Going Local in Mallorca

London

I've not seen a dry day in London as yet.

My justification for being here was to meet with Dr. Judith Suissa, a professor of education who has done work on Anarchist education. She was kind enough to spend more than four hours obliging my questions, giving me a tour of the "radical East End" of London and then treating me to some Bangledeshi food, which passed favourably. What's more she urged me to pursue a topic of interest in relation to democratic / free schooling that I think will be interesting, unexplored, and largely applicable to the wider realm of the educational world, which I think will please Alan, my advisor. I hope that my work and my company will prove worthy enough an experience for her as well.

As always visiting Steve was a riot. He's a consumate entertainer and a very gracious host who pours generously...to the point where it's hard for this lightweight to keep up. But I did my best and worked through the headaches without complaint. I did, however, hit the water hard. His friend Chub, took the mick a bit, asking me why do you hate yourself?. But even hating myself, it was hard not to enjoy the rare London sunshine from Steve's balcony, overlooking the Tower Bridge, before we traveled downstairs to the very local (truly right next door) to watch the football game. The team I was ostensibly cheering for scored in the first thirty seconds and then proceeded to lose. Fortunately we had a bit of a sideshow whith the cute, but slightly odd, Swedish waitress who talked non-stop about her boyfriend, but then conspicuously rubbed his leg, folowed up by a call later that night. He can't help it though, he's a chic magnet. Steve's an attractive guy, but he definitely exudes something that women throw themselves at like an AXE bodywash commercial...chocolate pheromones? Anyway, they love it.

Steve also had his very attractive lady-friend (I know that makes me sound 60, but so be it) from France, Mel and they spent a good bit of time speaking in French which delighted me. I love listening to it and trying to figure it out. Even though mon Francais, c'est merde. The fact that Melanie and Nico are also French, makes me realize how much I have yet to learn. I may have to pursue it in order to realize my Canadianness through classes in Quebec. That way I'll fully understand the French, and speakers of French will still have trouble making out what I'm saying. Oh, low blow...but I don understand it to be a difficult accent. Funny enough, I find the accents that are most like Quebecois accents the easiest to understand. Weird. But it almost compensates for my slipping accent and the odd "zee" and "Huh" that escapes my lips, much to my chagrin.

My own wanderings brought me to some markets in East London where I looked through Banksey prints (a great, and brilliant grafitti artist. I also so a couple of odd T-shirts, and the guy, who was obviously responsible for the booth siad. "Ah, you like that mate? You can 'ave it for 10 quid. Tell you what, you buy it, an' I'll lick your forhead." This is when a woman beside him said, "how do you know that's going to encourage him?" I said, "you never know," but I rather have to admit I didn't want to look at anymore shirts just in case he thought a complimentary forehead licking would do some good. He figured it was a fifty fifty chance, which I think fits into my friend Camille's world of statistics (either 'e is or 'e isn't - 50%). After scoring an A+ in stats this past semester (I know, shameless bragging) I know that this is either poor statistics, or he thinks every other one is gay. In other words, I didn't like my chances. He nearly save himself when he said "alright, buy it and I'll throw in a button. I was not really interested in the shirt though. But the banter was good and I laughed knowing this would make for an interesting enough story to relate here for my three-plus readers who will get to this point in the blog before skipping on.

On the last evening before I took off a group of us headed to the globe theatre for a great rendition for "As you like it." They did such a fantastic job playing off the audience and were very playfull in their approach. We were all thoroughly impressed. I had forgotten to eat dinner...we all had in fact, and by the end of it, I was hungry enough that I had fallen into my own anti-social malaise that I tend to get into when hunger strikes. I felt bad, but tried to be as social as possible as we hunted for dinner and a place to go out. I think I recovered myself somewhat, but I'm certain Steve at least noticed I was not my usual self. No reflection on the night or company, just one of my own flaws.

London, it seems to me was a great port of call to head to Mallorca.

Palma de Mallorca

It was a simple plan: get to the airport early and get on the plane. Well, I had forgotten, or at least remembered incorrectly, that I needed to get a special security stamp on my boarding pass. So when I arrived at the gate finally, after being at the airport nearly two hours in advance, I was told I would have to run, go out through security, clear security again, and run back. doors close in 15 minutes. So I hoofed it back, and a nice looking security officer, who took her time, showed me out, and then directed me to where I was going to get the stamp. Getting back in was more difficult. I had to empty my water bottle into a garbage can (sorry to whomever had to empty it), and then cleared security again, but thistime they thought I had to be a terrorist. I must have looked nervous, as one does when they're certain to be missing their flight in the next few minutes. The security guy ripped my bag apart, checking everything with bomb sweeps (this after I had cleared without troubles and had walked past a drug sniffing dog without a second whif more than an hour earlier). Eventually he was convinced that I was not intending to blow up the airport and let me go. I packed up hastily and drove forward at near top speed. I got almost to the gate when my bag bounced open and several of the contents fell out. With the help of an older lady, I picked them up, and made it to the gate just in time. Upon arriving at Mallorca airport I had a whole new adventure. No euros, no phone, and I had to make a call. Anywhere in the world you have three options. 1) ATM 2) Currency exchange 3) credit card --- Both (yes only two) ATMs were broken, and the currency exchange place was closed because it was sunday. So the third option was still available, only it took me a half hour to find a phone that would accept my card, only to be charged $24 and change for a one minute call to Melanie. Ouch...I'll be disputing that when I return. Feckless theives, those corporate telecoms. But the good news was I had made it.

