle James decorates an olive-green altar with gilded reliefs.

Outside the Museo Casa Natal de Picasso I meet up with local tour guide María Palomares, who sheds a little light on the city’s most famous son. Together, we wander through the artist’s childhood home, where cases frame everything from his boyhood sketches to his father’s house key and his mother’s embroidered sheets. “Picasso’s father was an art teacher,” Palomares tells me, as we look at his travel palettes for painting on the road.

This intimate glimpse at the artist’s early years serves as a great precursor to the grander Museo Picasso Málaga, where more than 200 works are exhibited in the 16th-century Buenavista Palace. The striking symmetry of Andalusian architecture beautifully backdrops Picasso’s erratic Cubist pieces. “It was Picasso’s daughter-in-law who wanted this place to be a museum,” Palomares says. “Now his grandson is the most involved family member in carrying on his legacy.” I stand longest at a 1938 work, Still Life with Minotaur and Palette, smitten with the cartoonish minotaur’s eyes, which somehow seem full of questions and feeling.

I’m also smitten with my lunch at Er Pichi de Cái, a tiny seafood tavern near the harbor. At a rickety, sherry-barrel table, I dig into an array of tapas, including lobster and chickpea stew and tortillitas de camarones—fried, latticed shrimp cakes seasoned with garlic and parsley.

Eager to see more of everyday Málaga, I hop a 10-minute cab to Pedregalejo, a former fishing village on the city’s east side. Fifty years ago, this was a working-class stretch of tangled nets and weathered boats, but now it’s a hot spot for trendy chiringuitos—open-air cafes with spartan snack menus. Under the blue awning of one, a woman plays Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine” on violin; at another, grandmothers decked in pearls share a plate of grilled octopus. I wander over to the beach, where curved rock jetties create small coves of dove-gray sand, and spend a while soaking up the sun.

I might have nodded off for a few minutes, because soon enough the light is starting to fade. So, I head to Lola, the seventh-floor terrace restaurant at the new Only You Hotel Málaga, to watch the sun set in style. A crisp verdejo in hand, I survey the yachts to my right and pedestrian-only Calle Larios (Málaga’s Madison Avenue) on my left.

It’s a five-minute stroll to meet my friend Simona at Balausta, the lobby restaurant at the Palacio Solecio hotel. Arched stone and clay tiles give the place a North Africa meets Art Deco vibe, and we perch on tall barstools, digging into tapas from Michelin-starred chef José Carlos García. I try to treat this as a snack, since I have a dinner reservation nearby at 9, but it’s impossible not to devour the stewed eggplant with sun-dried tomatoes and tart goat cheese. Simona, like me a travel writer, moved to Málaga from her native Sweden a few years ago, after Spain’s climate and zest for life captured her heart, and she tells me that since then tourism has increased dramatically— for better and worse. “Like any city seeing tourism rise, we love the business,” she says, “but also, we want to protect the authentic nature and beauty of this place.” I can’t blame her.

Back on the street, I take a slight pre-dinner detour past the majestic Cathedral of Málaga. It was built between 1528 and 1782, with a Baroque facade, and it’s best gazed upon at night, when lights create a sepia shimmer across the north tower, which rises nearly 300 feet into the inky sky.

It’s just a five-minute stroll past alfresco taverns to La Cosmopolita, an unassuming space tucked just off the busy Plaza del Siglo and run by lauded local chef Dani Carnero. Victor, my waiter, guides me to a nutty Fino sherry to balance the saltiness of ultra-aged jamón. Next come a brilliant tomato-burrata pie and an exquisite, one-bite ball of delicate fried cod. I enjoy a final sherry, not wanting the night to end, knowing that tomorrow I’ll bid this city farewell.

---

Day 2

Skinny streets, a sultan’s palace, and Washington Irving’s vandalism

After breakfast—in the dark, yet again—I pick up my rental car at Málaga’s María Zambrano Train Station. Soon, I’m merging onto the Costa del Sol’s A-7 highway, headed toward Granada in a tiny white hatchback that resembles an egg. (I shall call it “El Huevo.”) The sky swaps her peach outfit for blue, and the road dips and arcs, showing the sea and then hiding it. I navigate through short stone tunnels and past whitewashed villages, their houses decorated by blooming morning glory.

