Things are seldom what they seem
skim milk masquerades as cream.
H.M.S. Pinafore, Duet, Buttercup and Captain
“... built in 1957 alongside Mallorcan palaces,
including the summer home of the King of Spain,
this grand hotel boast spectacular bay and beach views ...”
My friend decided it was time for us to visit the island of Mallorca (Majorca to global neophytes). It seemed to her that we were the only people in the (our) world who had not been to Mallorca. In deference to my reluctance, she decided that we would only stay four nights. Our main purpose in taking the trip was to see the island, its people, the city of Palma, and the almond trees in bloom (and anything else that got in the way, as far as I was concerned). I had heard of the Spanish custom of Tapas 'hopping' which I looked forward to most of all. Much to my consternation, the eating habits of the Mallorqinas - as they are called - and for that matter the Spanish as well, leave something to be desired - as far as I'm concerned - but more about that later.
The journey began on a negative note: we had to get up at 3:40 AM to catch a 6:35 flight! Getting to the airport and boarding the plane took longer than the actual flight (1 hour and 30 minutes) from the fair city of Frankfurt, Germany, to Palma de Mallorca, the capital and largest city on Mallorca. After an uneventful flight (clouds covered the Alps - nothing to see) with barely enough time to down a still-partially-frozen sandwich with turkey meat and a lukewarm cup of instant coffee, followed the uneventful picking-up of baggage, the uneventful picking-up of rental car, and the uneventful drive to the hotel (we only got lost a little once - I'm pretty good at sensing which direction I should be going in).
We stayed in a very nice Five-Star hotel (who gave them the stars I do not know) where they speak English, German, and who knows what other languages - I think I even saw some Russians there. There apparently was a golf vacation offered by the hotel and several people with golf bags could be seen in the lobby. The nice young lady at the desk, when I asked if they had a garage or parking area, suggested that we save ourselves the 15 Euro per day fee for their garage because this time of year (winter) there would be plenty of parking spaces on the streets near the hotel. So there were, and we saved ourselves at least 60 Euro. (I am deliberately explaining this 'real good' because it will have a bearing on something that happens later in this story.) The nice young lady also told us to take Bus Number 3 to go downtown - the buses are cheap (compared to Germany, 1.10 Euro per person) and run every seven minutes. You can't beat that with a stick, especially since I was apprehensive of the drivers in and around the Mediterranean, not to speak of the anticipated parking fiasco in a town originally designed by the Romans almost 2000 years ago!
So, we chucked our bags into the room, used the facilities, and were on our way to downtown Palma de Mallorca, the European city with the highest quality of life, so the tour guide stated - all before 10 AM. The bus ride was easy (the hotel is about 2.5 miles from the center of town) after the bus driver gave me my change with a frown since I had given him a 20 Euro note which made him dig into his shirt pocket for some folding money. We managed to get off the bus near the center of town - not an easy task if you don't know where you are and where you want to go.
After gawking at some highly ornate old buildings and a church or two, we decided that it was time to get something to eat. The weather was pleasantly balmy so we decided on a little café, up some stairs, where we could sit on the balcony in the sun. Much to our delight, they served Tapas (up to that point I had thought Tapas was something you ate in the dark of night in a dingy bar), and even better, they advertised that one could get a mixed plate of Tapas, which eliminates the decision-making as to which of the myriad of Tapas dishes to order.
The first doubt about the local eating habits arose when the mixed Tapas were served: they were truly mixed! I had read up on Tapas earlier and had found that Tapas were little tidbits of food served on little plates, but these Tapas were all in one soup bowl. The different foods - such as small meatballs in a sauce, mushrooms in a sauce, slices of squid or octopus tentacles in a sauce, topped with a healthy spoon-full of potato salad - were running together so that one could not tell where one ended and the other began. All of it was delicious, but raised the question: how do you eat this? We were given two small plates with two small forks and two small knives, but no serving spoon with which we could have separated the various Tapas, put a spoonful on our plates, and enjoyed their individual tastes. The knives and forks were about the size of those that our granddaughter Lily uses when she has one of her make-believe tea parties, that is, unsuitable for scooping out quantities of the various Tapas. So, the only thing left was to jointly attack the soup bowl and to pick at the contents with the little forks. And don't say: why didn't you ask how to eat this? We had enough trouble ordering the Tapas without getting into a philosophical discussion about eating habits. As I said, the food itself - although quite run-together - was good, and the beer and mineral water were great and all that for 14.40 Euro (less than $20).
Thus fortified we attacked the Cathedral, a monstrous building that took about 300 years to complete. The Mediterranean sun gets hot and shines a lot; so, how much work can you get done when the sun isn't too hot to work there? It turns out that the Cathedral was probably erected in record time, under these conditions. In addition, an earthquake which destroyed part of the work in progress threw the time schedule off considerably. It is very - I'd say - 'cathedral-looking' on the inside and - in my humble opinion - not very good looking (at least from close up) on the outside. From far away and especially at night when it is lit up by floodlights it is quite impressive. The actual 'church-part' is fairly narrow and the high, Gothic ceiling is supported by slender columns, making this part understandably unstable. Therefore, as with many church structures from the middle ages, supporting pillars connected to the main building had to be built on the outside of the Cathedral to keep it from falling over from its own weight. These supporting structures I found not very attractive, even though they were adorned with statues and other figures often found at such places. Next to the Cathedral is the almost 2000 year old King's Palace: the Romans built a settlement here, the Arabs made a fortification out of it, and the Spanish renovated the place and made a palace for their kings and governors out of it after they drove the Arabs off Mallorca in 1229 AD. The palace is still used as a place where the King of Spain greets official guests when he is on Mallorca, but he doesn't live there. I don't blame him, the place is solid and clean, but not what I would call cozy.