The experience of most visitors to Mallorca belongs to the vacationer. They travel to Mallorca to be waited upon, to lay on the beach, and if you´re English, drink themself poor. For many, the get away is a first away from parents when teens can shag their way through their holiday, but for most, Mallorca is a convenient way to have Germany or England in the sand, surf, and sun, away from home. There is no need for visitors to have a cultural experience, and from what I can tell, the cultural experiences one can have in Mallorca are muddled with German and English. Restaurants often have their only menus outside in German or English, people assume that if you are blonde you must be from one of the two locals and show a palpable sense of relief when they find out you are not one of them, but their contempt is particularly reserved for the English, who obviously trespass upon the sensibilties of the Mallorcans more so than do the Germans. This is, of course, an over generalization, but there is a hint of truth attached to stereotypes of all kinds.

So to have an experience that is far different, both in nature and location is a welcome opportunity in seeing this island. I am, after all, a traveler and not a vacationer by nature. It is a shame, too, I think not to see all that this gem of an island has to offer. In fact, I would argue that Mallorca offers some of the best vistas and panoramas in the whole of Europe, and I have but two examples that can even approach those of the Monastery of San Salvador, namely the view from the castle atop of Bled Lake in Slovenia, and the view from the cafe at the top of Hohenslazburg in Salzburg, Austria. If one has a chance to visit this island, it would be wise to rent a car to explore it. The towns, nestled along shorelines and within the valleys between the mountains, are each unique in their charm and character. Some were built into terraces, and like Deie, was hidden from the view of the sea by a large hill to protect it from pirate raids. The island is also dotted with watch towers that are meant to signal the troops from Palma against pirate raids, which were the bane of the island's existence for centuries. One of the amazing opportunities to take in is the wooden train to Soller, which crosses the island and tunnels through the mountains. It offers sweeping views of the countryside, and passes so close at times to the lemon trees, that if it wouldn't rip your arm of to do so you would reach out and pluck your harvest. It took a lot of stubborn resistance to avoid doing so.

My time with Melanie and Nicolas was fantastically relaxed, sleeping in into the afternoon, which is a rare thing for me, and may not have happened since my early twenties. Being big sleepers, having my jetlag catch up with me late, it was a perfect way for me to keep up. But along with it came late nights with music, food and conversation with them and with their friends. During the first day, I went and hung out with Mel at her workplace. While she toiled, I sat by the shore, read my book in the shade, laid by the pool, drank coffee, and watched the good looking women in bikinis until she got off work. The nex couple of days we spent driving around taking in the views I've previously mentioned. I am impressed by the mountains. The Sierras, which stretch through southern Spain dive deep into the Mediterranian before emerging from the sea to loom large above the island's farmlands. It is everything, physically that I would call ideal for me: the sea, the sun, and true mountains, but something about it would not make it a good home for me. Perhaps it's a little too sleepy, or maybe a little too dependent on foreigners for its survival. A cultural experience, I think, would be hard to come by in Palma. Even in terms of language, you will have a greater chance of guessing wrongly than you will correctly.

This is not to say that I did not enjoy my experience, and Spanish food is terrific and very inexpensive. What's more, Melanie is one of my favorite people in the world and Nico is a great match for her, and in seeing this I liked him instantly. And so, I had a thoroughly good time with Nico and Mel and on our last night we stayed out late into the night drinking a great Minorcan Gin, called Xoriguer, which is made with grapes as well as juniper berries, making it thoroughly tastey and robust. A must for lovers of gin. We laughed and talked, joking with the waiter, who brought us tequila before we called it a night. I was a bit on the drunk on the unmeasured pours, which were surely generous, especially after the waiter learned that Mel was a waitress. I was certainly more confident at this point with my Spanish, which may truthfully have improved with my limited linguistic abilities, but it was at this point that we headed home, which was probably a good idea anyway. We kept going and Nico put in the chocolate Fondon which he made earlier as a lesson to me in the making of French pastry (being a French pastry chef).

Postscript:

There are times in one's life where complicated desires, often working at cross-purposes, intersect. In such times the difficulty becomes one of the life path. There are choices to be made -- to return fully to the life lived previously, to do so with minor or major adjustments in one's thinking and goals, or to abandon them wholesale to strike out a new and different path whether immediately or in a staged retreat. Such is the work of travel if it is pursued correctly. To be certain one may remove themselves from from drudgery from time to time, to vacate their normal lives in favour of more gentile places to play king and queen for a day, a week, or more. But to live in this manner is not sustainable, and cannot, therefore present one with true alternatives, and so also cannot tear at the fabric of one's usual material life. But to do so in a livable fashion tugs ferociously at it bringing to the mind all sorts of alternative realities worthy of consideration. For some the veil behind which they toil is a thin one and easily torn away, and for others it is course and may take multiple gashes before it can be pulled back to reveal anything at all. Such is my experience as I travel, and with time for meditation and quietude it begs for reflection. So while forthcoming changes and perspectives are not changed for me in any radical fashion, there's certainly a sense that my ideas of where I want to be and do with my current path have been clarified substantially. But I'm not about to reveal anything...suspense.

Next stop, I'm back to London and then off to Porto, Spain

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