Day 1: I landed after dark. The plane was late out of Gatwick. After a short overnight at my gran’s, I felt refreshed and the delay was manageable; England just wanted to hold on a bit longer, a bit tighter, and I consented.

Having only decided on Palma two days prior and having little-to-no previous knowledge of the destination, I chose the cheapest hostal I could find. It was in Palma, sure, but not in, like, the centre of Palma. The bus from the airport was over-crowded but easy enough to board, the fare easy enough to pay.

Adrian at the hostel check-in was kind kind kind and I dropped my stuff in my private room (!) and hit the beach because, well, I needed to prove to myself I had made it to the beach! I needed to hear the ocean and smell…

It smelled like McDonalds and vape juice.

Palma on a Thursday night in late August (that area of Palma, at least) — it’s not entirely accurate to say it was my worst nightmare but it would also be a lie to tell you it was exactly what I had in mind for my vacaciones.

Perhaps the thing most human and true about travel is that you must go in order to really know. And there will always always always be surprises. Some sweet-smelling and some foul-smelling and all the smells in between, too.

After some time on the beach, I headed back and scrolled for some hours to find out where I could stay next. I was mostly just looking for places that maybe wouldn’t smell like the inside of a Tallahassee nightclub.

Things no one told me about Mallorca (to be fair, I didn’t actually ask): the rental cars are cheap and accommodation is expensive. The getting places takes time and patience and the staying places takes some serious surrendering to a “I’m on holiday!” state-of-mind.

Day 2: I took a bit of a walk-run toward a private little cove and started to really feel like myself again. I headed back to check out of my room and have some breakfast. After deciding not to rent a car, I asked the hotel staff about the best way to get to Deia, the quaint little town where tonight’s hotel sat, overlooking some mountains. The very nice lady gave me fantastic advice about paying with cash for the first bus and then switching buses in Palma and paying with a card on that bus and all the rest — serious, practical, local knowledge! and with a smile!

I paid her 1.70 euros for a coffee, sat down on the terrace and tuned out the german (dutch?) lads to my left so that I could do some writing.

I heaved my bag onto the street, to the ATM, into the mercado to buy a banana and break a 50 note so that I could pay for the first bus. I sat at the bus stop and ate my banana with some almond butter I brought along with me only to realize I didn’t have a spoon. I had enough time to pop into the shop nearby and grab another coffee (so that I could ask for a spoon) And it was good thing I didn’t want the coffee because the bus was early (probably late) and its driver made me throw out the coffee.

And it was the wrong bus.

After 4 buses over the next 4 hours, I was in Fornalutx (not Deia). My hotel for tonight and tomorrow tucked itself alongside a narrow street a 7 minute walk from the shuttle stop.

I checked in and learned about the hikes nearby. I only had to push my two work phone calls back by 30 minutes each. I had great, productive conversations with the women on both calls, one in Johannesburg, another in Florida.

I shopped in town for a hat and some sandals and bought only a dress and a top. The dress was made in Argentina. I came all the way to Mallorca to buy a dress made in Argenetina.

At least the materials are organic!

I wandered.

I meandered.

I settled on one of the 6 restaurants in town, one with a fantastic view, at a table I had to vacate in 45 minutes because someone else had it reserved for a very Spanish time of night. I enjoyed a gazpacho, a grilled seabass, and una copa, and oh, how I love the price of table wine here!

The night of the art market here in Fornalutz happened to fall on this, my first of two nights in town. And creators and their creations lined the streets — well, one street.

And it was wonderful.

I headed back to my room with a mountain view to read the time-travel novel I found at reception and continue making plans for the rest of my trip. I booked a massage at one of the nicest hotels in the area for tomorrow and tried not to think so much about the cost. As the saying goes: when in Mallorca! Right?