I won't bore you with all the details of our afternoon, except to say that we found the restaurant that was highly recommended in the travel guide, which my friend in her infinite wisdom had bought in Germany, and we made a 'pact' to return there later for some more Tapas or whatever, and that after a quick cup of café con leche (basically a Latte) we managed to find a stop for the Number 3 bus which came in less than seven minutes and we were on our way back to the hotel.
The bus ride wouldn't merit mention if it wasn't for the nice elderly, somewhat shriveled-up 'local' (I use this term repeatedly for someone I presume to have been born and raised on Mallorca, not in a derogatory sense) with a stubble beard and a breath that smelled of tobacco, alcohol, and garlic. The bus was pretty full and we had to stand, so the little man got up from his seat and offered it to my friend. Of course, she refused to take it - which I almost considered an insult to the kind man - but in the bustle of the swaying bus and the frequent stops there wasn't time for extended courtesies on our part. The kind man never sat down again, but sort of leaned against the seat and soon got off the bus (there was someone else sitting next to him). I found his gesture very reassuring in view of the fact that in most countries, foreigners - and especially tourists who obviously have so much money to spend that they have to go to foreign countries to help get rid of it - are often afforded the most common courtesies only when absolutely necessary. What made this experience even more unforgettable was that in the seat next to where I was standing, there sat a seven or eight year old German girl all by herself (granted, the seats were rather small, two people had to really become intimate). How do I know that she was German? Because somewhere along the way she called back into the bus: “Mom, where do we have to get off?” in German. I never heard the answer, but obviously there was an adult with this child who could have required her to free up that seat when she saw that the bus was filling up with people much older than the girl. I don't blame the little girl, she didn't know any better. I blame the mother who never taught her some common courtesies. I didn't particularly want her seat (although I got it when she got off), there were other older (some more older) people than me on the bus - some carrying groceries - that might have appreciated the seat. As Forrest Gump would say: “That's all I'm going to say about that!”
A quick word about the hotel room and why I felt like I had gotten several 'attaboys' because of it. My friend and I had taken a trip to Las Vegas some years ago and had taken her sister along. I booked adjoining rooms for us (one for my friend and me and one for her sister) at the Mirage Hotel. We went to our room first and - lo and behold - had a gorgeous view of the hotel's swimming pool with a golden waterfall, little cabanas for lounging among the palm trees, etc., as far as I can remember. Then came the bad news: the sister's room next to ours was still occupied (a honeymoon couple got so wrapped up in whatever honeymooners do that they lost track of time and just stayed and stayed and ...). Of course, the hotel was more than willing to give us two other adjoining rooms, but when my friend - first thing - checked the view, her world came crashing down: the view was of the employee (not the affluent guest's) parking lot, with adjoining delivery entrance! I was quick to point out that you could see the mountains in the background and if you leaned over a bit you could catch a glimpse of the airport. Nice try, but 'no cigar.' Her opinion of Las Vegas will never improve, even though it was dark soon, the curtains closed, and there aren't any windows in the casino. So this time I made sure that whatever room we got, it had to have a view - spectacular, if possible. Therefore I opted for one of the 'Deluxe Rooms' which were guaranteed to have a view of the bay rather than one of the 'Standard Rooms' where you took your chances with the view.
When my friend and I had first seen the balcony of our hotel room, which overlooked part of the bay of Palma and a beach just below with surfers trying to get up on their boards in the not-too-scary waves, we decided that we needed to get something to sip while sitting on the balcony, and on the way back to the hotel we stopped and got a bottle of Campari and some orange juice (after all, one has to do something for one's health). After a short rest on the bed (we had been up and going for over 12 hours) we enjoyed the balcony and the Campari while watching the six or seven young surfers trying to stay on their boards for more than a second or two. It wasn't their fault that they didn't get to ride longer, it was the diminutive size of the waves that did come in regularly and swiftly, but didn't break until they were almost on the shore. But day after day the surfers were out there, mainly standing in the water waiting for 'the big one.' While my friend tried to find the 'Wellness Spa' of the hotel, my mind wandered to the bar downstairs where I saw myself sitting down next to a tall, distinguished looking gentleman. I ordered a beer and asked the tall man if he was from around here and he said, in decent English although with that funny Spanish 'lisp' which even grown men have, “Actually not,” but he had a nice place a couple of houses up the street where he stayed from time to time. Well, I thought, he's pulling my leg. I had noticed that up the street there were some nice houses, but most of the best part was taken up by some kind of government or military facility with a high wall around it. On the gate there was a crest with a crown on it. Behind the wall I could just see the tops of palm trees, sort of park-like, and from our balcony I could just see the roof of a huge building. No way that any mortal lived there! What annoyed me at this point were the four guys in dark suits who insisted on sitting real close to us and who were obviously trying to listen in on the conversation. They must have been the musicians of the combo that was going to play later because they had bulges under their jackets, probably made by their instruments which they carried under their armpits. Anyway, the tall guy was given a glass of red wine and after taking a sip said his name was Juan Carlos. When I told him that I was Fred and that I was retired and just enjoying life and asked him what line of business he was in, I realized that he didn't drink much, because the little sip of alcohol seemed to have gone straight to his head because in answer to my question he claimed he was the king of Spain! “Ha, ha,” I shouted and said, “I'm the Emperor of China!” In times past I would have said that I'm the President of the United States, but after the last election only the must dimwitted dude without a TV would buy that. The four musicians looked like they were getting more nervous by the minute, probably because of their upcoming gig. Juan smiled a little and said he had an important meeting to go to, shook my hand and left without paying. The four musicians suddenly were in a real hurry to leave also, maybe their gig was at another hotel after all, and left without paying, which was OK because they didn't have anything.
