Part 2: To the Unexpected Meetings
Better read with a glass of vermouth and the buzz of a Spanish bar in the background.
After a long day wandering the streets of Málaga, I decided to follow Viktor’s advice — my thoughtful host. I was starving, so I opened our messages to check his restaurant recommendations. The first on the list was “Casa Lola.” That was all I needed.
I pulled it up on Google Maps. Just a 9-minute walk. Perfect, i said and turn around to follow the right root.
Soon, I found myself outside a buzzing restaurant packed with people. Hunger made the decision for me: I’d stay. I politely asked for a table for one, only to be met with a sharp response:
“There’s a line.”
I hadn’t seen the line. It stretched down the street. I quickly stepped back, a little embarrassed. Just as I was about to walk away, a waiter waved me over to the bar.
As a solo traveler, I’m used to bar seating. Usually, I’m offered a table first, but more often than not, I choose the bar, just for the company. So no hard feelings — it was a busy place.
I was seated next to a lively group of three women, all laughing and chatting in that easy way that makes you want to lean in and join. Ten minutes passed. I still hadn’t ordered. My glass of wine was already almost empty, just from the awkwardness of waiting and trying to get noticed. Waiters buzzed around, leaving empty glasses next to me and telling me to “wait for your waitress”, except no waitress ever came. The bartender was overwhelmed, so i didn´t even bother her with my order.
Then the woman next to me smiled and said:
“You have to be loud and a little rude to get served here. Otherwise, you’ll be waiting for hours. Trust me.”
Her words — combined with my hunger and slightly tipsy head — gave me the courage to speak up and call out my order. And just like that, it worked. Suddenly, i was heard and my order was placed.
We started talking. She told me a local gave her the same advice earlier, and she’d already used it to ask for the check. As we chatted, I learned that the three of them had just met that very night — strangers seated together by the same waiter at the bar. Solo travelers. One from Geneva, one a Syrian woman living in Germany, and one a Japanese woman from Finland. Some were backpacking, others just on a weekend trip. All of them over 30. All of them, like me, traveling solo.
As they finished their meal, they invited me to join them later at La Tranca for drinks. My food still hadn’t arrived, so I thanked them and promised to meet them after dinner. No numbers exchanged. No Instagram handles. Just that beautiful feeling that we’d meet again.
And then — dinner arrived.
A dish… then another… and another.
Every single bite hit my spirit and stomach with awe.
I couldn’t believe food could taste this good. I was torn. Do I rush through this once-in-a-lifetime meal to chase new adventures? Or do I sit here, just me and this divine dinner, and savor it?
I chose the latter. The food was simply too good to rush.
Soon, a man sat next to me — another solo tourist, just as confused as I was earlier. I passed on the same advice I’d received, and he placed his order, smiling gratefully. We clicked our glasses and wished each other safe travels.
That’s how people care for one another, I thought.
Sometimes, knowledge passes quietly, mouth to mouth — like recipes, like gossip, like sacred warnings in a foreign land.
By the end of the meal, I was in another world.
How could a piece of bread be so satisfying?
And yet, here I was, in a small Spanish city, being proven delightfully wrong.
The pinchos, the tapas, the salads — they became the highlight of my trip. Truly, there’s nowhere else I’ve been where food tasted this honest, this joyful. (Prove me wrong — please, I need more food like this!)
I walked out of Casa Lola and headed toward La Tranca, feeling like a new person. My lips had touched the sky, and I couldn’t ask for more.
I wasn’t expecting much. Honestly, I imagined a mediocre bar with bad music and watered-down drinks. But when the mood is set — and the heart is open — it’s always better to drink with company.
And I was so, so right.
As soon as I arrived, someone called out, “Hey, nice earrings!” in English. I guess I didn’t look Spanish enough. I laughed and kept walking confidently into the packed bar, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
Behind the bar were the most beautiful — and forgive me for assuming — masc woman I’d ever seen. Was it the Spanish sun making everything extra golden? Or was it just that I’d expected nothing and been met with magic?
I couldn’t reach the girls because of the crowd, but somehow, I felt welcomed. They saw me, smiled, and passed me a drink they’d already ordered on my behalf. I couldn’t hear much, but I caught one of them saying, “I can’t believe she actually showed up!”
Neither could I.
But I was happy to be there. And they were happy to see me.
What a simple, beautiful moment of humanity: four strangers in a foreign country, happy to share time and space.
Even though I was separated from them, I ended up sitting next to an incredible couple.
She was Irish. He was English. They danced, laughed, spoke to everyone. During the pandemic, their neighbors had been Greek, and they used to host dinners together.
“You people,” she said, laughing, “you’re just like us.”
And something about that stayed with me.
It reminded me of Ireland — of how familiar everything had felt when I visited. Not because I belonged there, but because people made space for you as if you did.
Conversations weren’t rushed.
Smiles weren’t polite — they were real.
And standing there in Málaga, I realised something:
Home isn’t always a place.
Sometimes, it’s a way people meet you.
Later, I learned he had suffered a stroke that left him partially paralyzed.
And still — he danced.
He laughed. He drank. He lived.
“I love this man,” she said. “And I love that we still dance.”
Outside, we squeezed into the only place you’re allowed to smoke — a narrow line between the bar and the sidewalk. One step too far, and you risk a €100 fine.
Packed into that invisible boundary, we smoked and exchanged our stories.
Some were traveling after heartbreak.
Some after burnout.
Some simply because they could.
We were soon joined by two men: a Swiss-Italian former banker who had quit everything to start over in Málaga, and an Italian journalist who didn’t speak English.
And yet — we spoke.
With a few Italian words, a lot of attitude, and cheap wine giving me confidence, I started a conversation with him.
Somehow, it worked.
To this day, he remains one of my favourite encounters.
We still exchange messages — but not really messages.
They feel like letters.
Dear Cristy,
The weather in Napoli reminded me of you…
And I reply the same way.
As if we belong to another time —
where words were slower, and meant more.
I’ve been lucky in life. I’ve met people who still believe in the art of writing to someone, not just texting them.
And in Málaga, I found another one.
The night unfolded in fragments of dancing, laughter, strangers becoming familiar.
And for once, nothing felt blurry.
Even with one drink too many.
Some nights, I guess, are worth remembering.
The following days, I spent most of my time with the Italian journalist. We didn’t share a language, but we shared something else — curiosity, humour, presence.
I wanted to get a tattoo to remember Málaga.
The stars didn’t allow it.
I got it later, back in Bremen.
And maybe that was right.
Because what I left with wasn’t something you could ink.
My trip ended sooner than I expected, but I left richer than I had planned.
Not because I changed —
but because I met people who felt like mirrors.
A little lost.
A little curious.
A little broken.
But mostly?
People who loved life.
And this is what I take with me from Málaga:
No matter where you go,
no matter what you do,
you will find your people.
Bon viveurs of the world — unite.
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