Majorcan Getaway

Words and pictures can only convey an experience to a certain degree. Even if the words and pictures are good, they still won't do justice to the experience I had in Majorca. I wish I could lace this blog with the smell of salty ocean air and the taste of sucking on an olive pit until all the meat is gone.

I left for Berlin early Sunday morning in my winter jacket and gloves, with only my backpack as luggage for my 4 day trip to the island of Mallorca. By 3pm I was on the beach with the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair. The trip had been in the back of my mind for months; I wanted to go someplace sunny during the fall or winter, but it took some orchestrating to find a time when good fares aligned with possible vacation days, so I only booked the trip about ten days in advance. I hardly knew anything about Mallorca, and my Spanish skills were limited to what I rememberfrom sixth grade.

When we landed I took off my winter coat and the sweater I had on over my tee-shirt, and followed the signs that declared “Taxi.” Thanks to google maps, I knew the drive would be quick, and at least this way I avoided the chance of having my first act in Spain being getting lost on the public transportation system. The driver spoke to me only in Spanish, but I smiled a lot and he didn't seem to mind that I didn't understand anything.

All the conversations I overheard at the reception desk of the (4-star!) Royal Cristina Hotel were conducted in German. I knew Mallorca was a popular vacation spot for Germans, but I hadn't realized the extend of it; the language was an absolute requirement to work in the tourist industry. The concierge saw my American passport and switched to English quickly. He gave me the key-card to my studio apartment and I found it quite to my liking. Through vigilant price comparisons and bargain hunting, I snagged the room in a very good last-minute deal, along with my flights. I almost couldn't believe my luck. The room had two beds—both converted into couches as well—a small kitchen, a balcony, a television, and a towel folded origami-style into the shape of a swan. I dropped my backpack and went in search of the beach.

I didn't even have a map of the city yet, so I had to orient myself outside the hotel to decide which way the coast should be, and I found it easily, only about 100 meters away. I smelled the sea before I saw it, and when I reached it, the view was just like the postcards in the airport. There were palm trees along the boardwalk, white sand stretching down the coast, and of course clear blue waves lapping at the shore. The colors were brilliant and almost painful to look at after the dreary gray cast Magdeburg has had for the past few weeks.

In Spain November 1st is All Saint's Day, and celebrated as a national holiday, so many of the shops along the promenade had the aluminum garage doors pulled down over their fronts on the day I arrived, and the beach was quiet, though there were still plenty of people enjoying the water, strolling on the beach, and sunning themselves. It wasn't like the secluded Oregon beaches my family always vacationed at when I was growing up, but neither was it the crowded tourist beach of the high season, where the visitors are so numerous you can't see the sand underneath their umbrellas and towels.

At sunset I walked back toward the hotel, and stopped at a tiny grocery store along the way to buy a few snacks. Mallorca's party scene is the highlight of many German youths' summer, known for it's discos, cocktails, and dancing. I thought I would go to the hotel and venture out again later in the evening to see what the night brought, but it didn't happen that way. By 8pm I was in my pajamas, watching CNN (in English!) in my hotel room. Hey, it's MY vacation, so I'll eat yogurt and a Snickers for dinner and be in bed by 9 if I want to!

The wind in the palm trees woke me early the next morning and I jogged along the promenade, returning extra wind-blown and my skin extra salty. I showered and went to find the breakfast buffet. I realize many of my blogs devote what is probably a disproportionate amount of space to food. In fact, you are likely expecting me to roll out of the airplane when I come back in December, based on the descriptions of the foods in Germany and on my experiences in other countries. So, I will spare you the bore of describing the buffet, but I will point out a few unusual items that were part of the Mallorcan/Spanish traditional foods. First of all, I've never seen another culture that eats olives and dried figs at breakfast, but I'd love to start doing so at my own home. Because it was a holiday, they also served champagne. The Spanish cuisine also includes a lot of things rolled up into dough. For breakfasts there are pastries with cheese, meat, cream, or marmalade. I tried one dollop-shaped tidbit that somehow was full of a sugary, bubbly foam.

Quite sated, I waddled to where I had seen a bus stop the evening before, and took the 15, because said “Platje de Reina” on it, which was the same phrase written next to Cathedral Le Seu on a map I found on a chair at breakfast. I was fairly certain this bus would then take me to the capitol city, Palma, where I could visit the cathedral and see what else the city had to offer. I rode the bus to the end of the route and got off in a plaza with a fountain in the center, just behind of the huge cathedral, but when I found the entrance, it was closed in observance of All Saint's Day. In fact, as I wandered the city from this starting point, I found that many of the Palma's shops and restaurants were closed. The shops' rolled down, graffitied garage doors, coupled with very narrow streets made Palma seem univiting and I was disappointed, having heard that the city would be a very nice place to spend the day. Eventually I did find the open squares and wider avenues, which helped with the atmosphere, but there wasn't much to do.

