Somebody had told me that Malaga was beautiful. From where I stood, in a seedy hostel room overlooking the McDonalds across the street, it wasn’t quite ringing true. The harsh sun beat down relentlessly on streets covered with litter, exhaust fumes hovered on the morning air, and a pale woman with a bouffant hair-do was using the next-door room as a brothel. 

It all just seemed to confirm my theory that the place you stay in can colour your perception of a whole town. It happened in Paris, where a hostel in the Clichy (nobody told me it was the red-light district) soured my romantic ideals about the City of Love. It happened in Barcelona, which might be one of the most beautiful cities in the world but which doesn’t look so great if you’re staying in the industrial suburbs. It happened in Tarragona, home to a gorgeous cluster of central hostels and also one completely characterless no-star hotel which happened to be where yours truly ended up. But Malaga was by far the worst of the whole bunch.

I had been working my way down south for a few months, and by this time I had learnt a few valuable rules about accommodation while travelling. Number one: Never arrive peak season in a popular tourist destination without booking in advance. I had become extremely efficient, taking an hour or two in internet cafes each week to pre-arrange accommodation in a number of hostels along the route using HostelBookers.com, and until now it had worked out fine. Then there was the night in Granada, the flamenco bar, the oh-so-delicious bottle of sangria, and the rash determination that I would try my luck in Malaga without pre-booking a hostel. Bad decision.

Now I was stuck in a hostel with a red light at the window, my room was a dark broom closet, and my sheets were covered with extremely suspicious-looking stains. Worst of all, there was a three-quarter length wall between my room and the next two, which meant that I could hear everything that was said either side. It was time for drastic action.
“Dad,” I wailed into the lobby payphone, “Can you come and pick me up?”

Being a single child, I have the liberty of being able to exploit my parents at every available opportunity. Better still, my dad had just bought a house in the Granada mountains and was spending the summer there in semi-retirement. It was the work of but a few hours for him to nick the neighbours car, drive a hundred miles along narrow mountain roads, and meet me on the outskirts of Malaga.

“So much for your new-found independence,” he growled, as I chucked my dirty bag into the back. “You can’t even handle a few nights in a hostel.”
“Not one like that,” I said.

We drove in the pale dusk away from Malaga and up into the mountains, where the air changed quickly from close and humid to bitingly cold. Soon, the sparse grass and scrub gave way to lush crops of avocado, orange and almond trees; a perfect fresh supper, free of charge (although my dad strongly disapproved). It was 3am when we finally arrived home, and sunk gratefully into comfortable beds.
“I’m staying in Almeria tonight,” I announced the next day at breakfast. “I’ve heard the nightlife is really good.”
“In that case you had better book a hostel,” my dad warned.
“Oh no,” I said blithely, “I think I’ll just chance it.”

 I've been back to Malaga since, and on second thoughts it wasn't that bad. I booked some last minutes cheap flights to Malaga through Monarch Airlines and this time didn't stay in a seedy hostel - instead I got booked my hotels through the trusty Lastminute.com - I probably wouldn't have gone unless it was as cheap as I got though!