“Wake me up when it’s time to go,” GF said. “And don’t bother me until then.”
She bundled up her jacket and her scarf, and laid down on the plastic airport seats to sleep. I was sitting nearby, reading my kindle. It was very early. Horribly early. We had a flight at 8:30; our boarding call was at 8:00, but we had already gotten through security by 6:20. We had a lot of time to kill.
On the advice of locals here, we’d taken a cab instead of the subway, since the subway doesn’t start running until 6:00 every morning. It was €30 for a ten minute ride. This struck me as seriously overpriced; and indeed, it almost canceled the good deal we had gotten on airfare.
Our destination was Mallorca. We weren’t going because either of us particularly wanted to go. Indeed, neither of us knew anything at all about Mallorca (GF didn’t even know it was an island). We’d booked the flights because they were cheap on Ryanair: €15 each way. With airfare that low, you’re crazy not to go, wherever it is. But the catch was that both flights, there and back, were so early in the morning that it was impossible to get to the airport with public transportation. Think about this next time you book a flight.
I thought it would take an hour to get through security. It took five minutes. We didn’t even have to check in, since I’d done that online. An hour and a half stretched out before our groggy, sleep-deprived eyes; and since GF was sleeping, it was my job to stay awake. Lucky for me I’d just started a good book: James Michener’s Iberia, a gigantic travelogue of his time in Spain. It is more than just a travelogue, though, for Michener includes a cornucopia of historical information about Spain. I was riveted, and thus had no trouble staying awake despite my sleep deprivation. (I don’t sleep much during the week.)
I read and I read, completely unaware of my surroundings, until a loud noise caught my attention. I looked up to see two Asian tourists, both young men, yelling at the Ryanair staff in English. The staff were telling the tourists that one of their bags was too big and they had to pay a fee to check it in.
“But I picked this bag specifically, because of the information on your website!” one of them bellowed. “This is bullshit!”
The staff responded with something inaudible, prompting some loud cursing from the men. Then, one of them kicked the bag-measuring thingie (you know, one of those things that have a metal box and say “If you bag fits in here, it’s free!” on it). I was afraid there would be a fight, but the other man calmed his friend down. This didn’t stop both of them from yelling more curses in shrill voices before they boarded the airplane in a huff. The staff responded, from what I can tell, in a professional and composed manner. I felt bad for both parties. It’s an awful feeling when a company has you by the balls and can ask you to pay whatever it wants, but it’s also peevish and mean to yell at workers for something outside of their control.
Finally it was time for us to board. I woke GF, and the two of us got on line. This was the first time either of us had flown in Europe since our arrival, five months ago. People had told me that Ryanair nickel and dimes you with fees and rules. “Read the fine print carefully,” a friend told us. The affair with the two men only reinforced this idea in my mind. So I was a bit nervous as the man came to examine our bags and to check our tickets. But we got on the plane without a problem.
The plane was of medium size, big enough for 100 passengers. As befitting a budget airline, everything was bare and functional. The seats were plain rubber. There was no pouch on the seatbacks, there was no monitor to play a safety video, no nothing. But when you’re paying €15 a flight you can’t complain.
The plain taxied and took off right on time. Lucky for me, I had a window seat. It was a clear and sunny day, and the view of Madrid was incredible. I could see everything, every major building, every park and monument. The last time I had seen this view, I was arriving here for the first time. I remember getting off the plane, feeling lost and confused. “What are we doing here?” GF and I said to each other as we walked through the airport, jet-lagged and overwhelmed. I remember in particular that I was terrified of being pickpocketed, so I was something of a nervous wreck as I went through the Madrid-Barajas airport, clutching my bags with an iron grip, anxiously looking for a taxi. Everything was so foreign then, so absolutely new and scary.
I was looking out the plane’s window at the same city, except it was now familiar to me. It was home, and it was a beautiful place to call home. I felt how far I had come in the last few months. Change is so gradual that it’s often hard to notice; but it’s moments like these, when a circuit is complete, that allow you to feel the passing days and months in your bones. So much has happened in such a short time, and I felt it. Not only that, but I felt how lucky I am, how incredibly fortunate to be able to look at this landscape and call it home.