When my friend returned from her unsuccessful search for the 'Wellness Spa' (she found it the next day, it turned out that you couldn't get there from where we were without a native guide) I awoke out of my daydreams and found that I was hungry. This is when the Mallorcan eating culture reared its ugly head again, which seems to dictate: thou shalt eat only between the hours of 1:30 PM and 4 PM and between 8:30 PM and 12:30 AM. I had read in the tour guide - and we had seen on the door of the highly recommended restaurant which we had made a pact to go to - that the 'real' restaurants (I use the term 'real' deliberately because one can get all kinds of fast food and even Tapas all day long in the many small cafés/bars/bistros, but here we are talking sit-down, napkin-on-the-lap, a-glass-for-every-beverage type of place) abide by this 'commandment.' What to do? It wasn't even 6 PM yet! I guess I could have gone to the hotel bar and had Martinis until 8:30, but then I wouldn't have needed any more dinner. So we decided to forget the fancy restaurant for that day and to try to find something in the neighborhood of the hotel. Although we were not particularly choosy, we did want to find a place that served some version of local food. But, walking up and down for about a half a mile we could only find one place that looked like it would do, but it was an Argentinian steak house. “Well, close enough,” my stomach said, “they speak Spanish in Argentina, don't they?” Besides, that place opened its doors at the unheard-of hour of 7 PM! That clinched it, but it was only 6:15 by then. So, back to the hotel for a beer and a glass of wine and at the stroke of 7 PM back to the Argentinians. To make a long story short, this place was 'nothing to write home about.' My friend's Pizza(!) was OK, but my assortment of Argentinian 'specialties' made me regret that I didn't simply stay in the hotel and chew on my shower clogs, that's how tough some parts were; whereas, some parts of it were so fatty that, if I ate them, I would have taken in enough cholesterol to last me a lifetime. Anyway, the beer was good and all in all it was reasonably priced. Surprisingly, there were even two other diners in the place. We were done around 8 PM and in bed shortly thereafter, it had been a long and arduous day. Thus ended day number one - four more to go.
The next morning we decided to partake of the hotel's breakfast buffet since we had had an early, late supper and we didn't know what the general breakfast habits of the 'locals' were. Much to my surprise, the breakfast buffet was not included in the price of the room, but since we didn't want to venture out yet, decided to go for it. When we found out that it cost 23 Euro (about $30) per person we decided to eat as much as we could and to get at least one glass of the Spanish version of Champagne each that was offered with the buffet. This buffet cost about as much as we had paid all day, the day before! But what the heck, its a vacation. The buffet was OK, but we've seen better, especially at this price. We ate until we couldn't 'gag' down anymore food - we would have wrapped some up for later if they had had paper napkins. That's the trouble with your high class (price) hotels, they use real linen napkins and if we had wrapped some of the buffet in one of them they could have accused us of stealing napkins in addition to stealing the food. So we carried as much food out in our bellies as we could, because we didn't know when we would get our next meal.
The Island of Mallorca is fairly small, you can drive around all of it in one day. But why would you want to do that? You'd have nothing to do the rest of the time you were there. So we decided to do it a little at a time. We decided to explore the southern coast to the west of Palma first. This reportedly is the area that was opened to tourism first and has a somewhat dubious reputation because of all the 'All Inclusive' (package tour) tourists that sun-worship there. They appear to come mainly from Germany nowadays, although British and Americans have reportedly been seen also. Luckily we were there in the winter, therefore, the sun worshipers were not there and the stream of tourists was limited to people our age (yuck) with a few exceptions (see the discussion about Bus Number 3). You can tell who predominantly frequents the area a good deal of the time by the signs over the restaurants, or their advertisements. If I wanted to go to a place called 'Scharzwaldhaus' which advertised 'Hausgemachte Kuchen und Kaffee,' I'd save myself some time and money and stay in Germany. We drove through some of these tourist spots with their high-rise hotels and stopped and viewed the harbors at others, but all in all didn't spend much time out of the car. It was a little chilly, the wind made it so, and my friend had an asthma attack waiting in the wings which slowed her down quite a bit, which was OK with me (the slowing down) because my feet still hurt from the day before. Not only 'All Inclusive' tourists populate that area of Mallorca, but it is said that many prominent people have part-time residences there. Other than the King of Spain who has a park-like villa close to the hotel where we stayed, race car driver Michael Schumacher who made a mint winning races for Ferrari and later down-sized to motorcycles, super model Claudia Schiffer (rowrrr) and others can be seen there, and some have fabulous yachts in one of the many small harbors along the coast. We 'ogled' some of the yachts with envy. Some were not what I would call yachts, but big ships. Most of them were flagged with British or Spanish flags, but I'm sure that some of the big ones - the one's that were further out and we could not get close to - had Middle Eastern flags such as Saudi Arabian or Dubaian, or whatever.
