Mijas pueblo is, objectively speaking, a beautiful place. A white washed village perched half way on a mountain, facing the Mediterranean sea. When the sun hits in the morning, the entire town glows like a tray of clean dishes right out of the dish washer. I am told there are more well-moneyed expats living there now than locals, which goes a long way to explain the disturbing cleanliness of the place.
We headed there on Boxing Day morning, just before the town woke up to the onslaught of tour groups. We wondered around the quiet streets before I walked past an old lady selling her hand knitted nana cardigans out of - what seems like - her living room window.
I motioned that I want one. 25 euros, she says, and elapsed into a string of Spanish words that me no speak. But the message was clear, and I bagged a giant, chunky knit before preparing to leave.
“No no no…” she motioned for me to wait, went into her back room, and came out with a handful of toffees as she stuffed them into my palm.
I wanted to hug her like she was my nana.
But soon enough, the sleepiness of Mijas evaporated as the tour groups descended upon the place. We were rubbing shoulders with tour guides waving flags, people wearing baseball caps as fashion statement (WHY?!), and vendors shouting “Japan! Japan!” at me, as actual Japanese tourists climbed onto the “donkey taxis”, a speciality (read: tourist trap) of the town.
And so it was time to leave with my new cardigan.
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