A word picture

Mountains upon mountains, like the endless cutlery of shark's teeth, without the whole terrifying quality. Málaga lays in a hollow among them, Lego buildings piling up, with the unseen people walking around the yarn-sized streets.

Somewhere behind is our porch on the edge of the mountain is the Mediterranean Sea, but is obscured by so many hills and shrubs and olive trees that we can't see it, at least without having to actually get up from our comfortable chairs and view so open that Merav suggests we imagine we're looking at the ocean.

Of neighbors, we have one nearby: the one next to our rental house, and they share the responsibilities of readying the place for holiday travelers, a house you can see clearly from the city of Málaga. The rest of the neighbors are like Meteora (my favorite spot in Greece), looking out at the surrounding cliff monasteries. Suffice to say, the quickest way to get there would be to shoot a grappling hook, tie it off, and prepare a zip line, which I can do because I was a high ropes instructor at Camp Leesburg. I would do this, you know, if we weren't so comfortable in our chairs, and if the little Jack Russell didn't seem to be framed by the entirety of Spain, laying so comfortably on the wall where a zip liner would otherwise stand.