Listen, reader: don’t ever leave your coach seat on a train from London to Manchester and try to sneak into First Class, okay? You’ll forget your phone in your original seat, and by the time you get back, it will have been swiped. And the hundreds of pictures you took on vacation will vanish like a fart in the wind and you’ll have to use your boyfriend’s crappy (jk, they’re beautiful baby!!) photos to make a blog post.

So, here we are. This year we spun the airplane destiny wheel and fate handed us a round trip to London. From there, we caught a flight to Malaga, Spain. All I knew about the city was that it had sand and tapas and wine and probably some historic stuff too. I was not disappointed – in fact, the worst part was that we didn’t have a few more days (or weeks!) to wander the city, exploring every boardwalk or cobblestone beach or hidden gem of a restaurant.

Malaga has a very laid back vibe. It’s the perfect place to go if you feel like walking up and down gorgeous old streets, drinking cold white wine, looking at a shit ton of Picasso paintings and pictures, and lounging on a beach. Our first day, walking off jetlag and the gallon of wine I drank at a wedding the night before we left Missouri, we wandered around the city, looking for a bull fighting ring Shawn had heard about. We couldn’t get inside, but we could get this pretty dumb photo of me.

We headed to lunch at a place across from the beach and had salty tomatoes with prosciutto and fried fish. Another lesson learned on this trip: whitebait is code for tiny fishies. Also, it might say “boneless” but that’s kind of up to interpretation. Popping their salty little bodies in my mouth took some getting used to – the fish I’m used to are normally in “stick” form – but once I got over the initial ick factor, I kind of liked them and could see why they’re a local snack of choice.

We acquainted ourselves with the city in the best way we know how: FREE WALKING TOUR. This guy was – like they all are – amazing. Over the course of three hours we wandered up and down the hills of Malaga, traipsing up the Alcazaba as our guide told us the Moorish history of the city. We paused outside of Picasso’s school (which he friggin hated). We saw Antonio Banderas’s apartment! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, walking tours are always one of the best parts of any vacation. Viva le feet!

We watched France clinch their spot in the World Cup finals over Belgium in an Irish bar. The only spots in the packed place were in the very back, two stools shoved near the bathroom and a line of hookah machines. It was a great place to watch the match, with whiskey and ginger ale served in a giant wine glass, very cheap, kind of weird pizza, and plenty of French and Belgian fans to keep it interesting.

After the French won we decided to go and rustle up a little more grub. On the patio of a tapas bar we watched as giddy French fans paraded up and down the streets, screaming and cheering and singing. It made me wish the ole U.S. of A had made it to the World Cup. Either that or I was French.

Throughout the trip we ate a ton of delicious, beautiful tapas. Alas, all I have pictures of are these two, including one with Shawn’s weird thumb in it for scale. Nevertheless, you were delicious, Malaga.

After a few days in beautiful Malaga we packed up and headed west to Tarifa. First, however, we had a very big rock to see.