One of the shops that was open on the holiday was a little bakery with a window full of delectable looking homemade treats. The display presented fresh sweet rolls, tortes with fruit and cream, croissants with chocolate centers, and the Mallorcan specialty, which is a flaky pastry spiraled like a soft cinnamon roll and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Because of my enormous breakfast, I wasn't hungry, but sat inside and drank some pineapple juice just to watch the Spanish woman behind the counter put the finishing touches on bon bons and arrange cream puffs carefully on platters.

After my juice I stumbled upon some buildings with interesting architecture and also explored the grounds at the Mallorcan Intercultural Center. Eventually, after so much walking I did finally get hungry and choose a restaurant with a bright green and gold fascade that read “Forn Teatre.” I could figure out the “teatre” part, but had to look up “forn” when I got back home—apparently forn is “oven” in Catalan, the Mallorca dialect of Spanish.

I sat at one of the numerous tables on the cobblestone outside the restaurant, but none of the waiters paid any attention to me. After a few minutes I went inside and stood at the counter, but no one there would look at me either. Unable to figure out what I was doing wrong, I went to the next door, which was the bakery that also seemed to be under the Forn Teatre business. There I pointed at a panada des carne in the case and a little woman so round she was practically spherical texted on her cell phone while she wrapped it and took my two euros.

When I finished eating I stood at the bus stop to head back to the hotel and the beach for the rest of the afternoon. Taking the bus in Spain is not as easy as one might think because there are no timetables to inform you when the next bus might be arriving; additionally, the routes don't work the way they do in America or Germany, where you could simply cross the street to take the bus back the other direction. I discovered that the return routes did not necessarily match the embarking ones, so I could not always simply get on where I had gotten off, and might have to search for two hundred meters or more to find the correct stop. Luckily, I had watched this particular stop while eating my panada des carne and knew that the 15 would come and take me the correct direction. The meat pie (that's sort of what panada des carne is, right?) had a wonderfully flaky crust that I enjoyed much more than the meat itself, though the little ball of spiced pork inside was also tasty.

Back in my hotel room I read Hemingway on the balcony until I felt like going down to the boardwalk, and again I spent the last couple of hours before sunset sitting in the fine sand and walking the shore. It was too cold for swimming, but I let the incoming tide slip trough my fingers and toes, just to say I'd touched the Mediterranean Sea.

When I felt hungry I went to a restaurant near the hotel because it had chalkboards advertising traditional Mallorcan specialties. The waitress spoke to me first in German, but switched to English when I said I was from America and said that she never gets to practice her English anymore, so she was glad I was there. She fluidly alternated between three languages, sometimes all within the space of a minute, speaking to me in English, to Tony the chef in Catalan, and to the couple behind me in German. I ordered a vegetable soup that was peppery and chunky; I think there were turnips in it. I saved space for dessert, wanting to try the caramel flambe, but they were out, so the waitress suggested another type of torte instead. She placed the creamy slice in front of me and proceeded to douse it in whiskey. It wasn't bad at all, though I am unused to my sweets being drenched in alcohol.

The next morning when I woke up and looked out the sliding doors, the ground looked soggy and wind was whipping through the palms. I had not counted on bad weather, and thought I would need to skip my jog, since I had not brought anything heavier than a tee-shirt. But when I opened the sliding door, the temperature outside matched the temperature inside exactly. I couldn't even tell whether the door was open or closed. So I jogged in the wind anyway, and by the time I finished breakfast the gray clouds were gone and the sun was shining again.

I still wanted to see the Cathedral Le Seu from the inside, so I took the bus back into the city of Palma, and was pleased to find that the city seemed much more inviting than the day before, now that the pedestrian areas were bustling and the boutiques' window displays of handmade jewelry, wooden toys and designer clothing were visible. I went to Le Seu first; I think I have seen enough churches and cathedrals to last me a long time. The best thing about this cathedral was the morning sun shining through the stained glass, reflecting onto the stone walls in brilliant rainbows. (You can see my photos of this and other Mallorcan sites at http://picasaweb.google.com/suzanne.akerman) The second best thing about this cathedral was that an artist had sculpted a beautifully dark scene, encompassing the entire altar space in one corner. The scene depicted Jesus on the cross, but he was really barely there, mostly just a faded outline. On the walls surrounding him, starting from the ceiling, the artist had sculpted and painted demons swimming down like little fish, and the stained glass on the window was painted gray with a lightening bolt cracking through the center. I have seen a lot of churches this year, and none of them had anything similar, though I admit it would be a little intimidating to pray in front of this particular alter space.