Day 3: Today I thought to myself, “Today may just be my perfect day.”

and even on my perfect days, I overthink and fixate on things and I think maybe that being in this mind and being in this body is just part of this whole mess and maybe those days when I think, “if only I wasn’t thinking about xxxxx,” those can still be perfect days

I think

Anyway

Today I woke up with no alarm, breathed, meditated, luxuriated in a slow brekkie of jamón, eggs, olives, and bread. After two coffees, of course, I headed to the Port de Sóller to find some sand before my afternoon massage appointment.

After buying myself a hat in a beachfront shop, I sat myself next to a topless woman so that I wouldn’t feel so alone when I did something I have always wanted to do.

I vaguely remember seeing topless women dotting the European beaches of my younger days. I was in awe of them. Now that I can put words to my wonderment, I know that in those pubescent moments, I could not fathom ever being comfortable enough in my own body to recline in the sand, tummy up and eyes closed, so exposed like that.

And I did it. and it didn’t feel that weird. and no one really looked at me funny. and I even stood up and went in the water.

And then I hiked up to Jumierah for a massage. (I did this part clothed but I did wonder to myself what makes it acceptable to go without a shirt in one place and then totally unacceptable to be without a shirt mere steps away from that place)

And the massage was lovely.

And then I tasted the best date of my whole entire life. It was huge and meaty and sweet as heck.

I also found a razor at the spa and finally shaved my pits. and I even took the flip flops they gave me in the locker because if I would have known I was coming to Spain at the height of summer, I would have never left home with only my Hokas and my Docs.

I found a spot for Gambas al Ajillo and a wine. I ate and read my book, distraught to find that everywhere requires at least two patrons to serve paella.

I meandered my way back up to Fornalutx, my belly not yet full enough to head to sleep (lack of paella). I found an Italian spot and ordered a salad that I thought included chickpeas but upon receiving it and asking about it, stood corrected. Mixed leaves, walnuts, goats cheese, sweet potato, fennel, and a honey mustard dressing. It tasted delightful. As did the pizza bread I drenched in a spicy oil. The book was delightful, too. And so was the view.

I retired to my room for some scrolling to find out where I might stay tomorrow night. And I did some writing. And I dozed off into a comfortable slumber, the sun having taken from me an appropriate amount of energy, I having willingly sacrificed it to Her.

There’s no one else more deserving, truly.

Day 4: so today I really think may have been my perfect day.

Today, I woke up with no alarm. I did my breathing and meditation and some light stretching before I went for a walk and saw a market stall being constructed. I sat and had a coffee just to watch it all come alive — “it all” is a stretch — Fornalutx is a small town with a small centre but day-trippers seem to flood in each morning and Sunday was no exception. Many of the locals were surely sleeping in but the girlies in white skirts and small sunnies ready to make the most of their vacaciones were out in full force by 11am.

I ate jamón, eggs, olives, and bread for breakfast (again) (yum!) and read my novel and arranged my things for check out before I sat out by the pool on my laptop and booked tomorrow’s flight to Valencia. I then booked tomorrow’s train ticket (non-refundable) (*shudders*) from Valencia to Madrid, where tomorrow’s accommodation had previously been booked.

I headed to the bus station 30 minutes early to read and watch the mountains be mountains and watch the tourists struggle with the parking meter. I was grateful, at this moment, I decided not to rent a car. Should I have told the girlies that parking is free on Sundays?

The book started to get good and I boarded the bus to Sóller. I arrived at Casa Bougenvilla without any hicups, at approximately the time I told them I would arrive. Ángel, who was aptly named, checked me in and told me my single room would be ready in 30 minutes and to please enjoy the garden while I wait.

Why, I absolutely will, muchas gracias a ti.

My small room held me just right. My window showed me the mountain and some adjacent windows from houses within which I imagined local families were resting and playing games and cooking together.

I went to the center of town, found a quiche and an empanada and sat upon the steps (atop my book, to preserve my white dress) of some magnificent building, eating my cold baked goods, looking out at others whose gazes and iPhones were directed in my direction but up, at the monument.