I looked and looked, and could not get enough of the view. The countryside was divided up into irregular quadrilaterals of farmland, some of them fallow, some of them full. A few towns dotted the landscape, little clusters of white specks amongst the yawning expanse of green. From the air, you get a real sense of how empty most of Spain is. The cities are all crowded together, leaving miles and miles totally empty except for a few roads. This is partly why Spain is such a picturesque country. Another reason is the mountains. In about ten minutes, the plane was passing over a sierra. This was the first time in my life that I was able to look down on the snow-covered peaks of a whole mountain range. I’d only ever seen such a thing in movies, and now here I was. I tried to read, but the view kept pulling me back. I spent nearly the entire plane ride glued to the glass.
The flight would have been worth the money only for this experience, had not the constant crackling sound of the intercom been added to the mix. I suppose Ryanair has to make money somehow. They do it by barraging you with advertisements during the flight, which they pitch to you through the low-quality intercom system. First was the standard stuff, food and drinks. Then came the tourist junk. After that, they even began to sell lottery tickets. The stewards on these flights are not stewards at all, but salespeople. Not five minutes passed without another sales pitch, in Spanish and mediocre English, through the plane’s intercom. I tried to block it out, but I was distracted. My neck hurt and my throat was very dry. But just when I began to feel annoyed, we left the mainland and flew over the sparkling aquamarine Mediterranean. Ten minutes later, we had landed in Palma de Mallorca.
By a lucky coincidence, our Airbnb host’s wife was arriving at almost the same time, and he offered to give us a ride back to the apartment. We only had to wait half an hour. We walked through the sleek, commercial airport to sit on the benches in the sun outside. As we passed through, I noticed that many of the signs were in another language, not Spanish and not French. This was Mallorquín, which is not really its own language but a dialect of Catalan. Or to be more politically correct, Catalan, Valenciana, and Mallorquín are all dialects of one another.
Languages have a political dimension here in Europe that is hard for an American to appreciate. By the time I was born, most of the native languages of the Americas had been ruthlessly marginalized or crushed. But here the languages stretch back centuries, and they are symbols of identity. The results of this are a lot of squabbles about what constitutes a proper language or only a dialect, with serious implications for the cultural autonomy of the area in question. Thus people from Valencia call their language Valenciana and people from Mallorca call their language Mallorquín, even though it is only a difference of a few words and an accent. But to call it Catalan would give Catalonia cultural primacy, and would therefore relegate Valencia and Mallorca to subsidiary roles. Even so, don’t make the mistake of calling any of these languages “Spanish” or even “dialects of Spanish.” That, they are not. Catalan is as different from Spanish as is Italian or Portuguese; and if you insist otherwise you will not only be wrong, but will make a lot of people very angry.
Another thing I noticed was a particular advertisement. It said something like “There are lots of cold Norwegians looking to buy a home. Sell with us!” This was a service specifically geared to helping natives sell their property to Scandinavians. This is another distinct thing about Mallorca: it is like the Florida of Europe. Tons of cold northern Europeans—Germans and Brits, mainly—move down here once they get old, in order to soak up some sun in their sunset years. Palma de Mallorca (the capital of Mallorca, where we landed) was simply crawling with Germans—in the airport, on the streets, on the train, in the restaurants. (Germans have a joke that Mallorca is the seventeenth state of Germany. “We should just annex it,” one German said to me. “Well, actually it’s kind of a good deal for us. Spain pays, and we get to live there.”)
We reached a bench outside and sat down to wait. The sun was wonderful. Despite the lack of sleep and the long morning, I felt reinvigorated. After half an hour, our host messaged us, and soon we were in the car on the way to the apartment.
We were being hosted by a married couple. The man was from the Canary Islands, and his wife was from China. This actually isn’t so common in Spain, and I was especially interested because my girlfriend is a Chinese American. Surprisingly, the woman didn’t speak Spanish well enough to have a proper conversation; she and her husband communicated in English, which made it easy for us as well.
