Malaga House (not affiliated with Summer House)
My favorite Friday mornings start with a 7 a.m. trip out of Madrid. This weekend’s shenanigans included a group of 10 Americans on a train to Málaga for a few days by the sea. We had a few mutual goals in mind: get a nice tan after a month of rain, lay on the beach, and get good content for the reality show pilot we were filming among our friend group. Lindsay and Mark, co-producers and avid reality TV enthusiasts, had the grand idea to film our weekend adventures.
We rented an adorable house by the beach, about 30 minutes outside Málaga city center, in Rincón de la Victoria—specifically in a little pueblo called Torre de Benagalbón. This quaint town was pretty residential and off the beaten path, meaning we were the only tourists and definitely the only Americans around. Our charming home had four bedrooms, a guest house, and a pool. Unfortunately for us, the pool was empty. Fortunately for Alice, that meant we could play games in the abyss.
The house’s front featured stone and brick with yellow-and-white-striped paneling. The garden had palm trees, greenery, and plants growing from every crack and crevice in an unkempt jungle sort of way. White wire picnic tables and potted peonies set the scene. Inside, it felt like walking into someone’s well-loved vacation home. Enough plates and silverware in the pantry to feed 100 people. A bookshelf full of folded, creased books. Chests of blankets for extra guests or cool nights by the sea. Original ceramic tile in the kitchen and bathroom that had clearly been loved through generations. And strange but comforting paintings on the walls that had withstood the test of time. Best of all, it was quiet. You could hear the wind blowing through distant chimes and, if you were still enough, the waves just a few meters away.
We stocked up on groceries—enough for 10 people for a weekend. Lots of beer, a family-style pasta dinner, and even more wine. The goal was a wholesome weekend by the sea. No clubbing, no tourist activities. Just playing in the waves. After a trip to the best grocery store in the world (Mercadona), we changed and walked exactly two minutes to the beach in our backyard. Beach blankets, towels, speakers, beers, sandwiches—we were camped out for the day. The sand was fine but darker than expected, and the water was frigid. But once you laid in the UV 7 sun for a bit, you warmed up enough to brave the chill. In the water, the sand turned to rocks that made staying upright against the waves a challenge. Not that it stopped anyone from swimming.
There were bamboo sticks scattered everywhere, so naturally, we started building things and playing games. We played limbo with a giant stick and even made a makeshift volleyball court. Our inner children were fully unleashed.
The surrounding terrain was mountainous, and off in the distance to the west, you could see hills silhouetted behind the setting sun. The combination of sun and wine didn’t sit well with me, and I got a bit sick Friday night. I had to miss the family dinner and festivities that followed.
Saturday morning, I woke up feeling reborn and vowed to avoid alcohol until at least sunset. My friends are real runners (like the marathon kind). I haven’t quite adapted to that, so while they went for their morning run, I went for my morning walk. Nothing beats a pair of headphones, a beach, the sun, and the perfect path to enjoy it all. The walking path turns from dirt to paved sidewalk and stretches the entire length of the beach. I passed palm trees, beach huts, restaurants, bars, and terraces bustling with life. Suddenly, I couldn’t remember why I lived in the city. This idyllic, simple life is what the Spanish do best.
After the walk, I came home to a beautiful family breakfast (I didn’t help at all): scrambled eggs, toast, avocado, tomato, bacon, yogurt, fruit salad, and mimosas. Even better when shared with friends, with the sea so close you could smell it.
After breakfast, it was time to tan. Another full beach day ahead. Playing in the waves, blasting music, sandwiches wrapped in foil—the kind you add chips to for the crunch. Everything from the day before on repeat.
Golden hour was photo time, and then the group agreed it was time for a beach bar. A few minutes down the path, we found the perfect spot to drink piña coladas and watch the sky change from bright blue to vibrant orange to deep navy, the stars just starting to twinkle. We quickly became the novelty attraction of the bar. A very local establishment in a very local town. Ten Americans had never walked into this place. As the drinks flowed and the locals mingled, we practiced our Spanish—though most of them really wanted to practice their English. Some bragged about trips to our “great country,” others inserted their political opinions. All in good fun.
It happened to be Eduardo’s 60th birthday, and he was thrilled to be celebrated. He bought us rounds of shots while we serenaded him with “Happy Birthday” in English.
This was where most of our reality show content came from. We even got a confessional from a Spanish partygoer—Paloma—commenting on our presence and the drama we brought to their usual scene.
The night ended with Alice and me secretly ordering pizza to the house, a strategic move to lure our very drunk group back home. We laughed, recapped, and kept the party going in the backyard until a disgruntled neighbor decided midnight was too late for fun.
Sunday morning, we all woke up with a little less pep in our step. The piña coladas and Jägermeister had caught up to us. We spent the day on the beach, recovering in the sun. Honestly, the best hangover cure is a cold plunge in the ocean. Our beach picnic was a free-for-all of leftovers: rotisserie chicken, peaches, cold pasta—everything was fair game.
Later in the afternoon, a smaller group of us had to check out and head back to reality. We took a taxi to Málaga city center to catch our bus back to Madrid.
Of course, there’s gotta be some drama in any reality show — and for me, it was the bus. Last row, wedged between strangers, questioning every life choice that led me there.
In conclusion: next time, I’ll take the train.
But honestly? Five hours of awkwardness is a small price to pay for 72 hours of sea, sun and southern Spain.