This time when I was hungry from perusing the shops of the city and snapping pictures in the squares, I retraced my steps to the same bakery where I had had pineapple juice. I ate the traditional Mallorcan ensainada, which tasted even better than it looked and left my fingers slick with whatever she cooked it in. I watched the same woman whip up fillings, roll out dough and grind espresso beans before I took the bus back to the hotel. I encountered a maid in my room and we performed a frenzied pantomime as I tried to indicate that she could stay and clean and she tried to ask whether she should leave.

So far I hadn't taken much advantage of the facilities at the hotel, so I went down to the pool to lay in the sun and read for awhile before going back to the beach. The shops and restaurants were all open along the boardwalk as well, so I stopped in many of them to look at the souvenirs. Any store that sold anything edible had a sign that proclaimed “Supermarket!” over it. I also looked through menus outside of the restaurants to decide where to eat for dinner, and found that all the menus were printed in Spanish, German and English, with some pretty amusing results. For instance, one could get “bred” with one's soup, or perhaps a “tunny fish salad” and don't forget the “chesse”! (I also saw a sign in the cathedral that dubbed one altar “Jesus of the sacred heard,” but judging from the Spanish, I'm pretty sure they meant “heart.”)

There were many more people out than on the previous day, probably because all the cafes and shops were open. Young couples cuddle on beach blankets, and even the older people frolicked in the ocean. I passed an elderly lady in a bikini posing in the boardwalk wall while her Speedo-clad husband worked the camera. When they were tired of playing in the sand or surf, everyone sat outside in front of the cafes, drinking and chatting and watching the water. It was very Hemingway-esque.

I also encountered a lot of young men trying to sell merchandise--watches, jewelry, or sunglasses and after a while I felt like swatting them away like gnats because I was tired of telling them no. They were even more persistent when I didn't look at them at all, and would ask how it was going in German and then complain that I didn't respond to a simple question.

I couldn't take enough pictures of the scenery, and then didn't feel like buying postcards because the real view was even better. I passed a McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Burger King among the shops on the promenade, but apparently Starbucks hasn't extended it's tendrils that far yet.

The restaurants at the shore all looked good, but I liked the waitress at the place I'd been to the night before, and maybe I'm just a creature of habit, so I went back to Tony's. I ordered the special, a Majorcan fish fillet with potatoes and a glass of house wine. Probably because I rarely cook, I can't explain the sauce; all I know is that it must have contained half a stick of butter, and was so creamy and peppery that they serve it with a spoon, knowing diners will want to scrape every drop off the plate. I had no room for dessert, and turned in early again, finishing Hemingway before bed.

Before check-out the next day I had time to jog, eat, and spend an hour lying in the sun by the pool while the hotel's entertainment staff did aerobics with some of the older hotel visitors. After check-out I still had time before I needed to get to the airport, and I planned to spend my last few hours on shore before taking the bus. As I was sitting on one of the concrete benches along the boardwalk wall, a portly man driving a horse carriage jangled up and called out something in Spanish, patting the seat next to him, rather than the seat behind where the passengers would normally ride. I continually had problems with the responding to people in the correct language. When someone held open a door for me, I didn't know whether to say “gracias” “danke” or “thank you.” I tried English with this man and called back “no thanks”. He switched to German and called over that he just wanted company, no money. I declined in German this time and he switched back to Spanish, but I didn't understand anything except the patting of the seat “bonita” and “por favor.” After the fifth or sixth rejection of his offer, he clip-clopped away.

The air hung very still that day, even though when I had gone for my run the mist was so thick I couldn't see the water from the boardwalk. Now I was sorry I hadn't brought a swimsuit and felt silly carrying my winter coat with me (I had my coat and backpack, since I'd had to check out of the hotel). For lunch I chose Rene's cafe, a little off the main path, and sat at a table directly in the sun. I planned to absorb every iota of vitamin D before returning to Germany.

The waitress brought me a menu printed in six languages. I ended up pointing at what I wanted in the English section of the menu while speaking in German and getting responses in Spanish. Somehow I got exactly what I wanted. I ordered tortillas Espanol because I didn't know what that was, but knew it was traditional. She brought me a little plate of green and brown olives, a few slices of baguette, and the tortilla Espanol, which was like a tiny potato pie with tortilla instead of crusts. It was fabulous. I sat for at least an hour, savoring the food, and enjoying the sun before saying goodbye to the Mediterranean and heading for the airport.