“Si senor, only 10 kilometres.”

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Palma de Majorca, Spain

31st July - 7th August 2004

At the mid-way point of 2004, Vicky declared she needed a holiday. And not one of the sightseeing or visiting the relatives variety.

She wanted sun, sea, sand and most of all, no itineraries or timetables to keep to. I myself was beginning to tire of the London way of life and promptly agreed that a week in the sun would be much needed.

With that in mind, I set about booking a break to one of Western Europe’s many summer hide-aways.

After doing some research, I finally settled on Mallorca (also spelt Majorca), which is the largest of the Balearic Islands. The Balearic Islands (made up of Ibiza, Menorca, Mallorca & Formentera) float between Spain and the North African coast.

The main city of the Balearic’s is Palma de Majorca and this is where we were headed. Although it is officially part of Spain, Majorca has its own Parliament, President and Supreme Court.

Leaving from London’s Gatwick Airport in the early hours of Saturday 31st of July (2004) we were immediately met by problems when we had to line up for more than 40 minutes to check in. Adding to the fact we were already running late, one of the BA stewards began shouting for anybody “else” leaving for Palma to follow them.

Having been standing in the line for more than half an hour, we were both quite certain that this had been the first and only call for anyone flying to Majorca. In any case, we were rushed to the front desk and the obnoxious lady serving us asked us to do something about the straps on our backpacks.

Unbeknown to me at the time, the packs we had borrowed actually had a cover for the straps, but on this occasion we proceeded to tuck them in and tie them up in any way we could. Being impatient like all BA check-in desk employees are required to be, this lady instructed us to check our packs in at the over sized baggage check -in around the corner - even though we were doing as she had previously asked.

We dropped the bags off with a smile and jumped on the plane for the short two and a half-hour journey.

Arriving at Palma de Majorca airport, I was a little confused. I was certain that we had just left England but due to the number of red-skinned English people wandering around in the terminal - literally in their hundreds - I could have been mistaken.

I remember thinking that I had just stepped into my worst nightmare...but indeed it was about to get worse.

After standing at the baggage carousel for nearly an hour and watching the same bags rotate passed us again and again, the carousel was turned off...and we were still without our bags.

I noticed a couple of other people standing near by, also without their luggage - one of which I noted was former Newcastle winger Darren Albert, who now plays for St Helens in Northern England. As they trudged off to “Lost Luggage”, we promptly followed.

Fortunately we managed to be served by an English-speaking attendant, something which Mr. Albert had failed to do. We were told by the lady that our bags were still at Gatwick airport and that they would be on the next flight over and would arrive later that night.

After kicking up much of a fuss, the desk attendant agreed to have our bags delivered to our hotel. We were given a number that we could ring periodically to find out the status of our packs, so with that in hand we left the airport in a cab, hopefully heading in the general direction of our hotel.

The directions as given on the hostels website indicated that at the end of the dual-carriage way we would need to turn off near a petrol station, and our driver duly complied without so much as a prompt. From here it gets a little sketchy. The directions become a little less direct and the scenery around us shows no matching landmarks.

We get the distinct impression the driver has no idea where he is going. Luckily for us El Arenal, is a well known, but rather small area and eventually we were back on the right track, for now.

After a further twenty minutes of endless driving, the taxi pulls up outside a cafe near the beach and the driver points down the street in an unassuming manner.

We get out of the cab and find our bags have been safely deposited on the footpath. In paying the man, I ask where our hostel is. At which point the driver points in the general direction of the beach and then drives off.

He obviously had no idea so we were now left stranded in the middle of El Arenal, not knowing where we are staying and having no luggage.

The temperature at this point was a mere thirty-one degrees centigrade and with us both wearing jeans and thick socks, we began to sweat uncontrollably. It was at this point that we decided it’d be best if we purchased a pair of shorts each and make this “experience” a bit less life-threatening.

In all, I reckon we walked for about forty minutes or so, dropping into every shop and cafe in El Arenal to ask if they knew where the Hostel Verimar was. Each one seemingly is pointing us in the opposite direction to the previous one.

FINALLY we found our hostel, thanks to the kind lady behind the bar at the Palma sailing club.

We checked in, changed into our shorts and sped off down to the beach - in an attempt to put the morning’s ordeal behind us.

Growing up in Sydney, where the beach is as much a part of your daily life as is Milk & Bread, I find it interesting to see each different country’s beach life.

In Sydney it’s quite simple - large grassy sand dunes covered in pine needles leading to piping hot white sand and big crashing waves. Swim between the flags and you will be as safe as you can be.

Despite the lack of constant hot weather, Brighton beach remains popular back in England, even though there is no sand (only pebbles) and the water is not unlike the Antarctic.

Here in Palma, the water is calm and flat while layered with hundreds of bikini & Speedo clad tourists floating on “li-lo’s” - the English term for long floating device, resembling an airbed.

