Take me to Malaga, please

When I was living in Spain I made a trip to visit my favorite British ex-pats and it was an escape from the heat of the city, from tasteless food my body hated, and the whir of a foreign language constantly slipping through my ears. Homesickness had taken over and all I wanted to do was find some ruby slippers to click. Apparently hopping on a RyanAir flight to see Gerald, Liz and Lizzie would be just as good.
In Malaga, my bed had fluffy bedding, not thin, worn blankets. Instead of having to fight the heat without even a fan as a weapons, I got to sleep in a room with air conditioning and a cat curled up under my chin. The TV showed programs in English, even some American sitcoms. Doors opened up to an ocean view instead of a busy plaza and then there was the food. Porridge, fresh fruit, roasts, potatoes, vegetable soup, cherries on ice cream, shrimp cocktail: extravagant and comfort food all at once.
While the physical accommodations were priceless, it was getting to be with people I consider family that really made my short trip the most relaxing vacation I took during my six months abroad. I got constant hugs, pats on the shoulder, linked arms and hours to catch up on years apart over tea. Palm trees, fresh picked oranges, a house full of cats, and surrogate family; I need to plan a trip.