Palma, or: Sobrassada, Ensaimada, and the many traditions of Mallorca

After our short flight across the water, we landed in lovely Palma de Mallorca, the palm tree laden island paradise where Julia works. This was a Monday, and Julia had school neither Monday nor Tuesday, for reasons unbeknownst to her. On our shuttle from the airport to town, however, we met another language assistant named Dave who enlightened us to the reason for the vacation - Día de las Islas Baleares, Balearic Islands day. This would be Tuesday, so we put a pin in it and spent a relaxing day exploring the town. Because I was still recovering from my stupid illness, we took it pretty easy and decided to have a lazy night in, making a super delicious goat cheese and veggie pizza and watching Mamma Mia. I say we made a pizza, but really Julia did most of the work while I hung out with Charlie, the enormous sheep dog of the family that she lives with, and my new best friend. Charlie had the good fortune to be the first dog I’ve been around since I left home and my two puppies died, so we spent a lot of time together during my stay in Palma.

isn't is precious?

The next day I was fully recovered, so we headed to the Castell de Bellver, one of just a few circular castles in Europe which is conveniently located just across town from Julia’s place. We climbed the 504 stairs up the hillside to the castle where we were lucky enough to experience a break in the clouds for some wonderful views of the island. This was actually one of the only monument type things I did/saw during my whole vacation, and it was definitely a good one. After we took a good many pictures of and around the castle, we wandered back down the hill to a nice picnic area where we enjoyed some fruit, cheese, bread, and sausage. Not quite the paddle-boat picnic which is normally the only time I see Julia each year, but lovely in its own way. Later that afternoon we decided to check out some more of the town, with plans to see the cathedral and a few important boulevards. On our way to the cathedral we stumbled upon what appeared to be a little street market to celebrate the Balearic Islands, with all local and traditional foods and crafts. We decided to check this out and hit up the cathedral after, but this was no little street market. It wrapped around 3 boulevards (one of which was entirely lined with palm trees), and had more cheese, sausage, and leather goods than I’ve seen in one place. We sampled a good deal of the former two, and near the end while watching some women make traditional donut-hole like pastries and debating whether we could manage 12 of them between us, we were offered samples – lovely!

we certainly didn't have such stylish life vests on our Palma picnic

 By this point we’d sacked the cathedral and were heading back towards Julia’s when we stumbled upon what was probably my favorite single experience of the vacation. We could hear music from a square up ahead, so we followed it and pretty soon we were on the edge of a plaza that was filled with people dancing to traditional mallorquin music (which I found to be surprisingly similar to traditional English music – think pride and prejudice). These people weren’t just dancing, though; they were doing a mesmerizing circle dance, each circle led by 3 or 4 dancers with castanets. There was a lot of spinning and jumping involved, and there were people from 4 to 84 in each circle, all seeming to at least understand the basics and taking cues from the leaders so it all flowed very smoothly. At the end of the song during which we arrived, one of the guys in the band made an announcement (in mallorquin, so we had no idea what he said), and all of the circles collapsed into one big group near the stage with a sizable open space in the middle. Everyone seemed pretty excited about whatever was going to happen as two dancers took their places in the middle of the clearing. As the music began, the couple started circling one another, slowly at first, then speeding up with the music until they were at a pace quick enough to begin the twirling and jumping of the previous dances. After a minute or two, a woman came out from the crowd and twirled into the place of the first woman, who twirled away into the crowd. After a bit another man came to replace the first man, and the cycle began. Whenever anyone felt like it, they would spin into the place of one of the dancers, and stay until they were replaced. Sometimes a man would spin in and shortly after his wife would spin in and jokingly push the first woman back into the crowd, and the dance would become closer and more romantic until the next person came in. Young and old alike were dancing, including a boy of about 16 who stayed in and held his own for a surprisingly long time (the men always had to dance a little longer than the women, who were more eager to join in). The music was continually growing faster and faster until the original two dancers found their way back to the middle and finished off in an impressive and dizzying jump and twirl. I am absolutely in love with Mallorquin dance, and I can’t express how joyful it felt to be in that square and feel the community of the dance. That one dance could have strangers dancing together with huge grins spread across their faces as well as couples, bringing the spins closer and keeping their eyes on each other – it was absolutely spectacular. This was the last dance, and as we left the square with the dissipating crowd, I felt a general happiness around me.

