Part I: On Feminism, Food, and Unexpected Friendships
Better read while listening to «Queen of Peace» by Florence and the Machine.
For my first solo trip in 2026, I chose southern Spain, the historic city of Málaga. The birthplace of Pablo Picasso, and the backdrop of some of my favourite writers’ stories.
I arrived from the cold North on a Saturday afternoon. I left behind a snowstorm, looking forward to letting myself enjoy the Spanish sun. I arrived at my room just after 20:00. The room was a loft in the centre of the city. Small, but enough for one person. As soon as I entered, I felt relaxed. “Finally, I’m in Spain,” I said to myself out loud.
The last two months had been exhausting at work, so I decided to stay in that first night and enjoy a glass of wine instead of roaming the streets of this new (to me) city.
The guilt crept in immediately. “You’re only here for three days.” “You should go out and explore.” “Don’t waste your time inside.”
But I decided to listen to my body. I took a long, warm shower. Poured myself a glass of Spanish wine. Put on some music. Picked up my book, the one I’d been trying to finish for weeks. It had less than 100 pages left, but something about it had been frustrating me.
It was about Simone de Beauvoir’s relationship with Nelson Algren, an American writer. At one point, he, projecting his own insecurities, broke Simone’s heart.
And in moments like that, feminism can feel like armour, a shield we wear against vulnerability, heartbreak, men. That chapter triggered some unhealed version of myself.
How dare he break Simone de Beauvoir’s heart? How could she, of all people, let herself be hurt like that by some American guy?
I was going through it myself. Reading about my icon’s heartbreak felt like a betrayal. If even Simone wasn’t immune to heartbreak, what chance did the rest of us have?
Still, I pushed through the discomfort. I picked up the book and read. (Sometimes OCD can be helpful, especially when it comes to finishing things.)
The book restored my faith in Simone — whom I love so much, I named my car after her. But more importantly, it reminded me of something I needed to hear: Feminism has never been about avoiding heartbreak. Love has never been about equality. And pain? It doesn’t care about ideologies.
When it comes to the heart, we are all equal in our tenderness.
The next morning, I took my time.
I slept in — deeply, peacefully — until noon. Back in Bremen, my schedule is so packed I barely sleep more than six hours a night. My therapist once reminded me that the body, especially a woman’s body, needs rest. Not just sleep, but real rest. Eight hours, minimum. So I promised myself I’d slow down and honour my body during this trip.
My slow morning led me to the city centre, where I sat under the sun with a delicious plate of food, a big cup of coffee, and the last few pages of my book. It was a lovely Sunday morning. People took their time; no one was in a rush. The sun shone brightly, despite the warnings on my phone that it would rain during all three days of my stay in Andalusia. I had faith before I left Bremen that the sun would shine — and I was not wrong.
Suddenly, my Airbnb host Viktor, a lovely guy, texted to ask if I needed anything. I replied asking for recommendations on where to eat and what to see.
Within minutes, I had a long list of local pubs, restaurants, and must-visit spots. God bless people like Viktor.
I always try to avoid tourist traps, and nothing beats a local’s advice when it comes to discovering the soul of a place. What’s the point of visiting a city if you don’t witness how the locals live? I want to see the dirty pubs. I want to enjoy a family-owned restaurant that keeps their grandmother’s recipes. I want to hear about the struggles of everyday life.
That’s why, besides a few basic things I always check off (like museums), I never make strict plans. I walk. I listen. I leave myself completely free from expectation.
It’s a way of traveling I learned from an ex-partner, a writer always chasing a good story. It’s a habit I picked up and never let go. And to this day, I still meet poets, writers, and strangers with incredible stories on these walks. Shout out to S. for the best travel advice he ever gave me.
I used to be a planning freak. A tight schedule gave me safety. But the fear of missing out ruined a lot of trips. Not anymore. Now, I focus on being present, on feeling, truly feeling, “I’m in the right place at the right time.”
As I wandered the streets, a sudden rainstorm rolled in. I ducked into the first restaurant I saw. And thank Gods I did, it was the best decision I made.
I ordered a main dish, a salad, and a glass of wine. And every bite? Heaven. Honestly, I’d return to Málaga just for the food.
When the rain stopped, I asked for the bill, expecting something outrageous. Instead, it was under €20. And then, a final surprise: the waiter brought over a free glass of vermouth “for digestion.”
Oh my days, I thought. Viva la España.
I downed the vermouth with a smile and hit the streets again, ready for more adventures.
Next stop: the Picasso Museum.
Three hours passed like a dream. Room after room, I wandered through his world, sketches, paintings, ceramics. Early works. Late works. It’s one thing to know Picasso by name, it’s another to witness the sheer volume of his creativity.
I left the museum in awe. Not just of his genius, but his discipline. His range. His constant evolution.
As I stepped back onto the streets of Málaga, I let myself wander again. The city’s architecture began to whisper. Small alleyways, intricate tiles, arabesque arches. I could feel the layered history in every corner.
The Arabic influence is impossible to miss. It’s in the curves of the buildings, the warmth of the colours, the elegance of the details. Despite what many assume, the Moorish presence in Iberia wasn’t only conquest. It marked a time of religious tolerance, intellectual flourishing, and architectural beauty.
In fact, it was during this era that philosophy, science, medicine, and the arts experienced a renaissance that helped shape modern Europe.
Walking through those narrow streets, I felt like I was tracing the outlines of that forgotten history with my feet.
Of course, capitalism has left its mark here too. Some parts of the city clearly cater to tourism. But somehow, the gods spared Málaga. The soul of the city still lingers. And I listened.
But perhaps the most important realisation came as I turned a corner and stopped to take it all in:
I am the first woman in my family line to travel alone not for marriage, but for my own mind.
My great-grandmother once left for Istanbul to attend university. The others, my mother, aunts, grandmothers, only travelled to be married to strangers.
I walk the same earth they did, but for a different reason. I walk to learn. To unlearn. To discover. I walk because I can. Because they couldn’t.
So with every step I took in Málaga, under the Andalusian sun, past the traces of history, I wasn’t just seeing a city.
I was walking through time, reclaiming it for all the women in my bloodline who couldn’t.
Part II coming soon, on strangers, poetry, and the things we never plan for.
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