A day on the Balcon

By Drew Launay

Nerja’s Balcony of Europe was built on a promontory of rocks in 1885 and given its name by King Alfonso XII whose bronze statue stands on the Eastern side at the far end, his back to the sea, to make sure that everyone is on their best behaviour, wearing decent clothes and not squashing used chewing gum in between the cobblestones with their flip flops.
The Balcon, Andalucia’s answer to Brighton Pier but a lot prettier, is the ideal place to watch the world and his wife go by. It´’s a theatre of life from dawn till dusk, and one can spend the whole day at a café table just contemplating what we humans are about.

The morning performers
The performance starts early in the morning when the sea air is fresh and the yellow sun is shining in the East directly onto the auditorium. First on stage are the Ayuntamiento cleaners in bright orange day glow suits, brooms, shovels and mobile bins at the ready. They sweep all the debris left behind the night before, and once or twice a week are joined by the watermen in blue suits who douse every inch of the place with powerful jets of water as expertly as any fireman would a forest conflagration.
Next on stage come the sleepy waiters in crisp starched white shirts and well pressed black trousers, busy putting out their table cloths and thrusting open the parasols while a muttering woman busily sweeps away cigarette butts and discarded bills from under the useless feet of the first comedian, an unshaven, weary individual who sips a strong black coffee in the hope of reviving himself for the strenuous day ahead on the beach.
Roundabout nine the newly arrived holiday makers, pale, but bright eyed, all sincerely believing that they are the first ever to discover the panorama of mountains and sea are watched by the sad, envious, bronzed tourists outside the Balcon Hotel who sit by their packed suitcases awaiting the taxi which will take them to the airport and home to the rain.
The unshaven comedian tries to get up, realizes he is not well enough, so sits down again to have another black coffee.
Midday and the scene changes. The business-men have come to meet and discuss matters of import. Real estate agents by the dozen with their briefcases and documents and folders, their clients, Spanish dictionaries at the ready sip summer wines as a police car skids to a halt, shadowy figures scamper away and the estate agents deny vehemently that there is a drug problem in town.

Afternoon arrives
On the stroke of twelve thirty, at the Marisal, the local foreign residents, lightly tanned, sun hatted and dressed for the tropics, sit to partake of their first gin and tonics, greeting each other amiably but instantly exchanging gossip about one or the other as soon as a back is turned.
Gazpacho, calamares, sangria is served and consumed at nearly every café table in sight, then at two o’clock first of the human lobsters come shuffling up from the beach. Shining with sun lotion, a mountain of sand between each toe, the men shirtless and breathless, the women concerned that their swimsuits have left white patterns in the wrong places. They sit directly in the blazing sun not wishing to miss one minute of the burning heat during their vacation. Tomorrow, and for three days after, they will be ill with sunstroke, but they heed no warning.
Until three there are too many people to sort them out at all. The butchers, the bakers the souvenir makers, the bank clerks, the town clerks, the builders and nuns, they all come onto the Balcon for their pre lunch drink and tapas.
Then suddenly a welcome stillness. The place is deserted but for the unshaven comedian who has slept through it all, despite three more black coffees. The waiters sit down at their respective cafés and listen to the peace. It will be alright now till well past six. The necessary interval.

The second act
Come seven, and the curtain goes up on the second act. The portrait artists are the first on the scene, setting up easels, drawing blocks, pastels. They are followed quickly by the musicians, Peruvian pipe players, accordionists ( who can’t play and make a terrible noise ) the clarinetist with his Karioke set blasting out the whole of the Count Basie Orchestra, sometimes a violinist, a guitarist, at worst a singer who can’t sing. Then the fashionable hairdressers dexterously platting little girls’ locks with lengths of colourful cottons, ribbons, buttons, and bows, people setting up shop, the jewellers, the Chinese flashing-toy peddlers, the balloon men. For some reason it is also dog time. They arrive, German Shepherds on their leads, terriers, shampooed poodles followed by a multitude of mongrels sniffing each other indelicately, nosing the garbage, chasing the resident cats and, more or less at the same time, come the pram brigade, hundreds of them. Four wheelers, three wheelers, twin prams, baby chairs, all occupied by wide eyed little people, mothers, dressed to the nines behind them, worried father pushing them, avoiding any café or vendor that might oblige them to spend more money.
Unnoticed during all this hubbub statues suddenly sprout like mushrooms after a downpour. Terra cotta Robin Hoods, pirates, Red Indians, whiter than white fairy princesses, grey explorers, and red and green and yellow clowns dispensing sweets to the astonished kiddies.
Later on stage come the photographer with his canvas scene of flamenco dancers with holes through which the dafter holiday makers thrust their pink faces to have a memento of the wonderful time they had in Spain, then the star act, tango dancers who roll out their carpet, switch on their music and show the world how to romance on the dance floor with Argentinian passion.
Familiar figures can occasionally be recognized at some of the café tables. A film star, a television personality, a Madrid politician perhaps, a well known model. They have been known to sit there till the early hours sipping their brandies and liqueurs - John Huston, George C. Scott, Raquel Welch, Malcolm Macdowell, Robert Shaw have all been there in the past when on location. More recently Ken Loach, shot his ‘Aye Fond Kiss ‘, or the Spanish author Antonio Gala or members of the Garcia Lorca family who live close by.
At three in the morning the waiters are again able to sit down, they have been there for over sixteen hours . They are, unknowingly, the producers of the show, directing certain characters to certain tables, increasing or decreasing the tempo of service, being ever patient with the stream of jostling children, incomprehensible extranjeros and the now aggressive comedian, still at his table, who has decided he is going to live there for ever.
The sun has gone down long ago, an orange moon has risen, turned white and disappeared behind a palm tree, soon it will be time for the last act.

The final act
And they float onto the stage, holding hands, embracing, hugging, gazing into each others’ eyes, the dawn couples who fall in love under the stars, listening to the ripple of the ocean.
The statue of King Alfonso XII closes his eyes perhaps and smiles for a moment as the final curtain comes down. All the Balcon is a stage, and we are merely the players.