Back on the sand, the beach is packed. We find a nice spot underneath a straw umbrella that has vacant deck chairs lying next to it. Despite the mass of people, this area is surprisingly vacant so we set up shop.

It’s not long after I settle into a comfortable position under the sun, when a guy in an official looking T-shirt awakes me. He appears to be asking for money. Eventually after some careful translation using expansive hand movements, he informs me that to occupy these spots, we have to pay eight euros (four euros per deck chair).

At first I felt this was a little steep but the upshot was that once you pay, those chairs are yours until seven in the evening - regardless of what time it is that you pay for them. On this occasion we declined and moved onto our towels on the sand.

One of the first things that I notice about this particular beach, is the abundance of bare-breasted women. Not that I am complaining, you understand, but the free spirited women did come as a bit of a shock.

I pointed this fact out to Vicky and she quite rightly accused me of perving, before also commenting that we are in the Mediterranean after all.

After relaxing swim and a nice afternoon nap back at the hostel, I rang baggage handlers for an update on our packs.

“Sorry Senor, but your bags have still not arrived, please call back in an hour.” Said the lady at the end of the phone in broken English.

The sun had begun to set and the evening was upon us. Fresh from our afternoon naps and with the understanding our bags would be delivered in good time, we headed out to grab a bite to eat for dinner close to our hostel.

We perused the menus of the majority of restaurants in our surrounding area before settling on the cafe attached to the Verimar.

The seventeenth rule of travel dictates that you should never eat in a restaurant where the menu consists of pictures of each dish on laminated pieces of cardboard. However on this occasion, we must have had a particular craving for a microwave-heated pasta dish.

Despite the preparation method, I have to say it was one of the most delicious meals I have ever had. Following dinner we again got on the phone to the baggage people.

“Senor we do not know if you bags have come in on this evenings flight.” Said the somber lady at the end of the phone.
“So you’re telling me that you’ve lost our bags?”

“No Senor, we just do not know where they are.”

“Well then, that’s completely different isn’t it!”

As the discussion progressed, I managed to get out of her that she DID actually have the bags, but they just didn’t have anymore drivers available to deliver them to us.

“Your bags will be delivered to your hotel first thing tomorrow morning Senor"

At this point, Victoria got on the phone. Now I can’t recount what she said to the lady here, but I can reveal by the time she was done speaking to the lady and I got handed the phone back - our packs where duly on their way to our hotel.

I’m convinced that Vicky scared the lady into going out on to the tarmac to search for the bags herself.

Within an hour both our bags were delivered and we were able to shower and go to sleep in fresh clothing. Now, we can begin to relax.

The Verimar is a small hostel in El Arenal. A short 400 metre walk through town and you are on the beach. For forty-five euros per night, our room is very simple but nice, consisting only of a double bed, a dressing table with mirror and a built-in cupboard. The absence of a TV was a relief for both of us, meaning we would spend minimal in-doors.

We did discover that the balcony would provide us with small doses of entertainment however. Sitting on the balcony, you could watch for hours, the rooms in the hostel opposite us - it was like watching an episode of big brother. When one curtain closes, another opens and with it an entirely new story.

A buffet breakfast had also been included in the price of our room so the next morning we headed across to the Europa hotel - which is affiliated with the Verimar due to the size of their restaurant and the presence of a swimming pool.

Then, our first proper day in Palma began with a slow stroll down to the beach, paying four euros each for a bed and a hut with shade, and relaxing in the sun.

During the Spanish Civil War, Nationalist forces repeatedly bombed Majorca, obviously causing much damage but recent times have been much kinder to the island that has since discovered tourism. And the tourists in turn, it seems, have discovered it.

Within a matter of minutes, it was all on show (literally) on the beach again. Practically thousands of holiday makers spread along the coastline of Palma, wearing as little as possible. In some ways this was a good thing, in others it was very, very bad. Don’t their wives tell these over-weight men that only Sydney Surf LifeSavers can get away with Speedo’s? Why old European men insist on wearing these things outside of their own houses and in the presence of children is one of life’s mysteries.

On this day, the over-crowded beach full of sun-seekers and mostly English & German tourists has been made bearable by the hot Mediterranean climate (average temperature of 27°C- today though it managed around 33°C).

I took full advantage of the cloudless sky and quietly baked in the hot sun, however Vicky was much more cautious of any potential skin damage, lying in the sun for only short periods at a time before reclining to the shade. This act unfortunately did not have the desired affect when we discovered upon returning to the hostel later that day, that Vicky had inadvertently burnt her shoulders.

Breaking from the midday sun, I made the trek across the hot sand to the Subway sandwich bar located opposite the beach to buy us some lunch, burning my feet in the process.

The rest of the afternoon passed with Vicky in the shade reading and me alternating between floating and reclining on sea & sand respectively.

Back at the hostel, we continued the routine of a shower and an afternoon nap. And of course there was lots of applying “after sun” & moisturiser to sunburn.

