Peter’s family arrived in the early hours of the morning after a late-night arrival at Malaga airport. I went to bed early and then woke around 2pm to find Peter sitting up to wait for them. I sat with him until we finally heard them in the plazuela outside. I dragged suitcases in and up the stairs, allowed Munson to introduce himself and then went back to bed.
We finally located some free wifi in town, but you have to stand on the right street-corner. I brought down Peter’s son-in-law and some of the grandkids to show them where to find it. His granddaughter has a teen romance to maintain online this month, and the boys need to know the wind-speeds at Tarifa this week so they can plan their windsurfing days. Munson hovers around my knees as I check email and a few details for our itinerary in coming days. Some of the kids he’s met this week pass by with their elders, and it’s plain that they’ve heard lots of Munson stories already. I wonder how long this memory will last – there are definitely a lot of camera photos taken of him by youngsters, but I don’t have a sense of how long they keep these photos. Over the years I’ve been accosted by people who have old photos of Bondi still on their phones.
These weekend evenings have been quite noisy in town, partly fuelled by a few wedding processions. They’re not exactly the best streets for any sort of motor traffic, and since drivers often leave their vehicles blocking the street, the potential for a long blockade is quickly met. I’d hate to be in the back of an ambulance waiting to get through here. The narrow streets may be ancient but you still see young men driving too fast in cars little narrower than the streets they circled, radios (all tuned to the same station) amplified and channelled by the whitewashed walls.