“How’d you two meet?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” the wife said. “We met in Barcelona. And you two?”
“We met in a class in college,” I said, a bit disappointed that she didn’t elaborate about their meeting.
“So what do you do here?” GF said.
“We run a marketing business,” the man said. “I do everything. I’m the CEO and also the coffee boy.”
“Oh, wow. So why’d you move to Mallorca?”
“It’s a long story,” the wife said, and that was all.
Soon we had dropped off our bags and were out on the street. As is our habit, we wanted to see the cathedral first, but we took a detour to walk along the seaside to get there. It was a marvelously sunny day; the great ocean was a shimmering pool of light. A solitary sailboat sat in the distance; and if I squinted the scene could have been a painting by Sorolla and not reality. A bike path ran along the sidewalk, and every so often a couple of German bikers would go by—all with white hair—chatting amongst themselves. Seeing Mallorca for myself, I could well understand why the Germans moved here. If I was a German of retirement age, I’d come here too.
We picked an excellent angle from which to approach the cathedral, and I recommend that if you visit Mallorca, see the cathedral from the water and not the city. You get to view the cathedral at its most impressive, sitting elevated above a large pool with a fountain spraying a jet of water in the middle. The cathedral itself fits in perfectly with the tropical environment; its sand-colored façade doesn’t look at all incongruous. And with palm trees and fluffy white clouds framing the view, it is really a marvelous sight.
We walked up, paid the entrance fee, and went in. An audioguide was included, and I think it was the best audioguide I’d ever used in Spain. It had a big screen so that it could display a photo of your next destination. This removes some of the confusion of other audioguides.
The cathedral itself is known, or so I’m told, as the “Cathedral of Light” and the “Cathedral of Space,” although I believe the Granada cathedral also calls itself the “Cathedral of Light.” In any case, it is a spacious and well-lit cathedral. There are big rose windows on both sides of the building, which is unusual, as well as no choir in the center. Apparently, some of these ideas are owed to the famous architect, Antoni Gaudí. My memory is a bit hazy here, but I know that the fine candelabras wrapped around the columns are his work; and I think the main altarpiece is as well. This altarpiece is certainly unique: A heptagonal ring hangs from the ceiling, from which are hung several candles. On the top of this ring are wheat and grape plants (I don’t know of what material), symbolizing the body and blood of Christ. At present, it is still a fairly simple work; but maybe this is because Gaudí quit midway through the project (an embarassing fact that I believe the audioguide neglected to mention).
To the right of the main altar is a really daring piece of modern art done by Miquel Barceló. It is a giant clay sculpture that wraps around a semi-circular space. On the surface, molded into the clay, are representations of Jesus, the fish, the loaves, skulls, and much else that I couldn’t distinguish. The style is, to me, both gruesome and abstract. It’s hard for me to imagine anyone praying at a chapel like this, the tone is so dark and brooding and the style so idiosyncratic. But judged on its own merits I thought it was a fine work, if a bit excessive.
Our next stop was a far off: the Bellver Castle (in Mallorquín, the Castell de Bellver). This is a castle sitting on a big hill, overlooking the whole city. In this respect, it is rather like the Gibralfaro Castle in Malaga. According to my phone it would have taken over an hour to walk, so we caught a bus. But we still had quit a bit of walking to do once we got off, and this walking was all uphill. Soon we found ourselves wandering through a cute little neighborhood, trying to find the right way to enter the park where the castle is located.
“Is this the right street?” GF asked.
“I hope so.”
“What street does it say on your phone?”
“Iunno. I’m just following a direction, man. We gotta go that way,” I said, and pointed.
“Excuse me,” said a lady walking nearby; she was British. “Are you trying to get to the Castle Bellver?”
“Don’t go this way, it’s very long. Turn around, take a left and then a right, and you’ll see it.”
We turned around and, sure enough, there it was: the entrance to the park. It’s a good thing Mallorca has so many British residents.