We found one fairly quaint little town on the coast and strolled around a bit. I was getting drowsy from all the sightseeing and my friend saw a gift store she wanted to explore, so I sat down on a bench. As I looked over the little courtyard where I sat, what did I see, but a bakery with the name 'Schumacher' over the front. I sat there contemplating the coincidence that we had just talked about Michael Schumacher, his fabulous villa in the hills somewhere, his fabulous yacht somewhere, and his fabulous bank account somewhere, when I closed my eyes and suddenly got up almost mechanically as if sleep walking and went into the bakery and there stood Michael Schumacher with a white apron on. I said: “Herr Schumacher (I addressed him this way because he is German and Germans are initially very formal), what are you doing in this bakery?” This conversation, of course, was in German, the agony of which I will spare you. Schumacher answered that his parents had insisted that he learn a decent trade in case his 'tingle-tangle' career came to an abrupt end. Oh, and how right they were! He had lost millions in bad investments, was getting too old for playing with cars and motorcycles, and the German government was after him for past taxes. But now, said, he was on the up-and-up again since he opened the bakery and there were almost as many Germans here than in Germany and the longer they stayed the more longing they had for German baked goods, which made his wife happy because now she could afford to shop again in the sinfully expensive boutiques in Palma. Just as I was about to buy a 'Pretzel' from Michael to help him out, I heard my friend's voice, faintly as if from a distance, and suddenly she was shaking me and saying something about me being sound asleep. Impossible, I was just in the bakery and talked to...
After that I needed a café con leche, but the only place within easy reach was one where Spanish seemed to be a foreign language. Oh well, the coffee was always good, no matter which language accompanied it.
Since we now wanted to strike out into the interior, we decided to stop at a supermarket to get some 'fixings' for a picnic lunch. The supermarket was fascinating! In addition to your run-of-the-mill shopping carts they had baskets (notice I didn't say little) that you could carry, or you could drag along behind you, because the handle unfolded to make it longer, and the basket had four small wheels, like on a suitcase. At first I carried the basket because I don't consider myself that decrepit, but soon the practicality of the whole thing convinced me to drag it. My friend likes to go to cemeteries in foreign countries, because there, she claims, you can get a good picture of a peoples' culture. I like to go to supermarkets in foreign countries, because there I can see weird things. Some of the less sensational items can be found at the fish counters, but at the meat counter you can sometimes find some thoroughly revolting items. Case in point: at the supermarket in question there were sausages, hams (cured and uncured), strange looking cuts of meat, but what was totally fascinating was a complete suckling pig, shrink-wrapped in plastic. It was about a foot-and-a-half long and looked like it belonged under a Christmas tree; a cuddly, pink child's toy waiting to be released from the plastic (I was looking for the Toys-R-Us sign). We discussed whether we should buy one for our friend Detlev who is known for his gourmet parties, or for kicks for my friend's sister so that we could watch her faint.
We resisted our evil impulses and stuck with bread (baguette), cheese, sliced and cured ham, some mineral water, and a six-pack of San Miguel beer. The San Miguel spoke to me from the shelf and said: “Buy me!” This is the beer I drank most of the time (I don't mean that most of the time I drank beer, but whenever I drank beer it was mostly this one, OK?) when I was stationed in Korea. The beer I drank in Korea was imported from the Philippines. It comes from Spain originally and since the Philippines were a Spanish colony once ... OK, you get the idea, its good beer.
We drove through the countryside, getting out here or there and then decided to have our picnic lunch on the side of a small side road. Of course, we forgot to bring a knife, so we had to pluck at the bread and the cheese. The ham was less of a problem because it came in thinly sliced strips, which you could stuff into the soft part of your piece of baguette. A little messier was eating the little cubes of goat's cheese which came in a plastic container along with olives, swimming in olive oil. Don't tell our grandchildren, but we each had a can of San Miguel - right there at the side of the road!
Thusly the afternoon flew by and it was getting close to 'happy hour' (euphemism for 'evening') and I got tired of driving, so we headed back to the hotel. My friend found the hotel's 'Wellness Spa' and I the Campari, the orange juice, the balcony, and some leftovers of baguette, ham, and cheese. We were planning on going to the highly recommended restaurant which, by the way, is called La Bóveda, and is reputed (in our tour guide) to be the best Tapas restaurant in Palma, but with all the leftover baguette, ham, cheese, Campari, and San Miguel, we had our own little Tapas party right there on the balcony without waiting 'til 8 PM, getting in the car or bus, etc. After watching a little television (you could choose from some German, Italian, English and - of course - local channels), the second day ended - three more to go.
When I got up the next day I decided that this was definitely going to be the day we go to the highly recommended La Bóveda. But first we had to make it through the day by exploring more of the island. The weather had turned semi-ugly, it was cool, windy and it rained a little off and on. So we decided to spend some time in the car and drive up north to a town called Sóller, a monastery called Lluc (yes, two ll's), and parts beyond. The further north we drove, the more the weather improved so that when we got to Sóller - and particularly the port of Sóller a few miles beyond Sóller - the sun was shining. However, as you can surmise, the port is on the ocean and there a stiff breeze took all the fun out of walking around. In cases like that, a café con leche does wonders, not only because of the warmth of the coffee but also because you can get out of the wind for a while.We decided to leave the windy coast and try our luck with Lluc, which is further inland. We wound our way through the narrow streets of Sóller, many of which are two-way streets where cars have to wait their turn to proceed, and headed up a mountain. As it turned out, we didn't actually leave Sóller, but rather rose higher and higher above it because the road switched back and forth constantly, so that we could still see Sóller below but were rising vertically above it. The little rental car was perfect for the task of maneuvering the tight curves, a bigger car would have had to back up halfway through the turn to complete it. By the way, the whole island is held in place with stone walls. I've never seen so many stone walls. There are stone walls in the flat areas to form borders on properties and fields, there are stone walls on the hills to make terraces where wine and olives are grown, and there are stone walls that support the roads that switch back and forth on their way over the mountains. Little wonder, because they have plenty of stones. In fact, the whole island seems to be one giant stone quarry. We saw workmen digging a hole in the ground for a house and all that came out were stones suitable for subsequently building the house. Another by the way, the roads we traveled were mostly good, a little treacherous at times because of a lack of barriers on the downhill side and because of deep drainage ditches on the uphill side where you could get hung up if a wheel or two happened to drop in.
