Palm Sunday in Malaga filled with excitement, warmth, and wind

A new Sunday began, but not just any Sunday. For many, the previous night is akin to the night before Epiphany. Those pre-event nerves. The joy of the beginning. The end of a countdown. With one less hour of sleep, at 9:50, when the sun was still not bothersome, the Pollinica opened the doors of its brotherhood house and set off. The starting shot that turns the wait into the present. The sky, clear and unthreatening, began to cast glints on the poles. The Holy Week in Malaga was here.

The streets, filled with early risers, suddenly filled with cream-colored tunics and swaying palms. La Borriquita brought with it that air of novelty that is only savored on the first day. A flood of children dressed as Hebrews looked at their excited peers. Even the audience, who couldn't help but smile at the youngest ones. Mothers and fathers accompanying their children, holding hands. Many of the little ones wove palms to make crosses while someone from the audience asked for one more leaf, another, one last one, to take a piece of that moment.

The throne advanced with the first steps and first applause. This year, two new angels guarded Christ, a novelty that captured several glances. A few meters ahead, the protagonist, Our Father Jesus at His Entry into Jerusalem, led the way, and behind Him, Mary Most Holy of Shelter let the sun kiss her face. One of the most outstanding moments occurred at the Tribuna de los Pobres.

As the Christ passed, the throne men faced the tribune to sing Pescador de Hombres, received with great emotion among the attendees. Even a tear, but the scene was more cheerful, longing for the encounter. As the Virgin passed, the troupe from Alhaurín el Grande sang again accompanied by the troupe from Fátima, also from the same town and first prize winner at the last Malaga Carnival. They performed Queen and Mother of Shelter alongside the Nuestra Señora de la Paz Music Band. Another moment that sparked applause.

There was, moreover, a different calm. Perhaps because in other years, this day had been marked by uncertain skies, by constant glances at the weather report. But this 2026 was lived with the serenity that there would not be a drop, not a threat of rain. No one ran, no one doubted whether their Brotherhood would go out. Malaga let itself be carried away by the excitement of the beginning. And in that letting go, Holy Week became more "felt."

Moving around the center, as expected, was an odyssey. Streets jammed with Malagueños making the city their own, disoriented tourists not knowing where to move, groups that separated and searched for each other among the human tide. Although there were some complaints, it did not go further. Getting lost among the crowd is also part of Holy Week.

At 14:15, Dulce Nombre took to the street with notable heat from Capuchinos, and just fifteen minutes later Salutación did the same from San Felipe Neri. The shadows began to shorten and the light became denser, more golden, causing several brows to furrow among the audience. The streets were already quite full, with some following the previously established itinerary, with notebooks in hand and navigating every corner avoiding the masses.

Every hour, the center transformed. The sound of trumpets mixed with the clinking of glasses toasting on terraces, with the constant murmur of conversations from those taking a "little break" before continuing. Finding a spot to sit was almost as difficult as making your way through the crowd. Trays came and went, beers were raised to the sun, and between bites, someone asked: "Where is it now?". No one remembered the problem of the AVE connection with Madrid with the amount of masses moving through the streets.

But before Lágrimas y Favores took to the street, another intimate, invisible, and necessary moment was lived inside the temple. The brothers embraced, closing ranks, singing their anthem with closed eyes and emotion on the surface. It was a kind of refuge before the commotion. Around the Niña de San Juan, many sought to recognize the voice of Antonio Banderas among the noise. There was no need to see him. His firm tone, those orders that made their way through the noise, were enough.

In Plaza Enrique García-Herrera, the playground ceased to be a place of play to become an improvised balcony: the swings, taken by children who climbed as they could, offered the best perspective to see the Virgin of Lágrimas y Favores pass without obstacles. A few meters away, the contrast was evident: the terrace of the corner bar brimming with people, glasses raised to the sun... The bartender advanced as best he could among the crowd, tray aloft, dodging bodies. "Lágrimas y Favores, the one of Antonio Banderas". Possibly the most repeated phrase along the route.

The narrowness of Calle Nueva has something special. Amid it all, two girls—four years and one and a half—experienced their first outing in the brotherhood. Along with their parents, the little ones took advantage of a pause for a family photo that was already a memory before it was taken. The youngest of them alternated between the world at ground level as an altar boy and the comfort and security of her stroller, not yet aware that she was beginning to write her own brotherhood story.

In that same street, one of the moments that offer unforgettable images occurred. Halfway down the road, a man surprised those present and the brotherhood itself by singing a Saeta to the Niña de San Juan, applauded by the attendees. A few meters further, the Virgin received a shower of petals, welcomed with emotion by the throne men.

Amid the orderly tide of tunics, some tourists moved parallel to the penitents with that gesture between curiosity and bewildered patience, looking from side to side as if searching for a little gap to reclaim their path. The wind, capricious, slipped between the rows and extinguished candles. The few flames that resisted tried to ignite their neighbors, leaning carefully, but in that gesture, the light went out completely and sparked a slight laugh among the penitents, which could be guessed under the hoods. Only the eyes, narrowed by the smile, betrayed that moment of complicity.

The emotion turned to silence in San Pablo. The exit of Salud again stopped the pulse of the square. The bearers, kneeling, struggled against the impossible inches of the door. The crowd, packed, held its breath. Humildad walked from Victoria with a firm step towards the Official Route, while Humildad y Paciencia assumed its journey of endless hours. The Huerto, with its olive tree swaying, set a rhythm that was felt on the shoulders of the bearers. And Prendimiento completed a mosaic of devotions that will be repeated throughout the week.