Malaga has the art of living

THE CITY air smells like incense. Stall owners prepare for the crowds, turning on the water sprinklers over fresh coconut pieces, and arranging tubs of sweet marshmallow, giant lollipops, plastic horns, drums and cold drinks.

A few men in red robes stride through the street, holding their conical hats under their arms, as rows of spectators with plastic bags of sandwiches and drinks secure the best viewing spots along the walls of the dry river bed.

Semana Santa (Holy Week) has begun and Malaga is heaving. Antonio Banderas was here last night, standing one floor above us, high up on a balcony in Larios street, applauding the spectacle below. By midnight tonight, tens of thousands of hooded penitents wearing robes of red, blue, green, purple or white will have walked through the city streets. Carrying huge gold pedestals topped with scenes from the bible (there’s Jesus carrying the cross, and the Virgin Mary in a red and gold bower surrounded by hundreds of lit candles and flowers), some penitents wear the uniform while others follow the floats walking barefoot or wearing blindfolds to offer up their pilgrimage in prayer. By morning, the rubbish is gone, hundreds of streetside chairs are stacked up against the walls (many locals own the chairs, paying an annual tithe of €70 for ringside seats), and the smooth polished streets are covered in small, hardened drops of wax from thousands of candles. Locals eat churros in Plaza de las Flores, dipping the deep fried dough into cups of thick chocolate and read the paper in the morning sun. In a little square beside the 16th century cathedral, an elderly man does his crossword and two Spanish ladies sit awhile and chat and read their books.