Little Drummer Boys

Little Drummer Boys - Malaga, Spain

On our final day in Andalusia, fate delivered the perfect farewell gift. After spending the afternoon touring Malaga's bullring—where I'd learned just enough about matadors to appreciate their bravery and question their sanity—I was strolling back to our hotel, the Palacio Solecio, when the church doors across the narrow street burst open with music and excitement.

Out poured a stream of locals in full celebration mode. Men and boys sported traditional hats with the serious dignity of peacocks, while women swished past in bright flamenco dresses that made the afternoon sun look dull by comparison. Some of the men carried what appeared to be an important placard, though my Spanish is useless, so I had no idea what proclamation they were announcing to the world.

Naturally, I followed this colorful parade with my camera ready, feeling like a tourist paparazzi trailing celebrities, who had no idea they were celebrities. The procession wound through the plaza near Picasso's birthplace, before stopping at a narrow lane. There, waiting like something from a fairy tale, stood a ceremonial float hitched to two small horses who looked as if they'd be happier in a stable or a field somewhere.

The crowd buzzed with excitement and animated Spanish chatter. Whatever was happening, it was clearly both sacred and joyous—the kind of event where solemnity and celebration dance together like old friends. Then, as if the afternoon couldn't get more magical, two boys appeared on a balcony above us and began showering the crowd with rose petals.

At first glance, I thought it was confetti—the kind of thing you'd find stuck in your hair for weeks afterward. But as the fragrant cascade continued, I realized these were actual rose petals, thousands of them, floating down like nature's own ticker-tape parade. Against the backdrop of flutes and drums, it was absolutely enchanting. 

Once the floral blizzard ended, the crowd of about a hundred began their procession in earnest. I found myself jogging ahead like an overeager tourist, positioning myself to capture the approaching parade. That's when I snapped the shot that would become one of my favorite souvenirs: young boys with their drums and flutes, their faces serious with concentration, creating the soundtrack for this beautiful celebration.

The music followed me long after the procession disappeared around the corner, and I walked back to the hotel with rose petals in my hair and a great story from our trip I knew I'd tell for years. I never did figure out exactly what we'd all been celebrating, but sometimes the best travel memories are the ones that remain beautifully, mysteriously incomplete—like finding a perfect seashell and choosing not to ask which ocean it came from.

It was the kind of authentic Spanish moment you can't plan, book, or schedule. Just pure, unexpected magic on a final Friday afternoon in Malaga, served up by a church, two horses, and some little drummer boys who would never know they’d become part of a stranger's favorite travel story.

Little Drummer Boys

The Soundtrack of my Special Spanish Visit Conclusion

Once the floral blizzard ended, the crowd of about a hundred began their procession in earnest. I found myself jogging ahead like an overeager tourist, positioning myself to capture the approaching parade. That's when I snapped the shot that would become one of my favorite souvenirs: young boys with their drums and flutes, their faces serious with concentration, creating the soundtrack for this beautiful celebration.

The music followed me long after the procession disappeared around the corner, and I walked back to the hotel with rose petals in my hair and a great story from our trip I knew I'd tell for years. I never did figure out exactly what we'd all been celebrating, but sometimes the best travel memories are the ones that remain beautifully, mysteriously incomplete—like finding a perfect seashell and choosing not to ask which ocean it came from.

It was the kind of authentic Spanish moment you can't plan, book, or schedule. Just pure, unexpected magic on a final Friday afternoon in Malaga, served up by a church, some horses, and some little drummer boys who would never know they’d become part of a stranger's favorite travel story.