another bit of traditional dancing we came across earlier that day, but this time with traditional garb to boot

That evening was the Ruta Martiana, a weekly festival of sorts, where all the bars in a neighborhood of Palma have ‘rutas,’ or 2euro caña-pincho combos. Pinchos are tiny toasts to go with the tiny beers, with a variety of toppings, from anchovies and cheese to curried potato salad. In an evening reminiscent of our night out in Madrid, we went to three different bars, having 4 or 5 rutas before heading in for the night. The next day Julia had to work, so I spent the morning doing laundry and hanging out with Charlie, and the afternoon exploring the town (this time the cathedral made the cut). That night we made some chicken curry and hung out with the kids of the family, Sergio, a 13 year old boy, and Monica, a 16 year old girl (as well as Monica’s friend whose name I don’t recall). My entire venture in Spain surprised me with how much Spanish I actually learned during my 3 semesters at Willamette, and I found that I could understand nearly everything that was said to me, but had the inability to respond. I did understand that the girls were going to Madrid to see Bieber, and managed to form a sentence (with Julia’s help) – “soy muy celosa.” The next morning Julia made some delicious apple scones and we enjoyed a leisurely brunch on the patio, and before I left we made some traditional Morrocan avocado milkshakes to prepare me for my journey south. I said goodbye and got my shuttle to the airport where the next chapter of my vacation commenced. 

"soursop"

Nantes àParis à Madrid à Palma à Valencia à Marrakech à Madrid à Paris à Dijon à Champagnole à Mouchard à Paris à Nantes

This is how I spent my 2 week vacation, traveling for 16 days nonstop. I actually spent time in only 6 of these places (Madrid twice!), but that’s still pretty ridiculous. This being the first time that I’ve actually travelled in Europe, I thought I ought to take advantage of it. It turns out that the most expensive leg of the journey was getting from Nantes to Beauvais airport in Paris, but once you’re there, the world is your oyster, with flights all over Europe (and a bit of Africa!) for as little as 12 euro. Like I said, thought I should take advantage of it. I don’t think I can do this voyage justice here, if only because the beginning seems like much more than a month ago, but here goes.

Madrid, or: I like to sit on the floor where I don't have to worry about falling down, like with chairs

My trip started with a train to paris, a metro across town, and a shuttle bus to Beauvais airport. One of the most stressful parts of my trip was the fact that all 6 of my flights were with Ryanair, the Dublin based budget airline that I’ve heard countless horror stories about. I was told that my backpack might be to big (yes, one normal school sized backpack for 2 weeks of traveling, in climates as varied as northern African and the Jura mountains of France), that the planes were unreliable at best, and to expect to have flights arriving late if not cancelled completely. Arriving at Beauvais I was pretty nervous about these three warnings, however, I made it through security with my backpack no problem, and on finding my seat onboard, I looked up at the security card (pasted to the back of the seat in front of me) and read ‘Boeing 737.’ I fly Frontier Airlines, people – where the aircraft literally creaks – give me a 737 anyday; when I see the name Boeing, I relax. I arrive in Madrid on time, no problem, and on entering the baggage area see my best friend from when I was a tiny little kid walk into the restroom. I wait outside for her and after a brief reunion we exit security to meet my good friend and host for the next 4 nights David Davidson (of my most recent post fame). We catch the shuttle back to his place and crash (my flight arrived around 11pm).

