We live right just a few hundred meters from Plaza de la Merced, arguably most famous for being the square on which artist Pablo Picasso was born. So, as one can imagine, there is no shortage of physical and lyrical references of the neighborhood’s favorite son there. Like this cutout at one of the half dozen taverns and taperias on the sunny side of the square. Oh, and if you were wondering, Paco is still missing. Just heard a dozen or so shoutouts.

Today I bought something I never conceived I would own, namely, a shopping trolley. Not that I had any prejudices about them per ce. Sure, they’ve been around forever, I just never envisioned that I’d have the need to use one. At least not at 56.

Here in Málaga, the only way to really enjoy a shopping experience, at least when buying groceries, is at the formidable Mercado Central de Atarazanas. It’s a classic indoor market hall filled with rich colors, intense smells and buzzing with activity. Gothenburg has a similarly lively indoor market, much smaller though. I love these places. There are plenty of smaller Mercados around town. But they’re grimy and shabby and reliably uninspiring.

Since we’re currently living aways from the Mercado Central, we were advised by Swedish American friends to immediately invest in a shopping trolley. So before today’s market visit began, I bought one at a hardware store near the market. As convenient as it was to just relinquish everything I purchased straight into the trolley’s belly, it felt a little awkward walking home with it wobbling unsteadily behind me. Not that I haven’t rolled camera bags and cases hundreds if not thousands of miles over the years. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if a new era hadn’t just begun. That once you start using one of these trolleys, you just never stop.

I could never have carried all of today’s stuff home in my arms. The weight from the large watermelon, giant beef tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, roasted almonds, carrots, oranges, and raisins was just wonderfully offloaded by the little trolley. And the only reason I broke into a slight sweat on my way home was because of the relatively hot midday January sun. Shot the trolley just down the street from our temporary flat where there’s a ton of most beautiful murals and graffiti.

This is by far my favorite photo from our three months in Asia. It’s just a few days old and one of a handful of selfies I’ve ever taken. I shot it at the BTS Skytrain station Ari after a wonderful family weekend in Bangkok, only a few hours before Elle flew south, back to her dogs at Soi Dog – the shelter she’s been volunteering at in Phuket.

I’m writing this from Turkish Airways’ lounge at Souvannaphoum Airport where low and behold, they serve homemade (lounge made?) Turkish pizza, hummus, and other Mediterranean treats that aren’t available at a typical Priority Pass lounge. And to boot, they even offer 15 minutes of complimentary neck and shoulder massage. Only downside here: Chivas is the house (and only) whiskey.

We have about 4 hours until our 11.5-hour flight to Copenhagen. And once there, it’s another three hours until we board the next plane headed to southern Spain. Gonna feel weird with Elle being so far away from us…at least for a few weeks… when she too returns to Europe.

I can’t make up my mind whether or not whoever came up with the concept of the breakfast buffet should be punished or praised. What I mean is, while I really appreciate having a wide selection of breakfast treats to choose from, I don’t like having to share the experience with others.

There’s a hint of cumin in one of the loaves at the bread counter. I love cumin in bread. Especially when you toast it. It makes every other kind of bread taste meh.

I get a little paranoid just before picking up the serving spoon so I can get me some of them tasty baked beans in tomato sauce. No breakfast buffet is worth a mention without this tremendously underrated dish. But thinking of all the unwashed, nose and ass-picking fingers of people that have handled the spoon before me, certainly takes away some of the culinary excitement.

A sunny side up fried egg placed on cumin flavored toast and topped with baked beans in tomato sauce, will probably always be a favorite breakfast.

The hotel we’re staying at has a decent breakfast buffet, but between 8:30 and 9:30, it’s nerve-wracking chaotic in the dining hall. Hundreds of guests, dozens of servers, a chef or two and usually overdressed managers are scrambling about with focus and purpose gleaming from their serious faces. It’s improvisational theatre without a script or an audience and a diminishing collection of props.

At best, it takes me three round trips before I’ve got everything I want from the buffet here. Depending on how I’ve managed to amass my various dishes, either the toast and/or the eggs and/or coffee might be cold by the time I can sit down and start eating.

Sometimes I yearn for a properly made Bloody Mary with breakfast. Or, a Salty Dog. Just one.

Here’s an iteration of a piece I’ve been working on for a while. It’s made up of 10 or so photos from Hoi An in Vietnam. As some of you might have noticed, I’ve made some changes to this site. The theme here will from now on be totally focused on my artwork. All the other stuff is still online, only now it’s got an apter and a more search engine friendly URL: www.raboffphotography.com

Change is good. I am not afraid of change, nor do I run from it. Instead, I tend to embrace change. Not always without trepidation. A dash of passing remorse or angst is probably just a healthy sign. It’s part of the deal of being a functioning human. But I never fear change itself.

After 56 years, I know something interesting will always come from when I force myself to move forward. And I’ve definitely understood that only when my urge to change becomes stronger than my need to hold on to the security of the status quo, will things actually start to happen. And I’m betting big on a lot of changes coming in 2020. Like living a life totally free of social constraints – especially of the online kind of which I’ve had more than enough.

The envy, disappointment and, yes, at times even excitement, that I’ve felt while trying to find a balance of life online and offline have shown me that I don’t belong in that world. Towards the end of my presence, I felt guilty of betraying myself. Of living a lie and being a soulless fake. But above all, I hated the fact that I took it all too seriously. And while I wish I had been able to keep a safe, humoristic distance to social media, I just wasn’t able to. At least not nearly as much as I needed to in order to stay put. So I decided to unplug. Closed all my accounts. Leaving more than 17.000 followers behind felt admittedly a little weird. But I gave them fair warning and heartfelt fairwell. Then I left. All in or all out. That’s how I roll.

I love to people watch. During these last three months, I’ve seen how transfixed folks are to their screens. Even while driving cars and scooters! It’s frightening. I worry about how this comatose behavior can possibly be remedied if not through the kind of abstinence I am subjecting myself to. Thing is, I honestly don’t feel any withdrawal symptoms. And I certainly don’t miss any of my friends’ status updates, their likes or even their comments. I do miss my friends, though.