We merrily chugged up and over the mountains, through some tunnels, finally leaving Sóller behind, on the way to the monastery at Lluc. I was particularly looking forward to the monastery because my friend had read to me (while I was driving) that in the restaurant which belongs to the monastery the monks 'take good care of you,' whatever that means, presumably with food. There was very little traffic, in fact none, except for your occasional sheep on the road, so we made good time. I asked my friend several times if she thought that we were still going the right way and she asked if there had been any turn-offs since we left Sóller. I said that there had been one while she had had her head in the guide book, but that turn-off was to a town called Fornalutx. She read me all the nice things about Fornalutx: it's small streets were worth seeing, it had been declared a place of cultural heritage, etc. “A little late,” I said, since the turn-off was about 15 minutes back; besides, “I have my mouth all set for the food of the monks at Lluc,” I said. We decided to press on, when, just after rounding a bend we came to a (controlled) halt in front of a barrier across the road with what definitely looked like a 'Road Closed' sign. I said: “Hey, I saw a sign like that in Sóller when we first started up the hill and another one at the turn-off to Fornalutx, both times when you had your head in the guide book.” We had seen some small rock slides and land slides along the way, all of which had been cleared from the road, and guessed that a major rock or land slide was blocking the road to Lluc, and that is why we didn't see any traffic on the road. After enduring a stream of accusations such as, “...one of us has to read up on things, since you won't do it...you should have told me about the signs...,” I surmised that the small road leading off to the left must be a detour to Lluc. So we took it. But soon after starting down this narrow, winding road it occurred to my friend that the map didn't show any connection to Lluc from the little town on the coast where we were heading. A quick look at the map convinced me that we were heading for a dead end, that is why I never saw anything like a 'Detour' sign, let alone a sign that might be construed to point toward Lluc. I made the quickest turn-around ever and we were on our way back down the road to Sóller. I feared that my mouth-watering experience at the monastery was not to be. However, now we had the chance to remedy the previous mistake and to go back about a half hour in our lives and go to Fornalutx after all.
Anyway, we had good meals at reasonable prices and my beers and my friend's wine were good and we were on our way, again retracing our steps to Sóller. Since we didn't have any luck with Lluc and it was a long way to 'happy hour,' my friend decided that we should go to another quaint town, one called Deiá. At the appropriate rotary in Sóller we took the exit to Deiá, but not more than a few hundred yards toward this town, a police car coming from the other direction suddenly parked itself square across our lane, blocking traffic. There was a small van - presumably 'local' - ahead of us, whose driver stuck his head out the window, exchanged a few words with the policeman who had gotten out of his cruiser in the meantime, made a u-turn and headed back to where we had come from. Now it was our turn. I told my friend to quickly give me one of her breath mints in case the policeman would stick his head in my window and possibly smell those two wonderful beers I had with lunch about half an hour earlier. I briefly considered meeting him outside in the fresh air, but didn't need to worry. He didn't want to talk, he just wanted us to turn around and leave toward where we had come from. We got the idea that we would not have any luck with Deiá either and resigned ourselves to going back to Sóller. I was starting to get the feeling that we would spend the rest of our lives in Sóller since all the roads out of it seemed to be closed. But we did find the road on which we had originally come in from Palma and even a tunnel, which meant a considerable savings in time and wheel-turning up and over the mountain, if not in money, since the tunnel was not free. As we were making our way back to Palma via some more quaint villages we realized that what we had seen all day long on the roads - and had thought were health-conscious 'locals' - turned out to be some kind of bicycle rally which was taking place all over the island, therefore, the closed road to Deiá, but not the one to Lluc.
This time we decided that we would not succumb to the balcony and the 'Wellness Spa,' but would 'tough' it out in Palma until the next 'feeding time' at 8:30 PM. We found a convenient parking place near the fish market (the smell reminded me of Cape Cod) and walked into the old part of town. Because it was just a little after 6 PM and the La Bóveda didn't open 'til 8:30, we went into a little bar close by where we found a couple of empty seats in the smoking section (I discovered later that there was a nonsmoking section upstairs, but all the action was downstairs). The place was full of young people with the exception of us and another table with four or five English-speakers our age. The young people were mainly women which made me wonder what kind of place this was, but was reassured when one or the other young man came in. Since we wanted to bridge the time until the La Bóveda opened not just with beer or wine, we proceeded to order some Tapas. I asked the waiter if he spoke English. A word about speaking English: I admire people of any country who can speak someone else's language. I also admired the modesty displayed by the Mallorcquina whom we asked if they spoke English, because most replied: “A little.” Some spoke more than a little - other's were telling the truth. This waiter claimed to speak 'a little' English, which he did, very little. Oh, he spoke quite a bit, he just didn't listen or understand so good because when I asked him if they also had mixed plates of Tapas, which takes the guesswork out of Tapas eating, he said “yes.” Then, looking at the menu, I saw no mixed plates; what he probably had meant was that we could order as many different Tapas as we wanted and mix them ourselves by eating one from here, another from there, etc. When it came time to order, I wanted to order two different Tapas and I chose two, then I changed my mind about one of them and wanted to order another instead. Well, what I got was - three. OK, my fault. My friend got one Tapas (is Tapas singular or plural?), but it turned out to be something different than what she had wanted. OK, we don't like to make a scene, so we ate what was put before us. With the Tapas we got some bread and olives and after two beers and a glass of wine for my friend we were so well taken care of, food-wise, that we decided (that morning's vow notwithstanding) to skip the La Bóveda again. Besides, it was not even 8 PM yet and the waiters from the La Bóveda were standing outside their closed and darkened restaurant smoking. They were probably laying in a supply of nicotine into their bodies to tide them over until closing time, because they would be too busy to take a smoke break.
