We tried to make lemonade from lemons while awaiting flight home Sunday. Spain was shut down, but our travel agent had been alerted. She could not get us a flight the next day, so we had an extra day in Malaga–and a guide willing to show us around an empty city.
After all, we were in Malaga, a city with Roman ruins, a vibrant seaport, and a huge cathedral built on the ruins of a mosque. The Catholic monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, captured the city in the 1480s, just before Grenada’s fall completed the Reconquista. We also visited a small town nearby, (note the burro taxi) where our guide got us into a museum featuring Picasso ceramics. Picasso was born here.
The city was eerie. The guide said only foreigners were on the streets.
Our flight was the next day, full of Americans fleeing the unknown into the unknown. O’Hare was a madhouse, although better the second day than the first, as the President was closing the borders. There was no priority given to wheelchairs, so Carolyn and I stood in line with everyone else. Wondering…who had it? Who were they going to give it to? Like everyone else, we thought it might last a few weeks. The plunge lasted almost four years, and it’s not over. But it was our last international trip.