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About Malaga

Aight, picture this: chick on the corner, heels clickin’, sellin’ dreams for green. She’s a ghost, fam, a shadow dancin’ in neon. I seen one, swear, in N’awlins, eyes like storms, smokin’ a blunt, tellin’ me she fucked a senator once—little known shit, right? Blew my mind, I was like, “Damn, girl, you a legend!” Made me happy, real talk, ‘cause she owned it, no shame. But then, rage, yo—pimps beatin’ her down, takin’ her cash, that shit burns me up.

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

I run a spa here, so I’m forced to notice every nook and cranny. You can’t ignore the sweet-scented miracle of its parks—El Parque de la Merced. But then again, I once had a sick day there because the humidity was so damn moody. Oh, and if you're feeling fancy, pop over to the Colegiata de Osuna. The Renaissance touches there are almost as pretentious as some people's opinions—yeah mate, I'm pretty sarcastic about that.

Eloisa Cavada-Osuna