We found our car at the fish market, drove to the hotel, turned on the TV and watched Germany loose a soccer match against Norway. This was the first time Norway had won against Germany since 1936! Thus ended day three - two more to go.
Dear reader, take heart for this is the day we finally got to go to the highly recommended La Bóveda! But first we have to get through this day. Since it was another dreary day with intermittent drizzle, we decided to make a museum day out of it. My friend had decided some time ago that she wanted to go to the Fundacío Pilar i Joan Miró, which was actually real close to our hotel, except that it was all up hill, that's why we drove. Joan Miró for those of you (and me) who never heard of him, he painted kind of like Picasso did, except worse. I looked at his paintings and wondered what he was smoking at the time. Blotches and streaks of paint with no apparent rhyme or reason, at least to my eye, which likes to look at paintings by Andrew Wyeth or Edward Hopper or the likes. This Foundation isn't like your ordinary museum, it is more like our refrigerator door where we display our grandchildren's art, only that their art is more pleasing to me than Joan Miró's. I immediately told my friend to save every scrap of paper our grandchildren produce, we can then open a Foundation and display them and save ourselves the trip to the dump to dispose of them. You wouldn't believe what they displayed of Miró's 'work:' every notebook scribbling, every piece of scratch paper that he made any kind of mark on, an unfolded paper bag with holes cut in it with a few random, colorful lines drawn on it, etc. Our youngest grandson, Xavier, can do better than that! My friend who always tries to be positive and doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings said that she likes the colors he uses. OK, very rarely he used a red and a blue that were nice. So there, I said something nice.
What was amazing, while we were there, a school class came in with two nice looking young teachers (female, of course). The children could not have been older than first grade-age or even preschool-age. I have seldom, if ever, seen such well behaved, smartly dressed children. They sat in a circle in the lobby of the exhibit and the teachers discussed things with the children who responded eagerly in such a way as to make you think that they actually enjoyed being there. Of course, they could have been discussing how dumb tourists come from far away to pay good money to look at that stuff, because they spoke Mallorcan Spanish, which is even harder for me to understand than real Spanish. The children then toured the studio of the great man, all the while enthusiastically conversing with their teachers or amongst themselves. My hat's off to the Mallorcans for their well-behaved children and their drive to bring them close to the art produced in their homeland; shame on them if that tour the kids took was to confront them with the evils of drugs and alcohol, which, I'm sure, the great master must have consumed in great quantities before producing his 'art.' As we were leaving it occurred to me that such a Foundation was not such a bad idea. If one produced enough 'what-ever' that didn't sell, one can then create a Foundation and display the 'what-ever,' charge admission, and make a mint.
Well, that was enough 'museum' for me for a while, therefore, we decided to try our luck with Lluc once more. This time we sneaked up on Lluc from the other direction, avoiding the closed road from Sóller (I don't seem to get away from writing that name!). We made it. The monastery is a complex of stone buildings joined together. The dreary weather made the monastery seem even drearier than it already was. I didn't really expect much and was confirmed in my expectations. However, aha, I looked forward to the monks who 'take good care of you.' Lluc(kily) it was nearly 'feeding time' when we got there. We wasted spent some time looking around until the crack of 1 PM when the doors to the restaurant officially opened - they were unlocked before, but no one seemed to dare to enter.
Needless to say, we were one of the first couples to sit down. The restaurant is in a big hall, only about half of which was open for service, with a cozy fire burning in the fireplace - rustic, but nice. The only waiter in the place was dressed in a black shirt and black trousers and was very nice. He too spoke 'a little' English. I am still to this day wondering if he was a monk. He certainly 'took good care' of us. His English was a little more than 'a little,' but not a whole lot because at one point a German word sneaked in. We asked about the Mallorcan Soup that was advertised on the menu and he explained that it was not your usual soup, which is mostly liquid, but rather a soup without any liquid at all and that you could eat all of it with a fork (that's the German word that sneaked in: 'Gabel').
A word about why we (or maybe just I) wanted to have only a bowl of soup: we were bound and determined to go to the highly recommended La Bóveda after 8:30 PM. However, to make it to 8:30, nourishment-wise, we planned to have something else to eat around 4 or 5 PM to tide us over until the La Bóveda opened. So as not to make pigs of ourselves, we just wanted to get something relatively small at lunch time - although at that point I could have eaten the south end of a north-bound mule!
Back to the soup. We wanted to get something Mallorcan to eat and were curious about the 'non-liquid soup,' therefore, we both ordered it. It came, and we ate it just with a fork - in fact, they didn't even give us a spoon. It turned out that the soup was a meal in itself. At the bottom of the bowl was a piece of bread, this was topped with a mixture of potatoes, meat, a cabbage-like vegetable, and crowned with unusual (not bad) tasting green sprigs. It was sort of a casserole, or a stew with the moisture extracted. The two beers I had provided the moisture for me. It wasn't bad, but probably one of those everyday meals Mallorcan moms make for their families (I guessed that La Bóveda didn't have this on their menu, but forgot to check). I ate the green sprigs without thinking too much about them, but women - including my friend - are more curious than men, therefore, she asked the nice man what that was, this is where his English reached it's limits, because he could only tell us that it came from the ocean - some kind of seaweed, we guessed. By the way, do monks wear wedding rings?
