Day 8: when the storm leaves, the promenade comes back to life, and dad still refuses to buy new sneakers
Last night, just before falling asleep, I quietly hoped that the wind—raging through Benalmádena like an enraged Spanish bull—would finish the job it had started: scatter the dark clouds, shuffle the sky a bit, and then politely move on. You know, cause chaos, leave evidence behind, and disappear. Like any proper storm with a sense of drama.
And, would you believe it—it actually did.
In the morning, I went outside on a little reconnaissance mission. First things first: check the damage and, more importantly, figure out what plans the weather had for us today. On the ground—fallen branches and leaves everywhere. In the sky—new hope. Sun. Real sun. Reserved, but sincere. The kind that comes out after a storm and pretends it didn't see anything the night before.
Just to be safe, I opened the weather app so I wouldn't get my hopes up too soon. And surprise—nothing but friendly icons. Little suns, harmless clouds, no lightning, no apocalyptic warnings. Half an hour earlier, I'd been lying in bed wondering whether it was even worth getting up. Now I was wondering how we were going to spend such a beautiful day. First-world problems at their finest.
Over breakfast, we decided to go for a walk all the way to the end of the promenade. No ambitions, no records, just a clear goal: coffee, shops, and people-watching. Mom and I had one additional mission—to finally convince Dad to buy new sneakers.
His current ones have officially entered the historical phase. The material no longer performs, the sole has more memories than grip, but he refuses to let go. Two days earlier, Mom and I had already found the perfect pair for him. He only had to try them on. Just that. One small step for a man, one giant leap for his feet. But no. Today, he wasn't in the mood for the fashion runway.
The man owns about a hundred high-quality sports outfits. Every morning, he has an identity crisis in front of the wardrobe because he "has nothing to wear." Sneakers, though? Two pairs. Both from a year no one remembers anymore. I don't understand this emotional attachment to worn-out things—choosing discomfort over giving something new a chance. I'm hoping that by Friday, his day will come. The promenade runway is still waiting.
As we walked along the promenade, we could clearly see what the storm had left behind. The sea was brown, the beach covered in branches and debris, and one palm tree was lying flat on the ground—a reminder that nature always has the final word. The storm had been so strong that planes heading for Málaga were diverted to Madrid. Which means we were lucky to be on the ground and not in the air. Perspective matters.
Despite everything, the promenade was already alive again. Full of people, street vendors spreading out their clothes, beach handball and volleyball games in full swing—life had returned as if nothing had happened the day before. Cities always recover from storms faster than people do.
We, on the other hand, were dressed for the mountains, not for a seaside walk. Which quickly turned out to be a mistake. We got hot fast—but we didn't complain. We were simply too happy not to be stuck inside the campervan, listening to the wind mess with our nerves.
The day was calm. No excess. No drama. On the way home, I bought myself a few new pieces of sportswear. I'm hoping they'll give me an extra boost once I'm back in Slovenia. Sometimes, nice clothes are the best motivator. Not discipline. Not character. A good outfit.
When we got back to the campervan, I decided to keep walking a bit until lunch. A beautiful day should never be wasted. I returned just in time—lunch was ready. Since I walk fast, I also eat fast. I have always been, and always will be, the first one to clear my plate.
Today, I didn't even ask Mom if I could do the dishes—I already knew the answer. I just got to work. Let the lady rest a little. Then I made coffee. Mom treated herself to a short but well-deserved siesta, while I caught up on writing the blog. Productivity, vacation-style.
Later, Dad and I played cards. Two-player card games are fast and intense. A few dramatic turnarounds, some quiet grumbling—but in the end, I managed to win. Which officially made the day a success.
We're expecting nice weather until Friday. Tomorrow, I'm going on a longer hike. My parents are going cycling. Well—Mom for sure. Dad says he still needs to see what kind of mood he's in when he wakes up.
Which is fair. Even the weather needs the morning to decide.