As soon as we entered, we were faced with stairs. Lots of stairs. This was the walk up to the castle. We took it slow, not wanting to tire ourselves out—we are two unfit Americans, you understand—but even so, we had to stop and rest. Every time we turned a corner we were faced with yet another stairwell.
“This is just like the castle at Malaga,” I said. “So many stairs.”
Finally, we reached the top. We only had to climb the flight up to the castle’s entrance. But once we were there, a man stopped us.
“Do you have a ticket?” he asked.
“No, where do you get one?”
“Down there, he said, pointing down the stairs to a little building to our right.”
We walked back down and then went to the little ticket office. Then, our tickets in hand, we walked up the stairs in went in.
The Bellver Castle was built in the 14th century by James II of Mallorca. According to Wikipedia, it is one of the few circular castles in Europe. Seen from above, the castle looks like four concentric circles: the outer wall, the moat, the inner wall, and the central courtyard. To me it didn’t look very big, but I’ve read that it has successfully resisted two sieges. Not bad.
The place was swarming with people. There is a road that leads straight up to the castle, which allows travel companies to dump busload after busload of tourists into the castle for guided tours. Nearly all of them were Spaniards over 50, which I found interesting. Where were all the Germans and Brits?
The castle itself was quite nice—though, like all defensive structures, it wasn’t especially beautiful. If it were only us two, I don’t think it would have taken more than half an hour to explore everything. But every time we wanted to ascend a stairwell, turn a corner, or enter a room, we inevitably had to wait for a parade of tourists to shuffle out, single-file, their coats hanging from their arms, brochures gripped in their hands, chatting happily amongst themselves.
The castle has two floors and a roof. Every room in the place opens up on the central, circular courtyard. These rooms are crammed with artifacts in display cases, like a miniature museum. Unfortunately, all of the information was written in Mallorquín, so I couldn’t understand it. I’m sure it was interesting; many of the artifacts looked quite old, indeed ancient, going back all the way to Rome. Were the Romans here?
The best part of the visit was the view from the roof. Just as in Malaga, from here you could see the whole city stretched out before you, and then the ocean beyond; and behind you can see the green mountains. But we accidently chose the wrong stairwell to go up—the one for descending and not ascending—so we ended up getting stuck in a corner for about five minutes as a seemingly endless tour group walked past us. But the wait was worth it. There is nothing like standing on a castle on a hill, looking out for miles on the surroundings. If you’re imaginative enough, and my imagination is typically overactive, you can easily feel like a king.
We walked around. A little girl jumped out from behind a corner, trying to scare us. But when she realized we weren’t her mother, she ran away in embarrassment. A group of tourists asked us to take a photo of them, and then we asked them to return the favor. Then we descended by the correct staircase and left the castle. We didn’t take the stairs back down, since both of us were a bit traumatized, and instead walked through the surrounding park. It felt good to be surrounded by trees; that’s one of the main things I miss about NY: living near a park. Being in a city all the time—the constant waiting at crosswalks, going underground for the metro, the endless right angles—just gets to me after a while.
We eventually left the park and found a bus to the city center. By now, we were pooped. We hadn’t taken a break since the early morning, and every time we sat down we had to fight to stay awake. We didn’t have energy for anything else. And since it was getting near 7 o’clock anyway, there wasn’t much else to do. So as soon as we got back to the apartment, we searched for a place to eat nearby to we could go to bed early. Our search led us to a Chinese food restaurant in the neighborhood with great reviews.
I know, I know, typical Americans, eating Chinese food for dinner in Mallorca. In my defense, I can only plead that I love Chinese food and it’s tough to find the good stuff in Spain. But this restaurant was special. The ceiling was made of wood, and was elaborately decorated with reliefs of dragons. Lovely pictures of plants and flowers lined the walls; and two gigantic urns, ornately painted, stood in the center of the room. A lot of money had been spent here, and to good effect.
