Málaga has filled up with museums with touching enthusiasm. There is a museum of art, of more art, of contemporary art, of art we don’t yet know is art and, I suspect, some museum dedicated to opening museums. The cultured city par excellence. A marvel. A source of pride.
The only missing museum is the MUSEUM OF PARKING, that institution which would display, behind glass, that mythical and lost thing: a free space in the centre on a Saturday afternoon. Visitors would queue to gaze at it, moved, and grandparents would tell their grandchildren: “I once parked like that, my child, with these very hands.”
Because finding a spot in Málaga has become a pilgrimage. You circle the block like a planet in orbit, calculating odds, stalking any pedestrian with keys in hand like a famished predator, only to discover they were heading to the pharmacy and are walking home.
And when you finally find a gap, it is one of those on a slope, with the line half worn away, where you can’t tell whether you’re parking or committing an interpretive offence. But never mind. You leave it there, lock the car, breathe deeply and go to see a museum. Any one. After all, for that there is room.
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