After lunch, I made my way to the bus stop, stopping to buy a peach on the way. My direction was Deia. With my right hand sticky from peach juice, I boarded and readied myself for what I thought would be an easy ride.

The winding roads and multiple near-collisions unsettled my stomach. I did not explore the town of Deia. It was already 4pm (which I am learning, to a Spaniard, may as well be midday) and I was eager to catch some sun at the beach. I made my way to Cala Deia, a beach which was, according to my map, a 21-minute stroll.

Something about maps is that they can only be so accurate.

As it happens, the one day I ditch the Hokas happens to be the day I hike to the beach. The path to the beach was all downhill but you know when you start heading somewhere new and it’s all downhill and all you can think about is how that means the way back will be all uphill but you’re too far deep to turn around now ?

I found the beach. and it was visually stunning and it was lively. I stared out at the sea from the cove, one restaurant to my left and one to my right and there were people all along the rocks and in every seat in each of the restaurants.

I started looking for topless strangers I could join.

I found only one but one was all I needed. She was quite obviously far more comfortable than I, smoking a cigarette, making eye contact with a friend. I studied her posture and did my best to emulate it. Still shy, I found some corner of rocky beach (not pebbles, like, actual rocks, jagged and very much not suited for topless sunbathing. especially for someone new to topless sunbathing) far from the restaurant patrons’ view so that unless they were searching for it, their meal would not include any offensive sights.

I took off my dress and started reading my book, the pages and their contents a haven for my attention.

I soon worked up the courage (and the sweat) to take a dip in the sea. To get there, though, I had to tip toe past a young man. As I stepped onto his towel, I have to believe the angle was such that if he looked up to see who was invading his space, he would most certainly see me from a perspective I’m not sure any past lover, or any past anyone ever has.

There is no graceful and sexy way to balance on slippery rocks and glide into shallow water. If there is, I haven’t mastered it. That is now clear.

I made it to the water. and its temperature and salinity immediately rid me of my imagined duty to be sexy. I tried to swim away from the man with the goggles, tried not to get between the couple swimming back to shore. But mostly, I tried to enjoy exactly where I was for just a little bit.

And so. An hour after arriving, I left Cala Deia and started the trek back to the bus stop, back the way I came, clothed, wet bikini bottoms in hand. The ascent was not nearly as taxing as I had feared it might be. I reminded myself I could take breaks. I reminded myself that if I missed this bus, I could make the next one, that Deia would not be a bad place to kill an hour of time. I was intensely dehydrated but other than that, I was blissed out by the sun and salt and surrendering to the uncontrollables.

Perhaps it takes a whole day to settle into a day.

Perhaps a whole weekend, actually.

I arrived at the stop with 5 minutes to spare. The ride home did not rattle my stomach in the same way the first one did.

It is still, after all these years of doing new things, impressive how knowing what to expect feels so different from an altogether new experience.

Once I arrived back to Casa Bouganveilla, I gulped a glass of water and headed out for dinner. I found my way to an unassuming little spot in the center of town — somewhere with many tables, somewhere unpretentious, somewhere I would not be told, “We have a reservation in 45 minutes. I’m sure you’ll be done by then?”

I was seated by a man who looked like he didn’t very much want to be working. I think that’s just Spain, though. Fed up with tourists. Fed up with work. Fed up with working for tourists, maybe? On a Sunday, maybe?

I was surprised by how yummy my dinner was. I’m not sure why I didn’t expect it to be all that good — perhaps I am accustomed to being wow-ed by words on a page and here, in these towns, people are a bit more real; the menu tells you what’s in the meal but no one goes to much trouble using words like “heirloom” or “deconstructed” or “artisanal” in order to sell you on the goodness. Basically, I wouldn’t look at that menu and say, “wow, that sounds really good.” which, I guess, when I really think about it, is okay. I want my food to taste good. Not sound good. Right?