Around eight or nine that night, we awoke and headed out for dinner. As we strolled along the stunning coastline of Palma we noted that each mile or so we walked was marked with a beachfront cocktail bar - all very clearly numbered. On this night we walked up to eight and found a restaurant for dinner.

The slow walk back saw us crossing the paths of the night-clubbing crowd on their way out to party. Thankfully the night club district of Palma is in the opposite direction of our hostel so despite the heat, we could sleep soundly.

Day three started as a repeat of the previous, with breakfast & a beach visit again our first activities. Around midday, we headed back along the coastline and found Golf Son Antem - a restaurant with a miniature golf course attached to it.

After a semi-rushed round of golf that saw each hole finish with no fewer than 7 strokes each, we retired to the beachfront restaurant.

With our Spanish now expanded to include “dos pinascoladas por favor” we enjoyed our cocktails and pizza in the afternoon sun as a cool sea breeze swept in.

Apparently the usual haunt of several high profile celebrities, the Palma coastline is rampant with clothing & swimwear stores. Along our walk back, we visited no fewer than ten stores deciding not to purchase anything.

We had quite purposely arrived in Majorca during peak season, due to the spectacular weather however the downside was that prices of hotels, restaurants and retailers shoot up significantly.

Had we been better prepared, we might have scheduled this trip for October or November, when the crowds are non-existent but the weather remains a constant 20 degrees throughout. Most “tourist facilities” however, close for the off season so we might have been stuck for somewhere to stay.

We returned to the beach and the daily routine: Beach, Shower, Nap, Walk, and Dinner.

Come day four and we were anxious to do something to break our routine. We walked in the opposite direction to the beach after breakfast to the south of the island in search of AquaLand.

The billboard out the front said “largest water-park in Northern Hemisphere”. After spending only an hour inside, we found out it was also the most over-rated, over-priced and militant run water-park I have ever experienced.

Entry cost twenty euros per person. Each water slide had a minimum of twenty people lined up waiting to ride it and to sit on a deck chair by one of the pools, you were required to pay four euros.

I lined up for my first water slide. After waiting in the hot sun for about half an hour, I was motioned to enter the “landing” by the soldier-like life guard in charge of this particular slide. And make no mistake, he WAS in charge.

I was ordered to sit down and wait at the top of the slide. Once the lifeguard at the bottom of the slide had confirmed there were no civilians present in the pool below, Corporal Punishment at the top gave me a big unexpected shove and down I went. Arriving at the bottom, I was whisked out of the pool by two more soldier lifeguards in a fashion similar to a defendant in court after being found guilty.

I put myself through one more water slide, this time joined by Vicky before we decided that we’d forget about trying to get value for money and left the park.

Buoyed by the “just 10 minutes by car” sign outside the park, we attempted to walk to “Underwater World” Palma de Majorca’s answer to the Sydney Aquarium. It wasn’t until we found ourselves at a petrol station along side a freeway that we were informed that Underwater World was no less than 10 kilometres away.

“Si senor” said the old man with a thick grey mustache behind the counter, "underwater world is just 10 kilometres away by car.”
"10 kilometres? The sign back there says 10 minutes”.
“Si senor, 10 kilometres.”
“So which is it? 10 minutes or 10 kilometres?” I asked.
“Si senor.”

Sensing I was not going to win this battle, I asked how the best way to get there was, given we did not have a car.

“Si senor, you see this road?” pointing to the freeway, “you follow it for 10 minutes and you will be there.”

Assuming he meant 10 kilometres, we abandoned our plans to see some Spanish underwater life and headed back to the beach.

Resume daily routine.

Days five and six remained unchanged and uneventful. We had achieved a level of relaxation we so longed for after months of trudging along on London transport and by the time day seven rolled around, we were pleased to be heading back home in a pleasant frame of mind.

As we braced ourselves for the colder months ahead, I suggested to Vicky that whenever we feel stressed or trapped in the daily grind, we should relax and look back on those days on the beach watching topless women pass us by.

For some reason, Vicky didn’t remain in her relaxed state for very long…

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Photos

Go on self-timer, do your worst
Vicky & I pose on our balcony

Only 400 metres my *rse
This is 400 metres from the beach. Our hostel, on the other hand is a 10 minute walk from where this photo was taken

Palma de Majorca
This is the fabulous Palma coastline. We walked up and down this beach most nights.

Quatro Euros Por Favour
Four euros for 9 hours rental, it was worth it.

In a Pre-Sunburn-State
Vicky relaxing on the beach, reading her book getting sunburnt

The view from the top
A view in one direction from our balcony

Old man
Cliche spanish old man in side street

Crowds
if you look closely, you can see the crowds in the water. If you look EVEN closer, there's a woman in a thong bikini.

Night walk
Vicky posing by the beach on one of our nightly walks. Showing off her sunburn..ahem...tan.

She's black, He's white
Using the self timer again, this time to compare tans.