Writers and artists have long romanticized Granada, all of them surely making the trek to the city to see the striking, stalwart Alhambra. Spain’s Islamic past is preserved on the hillside here in the fortress’s red-stone walls and the intricate inner quarters of the Nasrid sultans—yet, as I soon discover, Granada is so much more than her biggest draw.

Crossing a wide bridge over the shallow Darro River, I enter a town rife with green spaces, farmers markets, and quaint boutiques. I push El Huevo up, up, up, as the pavement turns to axle-vibrating cobblestones, the roads narrowing again and again. I feel squeezed, concerned I won’t make the turns, but I do, and I’m soon rewarded with the sight of the Hotel Alhambra Palace, which is just a stone’s throw from the actual Alhambra. The salmon-hued, castle-shaped hotel is hard to miss amid its woodsy surroundings; built in 1910, it’s one of the oldest five-star properties in Spain, and after dropping my bags I take time to visit the stained glass–wrapped terrace and examine the lobby’s antique roulette wheel.

I leave El Huevo behind and take an Uber back downhill to Plaza de Bib-Rambla, a busy square with a big central fountain and ample cafés. The Casablanca feel of Magia Arábica lures me in, and I pick up a robust coffee and pastry for wandering the white tents of the Bib-Rambla flea market. I find hilarious ceramic pots shaped like aliens with succulents for hair, but they’re far too big for hauling home, so I post a photo to Instagram and continue walking Granada’s stone streets, passing the city’s cathedral and weaving into the adjacent lanes of the Alcaicería, a centuries-old silk souk that remains one of the city’s top attractions. An 1843 fire narrowed the footprint of the market, but the tight lanes remain prolific in color. Beneath fluttering tapestries strung between buildings, I pass piles of Persian rugs and racks of leather slippers. Upon closer inspection, the wares feel a bit touristy—I fear I might come across a “Made in China” sticker on something—so I depart, heading for the Albaicín, the city’s ancient Arab Quarter, on a hill directly opposite the Alhambra.

During the 13th century, as Christian kingdoms conquered Moorish-held lands, particularly neighboring Baeza, Muslims fled and resettled. From the 13th to the 15th century, the Albaicín thrived, with 40,000 inhabitants and dozens of mosques, and thanks to historic designations the footprint here remains untouched. It’s a joyful, convoluted maze of skinny streets, with ivory, yellow, and ocher buildings topped with tile roofs and often decorated with bright blue doors or flower pots spilling pink begonias. It’s also a calf workout; I regret my flip-flops, as well-shod locals stride past me, sure-footed as mountain goats.

At the Mirador de San Nicolás, a wide, flat plaza with views across the deep chasm to the Alhambra, I score a seat at the popular El Huerto de Juan Ranas restaurant, which practically clings to the cliff. I watch birds swoop and dive into the gorge while I sip a local Alhambra lager. It’s tempting to order a second, but I have a lunch reservation to keep, at Mirador de Morayma, where I sit in a garden with blooming citrus trees and splashing fountains and dig into a divine, savory-sweet Moroccan chicken pastilla that’s seasoned with paprika, cinnamon, and cumin and dusted in powdered sugar. Fueled up, I’m finally ready to explore the Alhambra.

There’s nowhere better to connect to the Moorish history of Spain than inside this epic palace, and fortunately I made advanced reservations. (Tickets sell out for the allotted 8,000 tourists who arrive each day.) Oddly, guides are not mandatory, but I’ve booked a tour with Asier Garmendia Ortega, an art historian and official Alhambra guide, through Airbnb Experiences. I’m glad I did, too, because explanatory plaques here are as rare as the history is vast.

