An Essayby Richard Smith
My wife and I are sitting at a sunburned metal table putting away a couple of cold ones, in a square in Malaga, Spain, across from the bull ring. The jacarandas are in furious bloom, ten purple blossoms for each leaf. The restaurant help, like almost everyone else in this cruise-ship port, are downcast and not to be messed with. We have had success elsewhere in jollying with the locals, but not here. True, their economy has recently had its life support unplugged by a Euro Zone death panel led by Germany and Angela Merkel, but I can’t think when Spain was ever a happy-go-lucky place: The Spanish Inquisition? The Spanish Armada? The Spanish Revolution? Francisco Franco? The stimulus they need here may not be solely the financial kind.