What does this subtle difference do for a culture? for an entire group of people?

Where in the world is better at making food taste good than sound good? What’s the benefit of doing both? What is the benefit of exceeding expectations?

I ordered Tumbet con Huevo, a dish I had seen once before and decided against for some reason or another. Didn’t sound good, maybe.

A traditional Mallorcan dish, it was presented in a delightful composition, garnish and all. And I ate slowly and read my book and finished my whole bottle of sparkling water and had a gelato on the same steps where I enjoyed lunch. (I chose the steps after I tried to sit in empty chairs outside a closed restaurant and was promptly shoo-ed away by someone I assumed but was too embarrassed to confirm was the closed restaurant’s manager or owner)

Lo siento. Lo siento.

I listened to one song from the man on the sax.

And as the Mallorcans and the tourists were just getting their Sunday night started at 8:30, I had to call it a night. I was exhausted and happy and full and ready to pack up my things for tomrorow’s early morning.

Day 5: started with the wrong bus. well — it was the right bus but it was heading in the wrong direction. well — not the wrong direction just not the direction I was meant to go. The mix-up set me back 30 minutes but I budgeted for exactly 30 minutes when I set my alarm last night so everything was fine and good. The bus driver tried to alert me to the fact that we were going to the port and not Palma — I’m sure my huge bag clued him in but it was early and the hardest part about trying to speak another language is not the speaking — it’s the responding when spoken to because there’s minimal time to prepare.

Anyway.

I got to the airport 2 hours early. I stood in the line I knew was mine but it was far too long for my liking so I went to another line, got to check-in where the lady behind the counter obviously could not find me in her system. She told me I was in the wrong line and seemed to enjoy telling me I must wait at the back of that line, gesturing to the Iberia line full of dozens and dozens of families, couples, all types of passengers going all types of places, all underwhelmed with the airport experience yet all quelling the frustrations because, well,

what can we do?

I tried to read while in line. My anger (frustration?) (bafflement?) distracted me and so I stood and stared at the 4 agents working the line. Surely only 3 of them working at a time. I swear I saw one guy open another counter to check in ONE person and then clocked out and went home. Smiling and waving to his collegues.

What a strange place the airport is.

I am finally sat at the gate, having maneuvered my way through security, duty-free, the convenience store (the flow of traffic in there was not convenient) and it has been 4 hours and 30 minutes since I woke up. I am supposed to take off in 20 minutes which means I was supposed to start the boarding process 10 minutes ago. My flight is delayed* because, well, of course it is.

I never want to fly anywhere ever again.

*It is now 2:05pm. It has been 2 hours and 25 minutes since I typed the sentences above. Between then and now, my flight to Valencia has been cancelled, I have called Iberia 5 times; one of which resulted in my being assigned another flight; I have retrieved my luggage, checked in at a different airline counter, passed through security again and found myself in a different corner of the same airport.

2.5 hours ago, I was rather dissatisfied with my flight circumstances. Now, I am actually feeling like the luckiest woman in the whole world because someone named Diana on other side of the phone was able to get me on a direct flight to Madrid this afternoon. and I have my bag. and I don’t have to get on a train.

Somewhere between 2.5 hours ago and now, I felt like crying and giving up and never going anywhere ever again.

In my hospitality courses at university I learned about an important semi-psychological element to the service industry; as a service provider, your opportunity to exceed expectations increases after you have disappointed a guest.

At the start of my call with Diana from Iberia, I was on the verge of tears. 37 minutes later, I told her I wished I could kiss her through the phone. 5 minutes later, I fist-pumped at the check-in counter.

To some extent, it pays to screw up. As long as you do a decent job recovering.

Bloody masochists, we are!

What is the benefit of exceeding expectations?

*P.S. I arrived at the airport 6 hours and 45 minutes ago and I have not set foot on an airplane.

¡Buen Viaje!