So this is Marbella

On retrospect, I will view my time in Spain as Godsend. Exhaustion sets in from crazy work hours assisting in the divestiture of businesses for a company I will not name (for fear of being attacked). Top that off with the death of my grandfather at the ripe age of 102, I was beat! So a week in the Costa Del Sol was a welcome diversion.

Marbella, south of Spain. Oddly fascinating juxtaposition of cultures, languages and personalities. My hostess for the trip is Cecilia, a statuesque Swede with white blond hair and a glorious pink-gold tan. She's magnificent and adorable by turns. She lives in the highest building perched on the highest point in Marbella. She finds space in her minuscule but sophisticated apartment to accommodate not one but two finicky females. There's three of us, the Tres Amigas; the athletic Swede Cecilia, Julie an exotic Asian/Swede and me - Indian but taken for everything from Brazilian to Moroccan.

Situated on the east coast of Spain, Marbellan weather is reminiscent of the Bay Area. Smokey, sultry, chilly mornings that the stinging sun burns away by noon. Though watery at times the sun doesn't forget it's atomic origins and singes skin, hair and unprotected toes in its path. Days are spent sunning at the beach, on the terrace, at the Puento Romano resort that's hosting the Andalucia Women's Tennis Invitational. Red clay courts (my favorite!), talented girls slugging it out amidst polite applause. The one day we miss Serena Williams gets eliminated in the first round.

Day trips are a must and we visit Gibraltar, hugely amused by the Apes, the size of small dogs, hair bleached blond by the sun. Sweet, sorrowful faces as wrinkled as a 90 year-old's. They eat fruits and vegetables and invite themselves into cars, on your shoulders and head. They find Cecilia's hair fascinating. The feeling is not reciprocated. While fascinating from a historical perspective Gibraltar today has a dingy overcrowded vibe, packed with Brits, North Africans and Spaniards. While the view of Morocco over the strait is stunning, the coastline has declined into an industrial glut of tankers and cranes. Apparently The Rock is not adequate to house all the eager inhabitants therefore land is being manufactured on the ocean, a la Dubai. It's a shame really, for such an ancient harbor to be overwhelmed by industry, not it's historical significance.

While Gibraltar is the bottom-most tip of Europe, Mijas is further north easterly. The drive offers unparallelled views of the Mediterranean, reminding me of the Amalfi Coast, my favorite place on earth. Perhaps due to the promixity to Good Friday that we see not one but 6 aerial crosses in the sky. Ethereal trails lefts by planes that transform heaven into a cathedral.

The roundabouts - rondels - instead of traffic lights in Fuengirola. Each a spectacular display of gardening delight. Red, orange, lavender Bougainvillea. Symphonies of geraniums, Banzai trees, and eerily lifelike sculptures of elephants at the Holiday Inn mage resort.

Each restaurant or cafe is cuter than the next. We're starving but when we stop for a bite we're informed it's siesta time till 7:00. Three ravenous girls can NOT wait till 7:00 so we pacify our hunger with cheese, olives, bread and wine. A friendly little dog we dub Mr. Happy trots by and politely asks for a snack. Indeed he gets one. The shopping can't be beat. Jewelry, tchachkis, souvenirs, clothing. Oh my!

In the midst of the charming towns we come across a Tibetan temple. Even more fascinating is the Good Friday montage playing out the crucifixion of Christ on the hillside next to the temple. The bone white temple is modern yet pure with spirituality. I am moved to tears, sensing the dieties that blessed this temple. We purchase momentos from an outgoing clerk with piercing blue eyes that somehow manages to steal a kiss from each of us. The sound of Tibetan chanting is our soundtrack as we traverse from town to town.

Each day we return home exhausted, dusty and happy. We sip wine, have a Nat Sherman as we dress for dinner. Birds sing till nightfall, which is 9:00 pm in this part of the world. Once the birds fall silent, the dogs take up the symphony, yapping and chattering from dusk till the wee hours. And as we get closer to sleep a few dogs relent to the night and howl their sorrows as only a dog can.