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The approach to Torremolinos - easily done via a 30min ride on the electric train from Malaga - is a rather depressing business. There are half-a-dozen beaches and stops, but it's a drab, soulless landscape of kitchenette apartments and half-finished developments. In recent years the local council have been trying to give the resort a facelift, the main feature of which has been the construction of a new seafront promenade and the renovation of the old town, the narrow alleyways of which are not without charm. TORREMOLINOS , to its enduring credit, is certainly different: a vast, grotesque parody of a seaside resort, which in its own kitschy way is fascinating. This bizarre place, lined with sweeping (but crowded) beaches and infinite shopping arcades, crammed with (genuine) Irish pubs and (probably less genuine) real-estate agents, has a large permanent expatriate population of British, Germans and Scandinavians. It's a weird mix, which, in addition to thousands of retired people, has attracted - due to a previous lack of extradition arrangements between Britain and Spain - an extraordinary concentration of British crooks and more recently Russian mafia bosses. Torremolinos's social scene is strange, too, including, among the middle-of-the-road family discos, a thriving, pram-pushing, gay transvestite scene. All in all it's an intriguing blend of the smart and the squalid, bargains and rip-offs.
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