By Mstyslav Chernov (Self-photographed [CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons
My eyes follow my heart as it rises with the choir’s song toward the vaulted ceiling where stained glass windows tell stories from the Bible. I almost feel more than see the undulation of hundreds of hand-held fans, swaying like anemones in the ocean’s current.
The church is filled with the scents of floral perfumes and clove-like incense.
The emotion of the room is heady. So much prayer has been said here. And today, the patrons celebrate an annual festival in honor of Malaga’s patron saint — La Fiesta de la Virgen de la Victoria — The Festival of the Virgin of Victory (one of Mary’s, the mother of Jesus, many representations).
After the service, everyone gathers outside, jostling for the perfect position from which to view the dancers. The air is filled with the roar of dozens of conversations, rolling through the crowd like ocean waves. An occasional burst of laughter punctuates the sound.
The dancers come, dressed in bold and bright colors — fuchsia, turquoise, red, blue, green. Each group has its own costume and arrives in order of age, youngest first. The first group is composed of children, probably ranging in age from 5 to 8. Their teacher flits from place to place. He wears a turquoise outfit with a white sash about his waist. He primps this child, advises another.
One little girl caught my attention. The expression on her face vacillated between concentration and confusion. The group would twirl right and she would twirl left. Her hair was up in the traditional tight bun and a single red flower clung to her hair above her right ear.
Then came the pre-teens, the teenagers and finally the adults. The final group wore traditional Spanish flamenco dresses with tall mantillas atop their heads.
After the dancing, my mother and I left to stroll the avenida and stopped for some tapas at Restaurante el Chinitas. The rumble of drums and other musical instruments followed us there, echoing in the small alleys between shops and restaurants. A loan guitarist played outside the restaurant for the patrons seated there, his back to an ornately decorated wooden door (a left over from the Moors).
For me, this day Malaga was all that Spain was supposed to be. It was alive with music, laughter and devotion. That night, I watched the news which focused on the procession of the Virgin. Her statue, seated with honor upon a silver covered throne, was paraded about town for all to see and rejoice in life well-lived.
Next Installment: Estepona
