Day 7: mijas: sun down below, wind up top, and leather that survives everything

When I returned home to our traveling house, my dad greeted me with some "good news."

You know the kind — the kind delivered with the face of a man who knows chaos is about to unfold.

There's a storm forecast for tomorrow.

And so… we're moving to Africa.

Well, Africa was a joke.

The storm, however, was not. Even my weather app was deadly serious, completely humorless. But the weather was supposed to turn dramatic only in the early afternoon, which meant the morning was still "usable." And wherever the weather is usable, I'm already in my sneakers.

So I made a plan for the next day: a walk to Mijas. A small white hilltop town with sea views and a reputation for wind that does not ask for permission. It's just under 14 kilometers from our place — just far enough to feel accomplished and just short enough to later complain that it was "kind of tough."

My mom immediately volunteered to join me. My dad heroically decided to take a rest day. Every expedition needs logistics, supervision, and constant monitoring of weather apps.

That day we had paella for lunch — Slovenian style. Which means hearty, honest, and without pretending we were in Valencia. We ended the day with cards. And would you believe it — my day. I won. Mom came second. Dad… well, someone has to be last. Small victories matter. We went to bed early, tired, satisfied, and convinced that another "calm" adventure awaited us.

In the morning, my mom and I set off at 9:00 a.m., while the sun was still shining. Real sun. The kind that tricks you into believing the day will be warm, friendly, and wind-free. Mentally, everything was sunny — in our heads, our legs, our mood. We dressed more for a seaside stroll than a mountain hike.

The path from Benalmádena toward Mijas starts out kindly — asphalt, views, a comforting sense of control. Our steps flowed. So did our thoughts.

The higher we climbed, the less sea there was and the more hill. And then — Mijas. A white town glued to the hillside, as if someone had said, "This will be beautiful. Wind or not."

And of course — it was windy.

Up top, the weather stopped pretending. The wind showed its teeth, the sun stepped aside, and Mijas switched to serious mode. Narrow streets, white houses, views that make you forget the wind… at least for a moment.

Mijas isn't just a postcard. Mijas also has leather. And not the "cute-for-photos" kind, but real, honest Andalusian leather. Little shops and workshops everywhere — bags, belts, sandals, wallets. Everything looks like it could survive a fall, strong winds, the Camino, and a few questionable life choices. This is leather that doesn't promise beauty — it promises endurance. And honestly, I like that. Though it wouldn't hurt if it occasionally met a good designer.

The streets smell of coffee, leather, and tourists staring upward instead of where they're walking. Understandable. We almost walked into a wall ourselves more than once because we were too busy admiring cliffs, views, and houses instead of the path beneath our feet.

Mijas is the kind of place that makes you realize life isn't all about the weather. Some of it is the view. Some of it is the wind. And some of it is simply walking up there on your own two feet and saying, "Well, here we are."

And even if the weather up top isn't kind, at least you've earned a coffee, a beer, or dessert.

On the way back down, I started wondering what awaited me at home. A new forecast? Another relocation? Another "good news" announcement?

Not yet. Africa can wait.

Mijas remains — a bit windy, a bit stubborn, completely itself.

And if it has to blow — let it blow at the top.

Since we were already half frozen, we practically ran downhill to warm up. Running also magically stitches kilometers together faster. Plus, we had another clear mission: get home before the storm. Of course, that didn't happen without a mandatory stop at Lidl, because that's where my dad's favorite coffee is sold. Let's ignore the fact that he could have walked there himself — it's only 2.5 kilometers one way. But since we women are gatherers, we handled it. Multitasking, obviously.

The final two kilometers home felt biblical. The sky turned black like my soul on Mondays, the wind grew stronger, and the atmosphere hovered somewhere between apocalypse and opening scene of a disaster movie. And right before we got home — it poured. Of course. Drama requires a proper ending.

We were proud. Plan accomplished. I was especially proud of my mom — it had been a long time since her last long hike. We returned home pleasantly exhausted and, instead of lunch, ate croissants. Not because we wanted to — but because there was zero energy left to put anything else on a plate.

The rain intensified, so we shuffled the cards again. This time, I lost badly. Life irony. A few days earlier, my mom admitted she doesn't even like playing cards, even though we seriously abused that activity during my childhood. Anything to keep kids happy and quiet. And once again — she sacrificed herself.

At 6:30 p.m., I suggested we all retreat to our own beds. One must rest — the next day promised a full day of rain, and you need energy for the next round of resting.

Before going horizontal, I stepped outside for one of my bad habits — a cigarette — and to take out the trash. The wind was so strong I briefly feared I might get blown away. During those few hundred meters to the dumpster, I seriously considered quitting smoking. Not for my health. But because in weather like this, the cigarette simply isn't worth it.

At 9:00 p.m., just as I'd put my phone away and prepared for the world of dreams, a loud sms alert woke us: chaotic weather, everyone should stay safe. My dad packed away the satellite, as the wind was tossing us around like LEGO bricks.

Me? Completely unbothered. Wind, rain, warnings — nothing disturbed my sleep.

Which can only mean one thing:

I need to move to Spain. 🌬️🌧️🇪🇸