sweet, Seattle-built safety

Dave’s mom and aunt are supposed to be in town, so I’m not expecting to get to spend much time with him, but their flight was delayed so to my happy, happy surprise we got to spend all of Friday with him (toma!), an excellent guide around the city. Based almost entirely on this one day, Madrid was my favorite part of the vacation. Maybe it’s because I got to spend it with two of my very close friends, maybe it’s because it was probably about 80 degrees after months of rain and winter in Nantes, or maybe it’s because the city itself is marvelous. We explored a bit then ran into a few of Dave’s friends in a huge park who invited us to join them for a picnic. It being a splendid day, we obliged. While Julia and I are chatting with some American girls who are in Madrid to play volleyball professionally, Dave turns to me and says, “Mary Ochs, we know her, right?” In fact we do – she’s in my sorority, I tell him. “Oh!” says his friend, “she’s on her way here right now!” I knew Mary was working in or around Madrid, but jeez. This was the first of many experiences this vacation to remind me just how small of a world it is that we live in. After the quick DG reunion we meet up with another of Dave’s friends for an afternoon “caña,” which I’m pretty sure is Spanish for “tiny beer,” then head back to the homestead for a sit down.

this guy really wanted a pic with me. obviously the feeling was mutual

Around 9:30 we meet up with yet more of Dave’s friends, this time mostly Spanish, and head out for “the real Madrid experience.” Rodrigo, a teacher at the school Dave works at, is our guide for the evening. What a man. He is incredibly welcoming and friendly, and spends the night teaching us “useful” and “colloquial” phrases, as well as humoring my attempts at Spanish. I use quotations because I honestly don’t know if anyone besides Rodrigo uses these phrases, but they’re entertaining, none the less. So at about ten pm we start our dinner at a little bar where we order more cañas, a plate of fried mashed potato like things, and a plate of fried fish. Once we’ve finished these we head to another bar where we order more cañas, some fried pigs ears, fried peppers, and fried potatoes with hot sauce. I’m noticing a trend. I’m surprisingly full after this melee of a meal, and we head to a final bar where the men order purple lavender flavored frozen cocktails, the women order smoothies, and I order a beer. While contemplating which smoothie flavor to get, Julia asks our 3 Spanish companions what a guanábana is. “It’s red. And it’s red on the inside.” Ooook. We ask the server. He tries to explain but after beginning to form a few words he tells us he’ll look it up. He comes back with a small piece of receipt paper on which is scrawled one word, in quotations: “soursop.” There is no way this is correct. There cannot possibly be a fruit called a soursop. We spend the next half hour coming up with new definitions for soursop, settling on ‘the waiter who neglects to bring you the beer that you ordered,’ because at this point, the purple drinks are halfway gone and I’m still parched. Someone signals the soursop and he apologizes profusely, brings me my beer, and doesn’t charge me for it in the end. Excellent. About 2am we head home through the incredibly alive streets. I’ve heard about how late everything goes in Spain, but I was still a little surprised to see even restaurants open in the middle of the night. What a night, what a day, what a city. I even wrote a horrible poem about it – in Spanish. The books coming soon, keep your eyes out.

Rewind to “based almost entirely on this one day.” Sometime during said great day, I started feeling the symptoms of whatever miserable disease sees fit to attack my body once or twice every month. By day 2, it was in full swing – fever, aches, chills, general misery. Julia and I headed to Toledo for the day, and it was a lovely place, but my usual ‘pump Tylenol all day to keep the fever at bay’ tactic wasn’t working, and even when increased to 2 every 2 hours, I just wasn’t able to properly enjoy the city. Kudos to Julia for humoring me and my ill-temper (get it?). That evening we were very kindly invited to dine with Dave’s family at their rented apartment, which was a perfect way to spend a sick evening abroad. Great food and great company, and a comfy couch to sit on. The next day we were slated to go to the rastro, the huge open air market, for which I was totally pumped. I got up later than I meant to, ate some toast, unate said toast, and went back to bed until 4pm. Julia picked me up some sunnies at the market and that evening we had another excellent dinner with the fam. In the morning Jules and I headed back to the airport and caught our plane to Palma, chapter 2 of my adventure. 

turns out it's real, but in no way is it red