The meal done, the gift shop perused, we pressed on to the area we had missed when the bicyclists foiled our plan at Sóller (there it is again!) to go to Deía, which is reputed to be the other area besides the southwest coast where prominent people from around the world have vacation homes. We made a great circle over Pollenca, where the Romans left some ruins, and Valldemossa, which is known for I forget what, and along the coast to Deía. The area is very scenic, the mountains drop off into the sea, parts of it reminded me of Big Sur in California, except more wooded and with different kinds of trees than in California. Deía is a clean little town, you can tell that rich people live there, not only by the appearance of the town, but also by the numerous wrought iron gates in front of driveways that lead into the hills above the road or down to the ocean below the road. Sometimes you can catch a glimpse of a villa - or Finca - as they are called there.
Just as I was about to clarify the name business I heard a distant: “Scha-atz, wake u-up!” That could only be my friend, only she calls me “Schatz” (sometimes “Schatzi” but never in public). When I opened my eyes, there she was, but Mike and the 'dish' were gone and my friend looked at me and said: “Have you been asleep or just daydreaming again?” I know she thinks there's something peculiar about me because I do a lot of thinking and sometimes I concoct (to me) funny little stories in my head, therefore, I didn't say anything and just got in the car and started driving - again.
The soup at the monk's was so filling that we didn't even need an afternoon 'pick-me-up' other than a café con leche. So, we went about filling in some - not all - of the gaps left on our list of things to do or see. The first stop was the fortification atop a hill in Palma called Bellver, which means - nice view. And that you get from up there. Mostly, this fortification was used as a military prison. There isn't much in there except a small museum with some assorted artifacts and an elaborate display and description of a famous (to the Mallorcans or the Spanish) prisoner, a high ranking official who had incurred the wrath of the church or the king or both and had been locked away there for a total of seven years in the early 1800s, without a trial or without even being told why he was being punished.
After enjoying the view, it still wasn't 'feeding time' so we opted to 'do' another museum. I don't know how many times I cursed that darned guide book for alerting my friend to yet another attraction somewhere! All along she had been reading about this new museum, the Museu de Baluard (no, I didn't leave the trailing 'm' off Museu, it isn't there in the original) and it was a foregone conclusion that sooner or later (I had hoped it would be later, much later) we would end up there. And we did, right after the Bellver. The museum is a modern structure built into a corner of the old city wall. The guide book said that the architecture alone is worth going to the museum for, if you're into that sort of thing. The sky had cleared and the sun was going down behind the hill on top of which sits Bellver, which was by now illuminated, and the view of all of that from the top terrace of the museum was very romantic, as my friend said. The price to get in was reasonable, but my friend got upset when I told her proudly that we had gotten senior citizen discounts without asking for it. “What,” she said, “they didn't even ask me if I qualify? They automatically assumed I was over 65?” I reminded her that you had to be quiet in a museum and she soon forgot about the age bit because she became engrossed in looking at what in some people's eyes passes as art. Again, this was not my kind of art. I had an inkling that that might be so when I saw that this museum billed itself as having 'modern and contemporary' art. The main exhibit, by a German 'artist' whose name I've forgotten (as soon as we left the museum), consisted mainly of what you'd call 'installations.' They were big 'things' (not paintings, yet hanging on the wall) each covering an entire wall. They contained metal, fabric, paint, wood, and god knows what else. For example, one had a background of the materials I just described and on top of all that was a not-too-small model of an F-4 fighter jet! You go figure! In addition, they had some posters made by my old friend Joan Miró (remember, the guy in the Foundation), but since these posters announced or advertised something, they were not as 'out-of-this-world' as some of his other paintings.
Finally having been thoroughly saturated with all sorts of impressions, from art to architecture to history, I cried 'uncle,' sent my friend to the museum's gift shop, and retreated to the little café of the museum. As I sat in one of the comfortable club chairs looking forward to being home in front of my fireplace and not having to go to another museum, old building, or waterfall, I counted the hours to our departure.
However, one more task lay ahead and that was eating at the highly recommended La Bóveda. But it was just a little after 7 PM! My friend spent some time in the gift shop - she has a gift for that - allowing me to have one beer by myself and another with her while she had a glass of red wine. That finally brought us close to 8 PM. We expected the La Bóveda to open at 8:30, so we walked ever so slowly, but still got there just a few minutes after 8 PM, and - lo and behold - the restaurant was open and people were in there already. We just barely got a barrel - let me explain, in addition to tables they also have old wine barrels that are used as tables, mainly for eating Tapas and not your elaborate meals. We got the last barrel, if we had waited until 8:30 (what we thought was the opening time) we would not have gotten a seat at all, they were turning people away and we ended up sharing our barrel with three other people. The barrels are fun, but not very comfortable to sit at, especially for a woman with a tight skirt, because in order to get close to your food you have to sort of straddle the barrel (these are not pony kegs) with your knees. Because of this and the other crowded conditions, we decided against a big meal and went for Tapas. The waiter spoke a little more than 'a little' English and 'a little' German and was a little bit of a wise guy. My friend spoke to him in German, and I in English, and when he asked in which language we would like the menu I said that we speak both, he promptly brought us both - one German, one English. My friend had what you could call open face sandwiches with different toppings such as salami, ham, and cheese. I had clams in a deliciously spicy tomato sauce. But without the help of some of my friend's bread (the slices were pretty hefty and she had a hard time putting it all away) my clams would have been a little lonely in my stomach. But that's what Tapas are, not a complete meal. The beer and wine were good too.