The waitress, an immensely peppy woman, was the most attentive server I’ve ever had. After we asked if they had bok choy, she sent her coworker out to get it, even as we protested “¡No, no es necesario!” Since it was just the GF and I in the restaurant (we were eating very early for Spain) she spent almost the whole time chatting with us. She’d been living in Spain for a long time, and had raised her kids here. As a result, her children were in the same situation as GF: of Chinese descent but unable to speak any form of Chinese very well. GF often talks to me about this, because it puts her in interesting and sometimes awkward situations. Whenever she meets someone Chinese here, they try speaking to her in Mandarin; but she only speaks Cantonese, and that very poorly.
When the food came it was great, almost as tasty as the food in Flushing, Queens (the best place to eat in NYC!). Our stomachs full, we went back to the apartment and went to sleep. It had been a long, long day.
I had only one thing planned for the following day: the Ferrocarril de Sóller, or the Sóller Railway. This is an old train line that runs between Palma, the capital of Mallorca, and Sóller, a smaller tourist town on the other side of the island. The train between the two places is not only a mode of transportation, but an attraction in itself; the history of the railway stretches back to 1911 and the original wooden train cars are still in use. Not only that, but the hour-long ride takes you past some great scenery.
We got a quick breakfast and walked to the station. There, we were told that round-trip tickets are €21 and that you have to pay in cash. There was also an option to buy a combined ticket, for €30, that included a round-trip ride on the tram to the port. But we were trying to be as cheap as possible, so we only bought the train tickets.
By luck, we arrived at the perfect time and got on the train minutes before it left. Soon the old thing was creaking into motion. The train moved at a leisurely pace out of the city. The tracks made that satisfying double clack as we went over them. For the first ten minutes or so, there isn’t much scenery to speak of. We passed buildings covered in graffiti, some of it quite good graffiti. We passed overgrown fields and empty, broken-down factories. We went under an overpass, the tracks running parallel to a highway. Cars zipped by, going much faster then we were, and two bicyclists in bright colors traveled alongside us. Then we passed a gas station and turned right into a field of olive trees.
Now the ride became really scenic. We were out of the town and away from the roads, surrounded on all sides by green. The squat forms of olive trees, arranged into neat rows, filled a flat valley. Nearby were the farm houses, with their roofs of red tile. Beyond, the mountains, stony and jagged. We went through a tunnel, the clack-clacking of the train echoing into a frightful jumble of noise. When we got out to the other side we could see a huge valley surrounded by mountains. In the middle of this valley was a little town, its white buildings and tile roofs shinning in the sunlight, its church spire looking tiny in the expansive space. This was Sóller. The tracks curved toward the town, and on our approach we passed by orange and lemon trees. Just as in Palma, many of the buildings on the edge of town looked abandoned. I suppose business hasn’t been great for farmers in Sóller, but the tourist industry is certainly booming.
By the time we arrived we were ravenous, so we found a place to eat in the main square. The menu was in four languages, English, German, French, and Spanish. It was a sunny day, so we sat outside, which also gave us the chance to enjoy the town. Sóller is quite a pretty place, though most people seem to pass through on their way to the port.
This is what the famous tram is for. According to Wiki, this tram is one of the only first-generation trams in Spain still in use. Like the train, it is an cute, old, wooden thing that crawls along at the pace of a leisurely bike-ride. As we ate we watched it go by, and it was so picturesque that both of us regretted not buying tickets.
But when we paid for lunch, I asked the man at the bar “¿Es posible para caminar al puerto?” and he said yes, it wasn’t a bad walk at all. We decided to try. We only had two hours until the last train from Sóller would go back to Palma, and according to our phones the walk was one hour. This meant we’d have to turn around as soon as we got there. But we didn’t have anything else to do, so what the hell?
Soon we were outside the city, walking alongside a highway. It was a sunny day, so sunny that I took off my sweater as we walked. Behind us, we could see the craggy cliffs of Mallorca forming giant a semicircle around us. To our right and left were fields of lemon and orange trees. Everything was green, and everything was shining in the Mediterranean sun.