We begin the tour at the Generalife—the sultan’s summer palace—with its fountains and exquisite gardens. “These are working gardens,” Garmendia explains. “They grow nine tons of fruit here each year; it’s given to Granada’s less fortunate.” The Alhambra, he continues, often shocks visitors with its size. “People don’t realize that this was not a single fortress, but a whole city. More than 2,000 people once lived and worked here, from carpenters to military to cooks.”

Next, we visit the Sultan’s living quarters, or harem, where impossibly intricate carvings, often no wider than a thumbnail, stretch up 50 feet to arched ceilings. Although it has been bleached by time, the palace was once a riot of color; Garmendia shows me a protected section of faded blue paint on one column, and a place on the wall where the author Washington Irving scratched in his initials. Later, atop the fortress walls, my guide points across the forest to the former Gypsy Quarter caves, where zambra, the local style of flamenco, was born, as families danced and sang in the moonlight.

My three-hour tour goes by in a heartbeat. I say goodbye to Garmendia and the Alhambra and head to happy hour at the city’s coolest cocktail bar, on the rooftop of the Palacio Gran Vía hotel. I take the elevator up through the 119-year-old former bank building, exiting to a round, ornate solarium that backdrops the bartenders. Granada’s cathedral feels close enough to touch from the terrace. One tasty gin and lime tipple later, I depart for dinner.

The Realejo San Matias, the old Jewish quarter, is home to Restaurante Chikito, which back in the 1920s was known as Café Alameda and served as a gathering place for artists and intellectuals, including Federico García Lorca and Andrés Segovia. I push a heavy, studded door, entering a sweetly rustic dining room with yellow walls, thick beams, and carved chairs. Chikito’s oxtail is caloric bliss, with a 20-hour braise rendering beef that barely holds onto the bone. Potatoes hide in the decadent gravy, but I hunt out every last one before I finally get the check and call it a night.

---

Day 3

Traffic jams, saltwater meditations, and an iconic soup

At a sleepy gas station outside Granada’s city limits, I fumble in the early morning darkness. Again. I cannot locate the release button for the gas-cap door, but Ricardo, the attendant, comes to my rescue: We find it beneath the car’s floor mat.

I thank my knight in shining khaki and speed off toward Marbella on the A-92. I have plans for a breakfast pit stop in the 6th-century town of Ronda: a plate of huevos at a café with terrific views of the Puente Nuevo, a bridge famed for its soaring stone arches over the plunging El Tajo gorge.

The best laid schemes, as Robert Burns quipped. Ronda, it turns out, is a traffic nightmare. I’m trapped for 30 minutes behind tour buses. I cannot find parking. Finally, I give up on breakfast, but not the view—I throw on my hazards and double park, jumping out so I can at least say I saw the bridge.

My moodiness dissipates as I merge onto the southbound A-397, because this is a road worthy of luxury car commercials, and I’m a woman who loves to drive. The smooth asphalt carves along the cliffsides of the Parque Nacional Sierra de las Nieves. I pull off to photograph blankets of yellow flowers at the base of dark-green fir trees, and again to capture the park’s limestone boulders, which mimic moon rocks. As I trace the snaking roads down the mountain, Marbella and the ocean come into view.

Before my trip, I asked Spain-savvy friends about Marbella. More than one mentioned a reputation for über-wealth and those who aspire to it. I note the Beverly Hills vibes, from palm trees lining the median to low-slung shops advertising designer labels. I cruise past the Puerto Banús Marina and the yachts of the mega-rich, pulling up to the Marbella Club in El Huevo. “You can hide it behind a bush if you need to,” I whisper to the valet, who is also holding the keys to a recently arrived Rolls-Royce.

Opened in 1954, the Marbella Club is the city’s most charismatic hotel. Audrey Hepburn, Brigitte Bardot, and Cary Grant spent holidays here, and faded photographs of these sun-kissed luminaries still hang in the common spaces. The sprawling property has restaurants, shops, a salon, a beach club, and my destination, the spa, which offers something called thalassotherapy, a treatment that harnesses the healing properties of seawater. I change into a bikini and meet my wet suit–clad therapist, Silvia, at a shadowy indoor pool. “The saltwater is piped in from the ocean,” she says, pointing to a large glass window that reveals the sea. “We heat the water and also add magnesium, which is great for the skin and the immune system.” I feel awkward wading in; as if reading my mind, Silvia laughs, admitting that most people feel weird at first.