“You know?” I said to GF. “I’m so glad we came to Spain.”
“Everywhere we go is just so fantastic. Everywhere is great. I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, Spain is really beautiful.”
“Why doesn’t everyone come here?” I said. “I mean, really? If the point of life is to be happy, then why not just give it all up and move here?”
I wanted to say more, but as usual I felt frustrated by my inability to find the right words, unhackneyed words, to express my sentiments. So often, I compare the rat-race ethic of New York with the easygoing pace of life here. For me, these two ethics are summarized by the urban sprawl of NYC and the open, natural landscapes of Spain. We have an idea in the States that if you spend years and years, whole decades, working your butt off and saving money, you can finally relax in retirement. If you do that, you will deserve to relax. You will have earned it. But this whole notion now strikes me as up-side down. We shouldn’t need to earn the right to enjoy ourselves and relax. This is the basic stuff of life. Now don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying we should all just laze about and avoid work. All I’m saying is that, in the weighing of future against present pleasures, many of us in NY pay far too much attention to the former at the expense of the latter.
We walked and walked, and I felt good to be using my legs on such a lovely day. And just as I began to forget about where we were going or how far we had gone, we arrived. The whole landscape opened up and revealed a bay full of bright blue water. It was a beautiful natural port, two long peninsulas enclosing a circular area of water, with only a narrow area open to the ocean. On the ends of each of these peninsulas stood a white lighthouse. The port was a German tourists’ dream, filled with restaurant after restaurant, each with outdoor seats that faced the water. There was a beach, too, though it was mostly empty. The only person in the water was a young man who was surfing on the gentle waves. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen anyone surf before, besides on television. After watching him balance on the waves, I can see the appeal. It looks fun.
There wasn’t much to do except enjoy the view. We walked along the port, passing restaurant after restaurant, going nowhere in particular. We passed by a musician who was entertaining a bunch of restaurant goers. He was playing the guitar and singing in English, and he sounded like a native speaker to me. But what really attracted my attention was a cat. It looked like a stray, just from the way it held its body around pedestrians.
When I saw the cat, it was standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. I approached it, solely with the aim of walking right past. But when the cat saw me, it began to climb the railing that separated the sidewalk from the beach. I always forget what amazing acrobats cats are. With nothing but smooth, slippery metal bars to hold onto, the cat climbed to the top of the railing and balanced there like a gymnast on a balance beam. Then, it tensed its body and jumped about five feet to a boat that was sitting on the sand nearby. With its claws, it gripped the canvas covering of the boat; and after it steadied itself, it carefully climbed under the canvas and into the boat’s interior. I wonder how many cats make their home this way in boats during the off season.
Just as I began to enjoy myself, I checked my phone. We had to go. In fact, we were already late. We had to get back to Sóller as fast as possible, or we would miss the last train back to Palma. Now the slog began. We turned around and began power walking back to the town. No more enjoying the scenery now, no more relaxing; just footsteps on concrete sidewalks and worried conversations about taking wrong turns. I did my best not to think about what would happen if we missed the train; but I couldn’t help it. Would we have to take a cab to Palma? How much would that cost? Would we miss our flight back the next morning?
After a distressingly long stretch of highway we made it back to the town; and from there it was only a few minutes to the train station. We made good time. When we finally got there, we still had five minutes to spare. Tired but elated, we got onto the train and slumped into the seats. The train creaked into motion, and once again we were treated to the Mallorcan countryside. If you go take the train to Sóller, maybe consider buying the tram ticket.
We were totally wiped out by the time we got back. We only had energy to eat dinner and sleep. Our flight was even earlier this time around: 6:20 in the morning, which meant we had to wake up at 4:00.
The next morning, disoriented, bleary, but full of nervous energy, I was once again sitting in the plastic waiting chars of our flight gate, GF asleep beside me. Once again, I was reading that travel book about Spain; and once again, I was thinking about how great this country is. And you know something is great when it gives you warm fuzzy feelings at 5 o’clock in the morning.