With both of us standing in the pool, she begins a guided meditation. After a few minutes, I’m stretched out and floating, my ears beneath the water, her arms supporting my body. An assistant strikes Tibetan singing bowls as my weightless limbs are pulled and stretched. My mind goes to that place between sleep and waking, that restorative limbo of half-dreams. I nearly hug Silvia at the end, feeling as if I’ve slept 12 hours in less than one.

Sheepishly, I retrieve El Huevo from the valet and head to Leña for lunch. I can’t pass up the opportunity to try the food of three-Michelin-starred chef Dani García, or to dine inside a space that won the top prize at the Restaurant & Bar Design Awards in 2021. Outside, the sun is high and hot; inside, a kiss of air conditioning and fragrant smoke greets me. I’m led through the large room, where amber ribbons of wood scroll across a low ceiling, to my channel-tufted banquette, which faces slabs of pink meat dry-aging behind glass. My stomach growls as I watch flames lick up from the open kitchen. Beef tataki soon arrives, and subsequently melts in my mouth; the grilled avocado, shockingly, outdoes it. Between the spa and the steak house, I’m beginning to understand the Black Amex appeal of Marbella.

It’s time to check in to my hotel, so I drive less than a mile inland, to postcard-perfect Old Town. Someone could film a bougainvillea sequel to Little Shop of Horrors here: The plant is everywhere, sprouting pink and peach, consuming balconies and rooftops.

My hotel, the Relais & Chateaux property La Fonda Heritage, only opened in April 2023, but part of the property dates to the 16th century. It’s boutique perfection, from the lobby’s stone arches to my room’s cavernous walk-in shower. I unlatch my shutters and am gifted views of the Ermita del Santo Cristo de la Vera Cruz church across the plaza.

Marbella is a paradise for shopping, particularly consignment and vintage treasures, so I happily wander the city’s petite alleys for hours, inspecting whiskey tumblers, diamond bracelets, and classic film posters. I splurge at Vintage Déjà Vu and ship home a 1960s porcelain bowl. At L’Atelier de Carla, a French brand with a Marbella outpost, I buy a super-soft lambskin clutch.

Bank account busted and sunset approaching, I climb four flights of stairs to the rooftop of the Linda Boutique Hotel for a glass of velvety Rioja and a comfy love seat. I read somewhere that you can see Morocco’s mountains from Marbella on clear days, and while I can’t confirm that the dark horizon line is North Africa, it’s easy to imagine that the faint dots I see are camels crossing Saharan sand dunes.

At Casa Eladio, a contemporary seafood restaurant, I settle in at a sidewalk table illuminated by string lights and start my dinner with an amuse-bouche of salmorejo. The chilled tomato soup is an Andalusian staple, virtually omnipresent on Marbella menus, but Eladio serves a couture version, with microgreens and a spoonful of caviar. I follow that up with a sautéed turbot swimming in butter.

Needing to walk off dinner, I go for a stroll, quietly enjoying the people-watching. At a sidewalk table, four 50-something men in dapper linen suits argue playfully, swinging full wine glasses with carefree abandon. By a fountain, lovers lean forward, sharing a kiss. These vignettes could have existed in 1920—or 1720.

And, really, that’s the appeal of Southern Spain. It’s an ever-romantic short story, a beautiful, timeless poem. No matter how often you return, each time it feels new, yet also wonderfully preserved. My bed beckons, and I’m almost heartbroken to tear myself from the street scenes, the moonlight; to sleep in Spain seems a waste, when there’s so much life to enjoy.

Viva España: United flies to more destinations in Spain than any other U.S. airline and is the only U.S. airline to offer nonstop service to Málaga (daily from May 2 through September 25).