As we were sitting there my friend started to lament the fact that the batteries on our camera were dead, because she thought we should be taking a picture for my friend Dieter. A word about photography in restaurants: I hate having my picture taken in a restaurant. Having my picture taken in a restaurant singles me out as in 'look here, I'm from out of town and we don't have anything like this, ' or as in 'I can't really afford this place, so to prove that I am here, take my picture.' I inquired why I should take a picture in this restaurant for Dieter and she replied because he had highly recommended it. I said that Dieter didn't highly recommend the La Bóveda, rather, the high recommendation came from the guide book and that Dieter had highly recommended a bar called Abaco. “Oh, shoot!” I exclaimed. I had totally forgotten about the Abaco. Dieter had e-mailed me the name and I had 'googled' the street address and written it down on a piece of paper that was still in my wallet! Dieter had said that we must go there, even if we just walked through without ordering one of their high priced drinks. Even the tour guide highly recommended it for its atmosphere, its antiques, its beautiful flower arrangements, its candles, and its high priced drinks.
No problem, I said, Dieter said it was near the Cathedral, we are near the Cathedral and nearly done with our part of the barrel, we can still fill that square on our list of things to see or do. We managed to pay quite rapidly, which made some of the people at the door happy because some of them immediately 'swooped' down on the barrel and we went on the quest for the Abaco the way Don Quixote and Sancho Panza went after windmills - aimlessly. We went all around the Cathedral through various narrow streets - but no Abaco. My friend threatened several times to ask passers-by for direction, but my insistence that it must be right here somewhere, after all, Dieter had said so, and my general reluctance to ask for help with directions (the reasoning behind my reluctance runs along similar lines as the picture-taking-in-a-restaurant argument). Finally, as it became obvious that we couldn't find the Abaco by ourselves, I agreed to ask someone. A nice young man came by, my friend stopped him (I usually let her do the stopping, because when I do it, the stopped sometimes look frightened), we negotiated for a common language and agreed on 'a little' English. Very little, as it turned out, because he needed help almost every step of the way. I got enough information, however, just from the way he pointed in a certain direction - away from the Cathedral. Then we managed to agree that we had to cross a big street and go down a small street with a long name which I was sure I was not going to remember except that it began with an 'A' and then turn left at the second street we came to. The directions were perfect, even though my friend didn't think so and wanted to turn left at every intervening street. But I called her back each time and suddenly we were standing in front of the Abaco - and it was closed! You couldn't even look inside because the entrance is a big wooden door like a barn door. On this door there hung an inconspicuous piece of paper on which it unceremoniously said: “Closed for vacation until February 28,” in Spanish.
My friend was disappointed; I feigned disappointment, I was actually glad that I didn't have to fight another crowd or wander aimlessly, gawking at the people there. My friend understood and we decided to call it a night. As we turned away from the closed door of the Abaco in the direction of the fish market where our car was parked, we saw the little bar on the corner where we had had some Tapas a few days ago and - lo and behold - just around the corner was La Bóveda! If we had turned right instead of left when we came out of La Bóveda and then turned one corner, we would have been right in front of the Abaco, but then we wouldn't have seen all the quaint little streets around the Cathedral, nor had we met the nice young man who gave us the directions.
We found our car, drove to the hotel and called it a day. Thus ended the fourth day - one more to go (aren't you glad we didn't stay longer than five days?)
Up at the crack of mid-morning, we went to the little bakery and café down the street from the hotel where we had had breakfast for the past couple of days for a fraction of the price we had payed for the buffet at the hotel the first day. There were always only 'locals' in there, which suited us just fine, and the waitress already greeted us like old friends. To help bridge the gap between 'a little' and 'a lot' of English being spoken, the menus in restaurants and cafés sometimes include pictures of the various foods offered. This was the case in the little bakery-café. The first day we went there the waitress (presumably the daughter of the baker - without explicitly being told we assumed that she spoke 'a little' English) immediately handed us a picture book of breakfast items. The first day I had pointed to a French omelet, the next day to a ham and cheese sandwich and the third day to something else, I forget. This day, my friend (who had never picked anything from the picture book but who had gone to the baked goods counter and picked something sweet) saw a picture of a giant croissant with ham in it on the wall of the bakery. Unfortunately, that day the baker (presumably the father of the waitress - without explicitly being told we assumed that he didn't even speak 'a little' English) waited on us. Can you sense disaster looming? When my friend asked him if he had croissants, he eagerly nodded - for yes. And when she asked him if the croissants had ham in them (here comes the crucial mistake) and simultaneously pointed in the picture book of foods - which I had been studying - at a baguette with ham on it, meaning to clarify the concept of ham, he eagerly nodded - for yes - and our fate was sealed! To make matters worse, a croissant with ham sounded good to me too, so I said: “Dos, por favor.” We were just enjoying our first sip of café con leche when the plot thickened and my friend received her croissant. When I saw that the nice man had brought only one croissant I politely said: “Dos, por favor,” to which he eagerly nodded - for yes. When my friend with her eagle eye saw that there was no ham on the croissant, the nice man was already gone. Oh well, she said and started to eat it. Then I got my croissant, also without ham. Oh well, I said and started eating it. Just then, to our surprise (don't worry, we kept our cool and acted as if everything were just as we had expected) the nice man brought us two baguettes with ham! Of course, we nodded politely - for gracias - and looked at each other. My first impulse was to yell at her: “You, you, you, dumb-dumb,” - a phrase our daughter Heidi had used on her when Heidi was small and wanted to let out her frustration over something - but I controlled myself. We decided, so that all participants could save face, that we would eat half of everything and have the other half wrapped up to take along as a snack before boarding the airplane. And that, in fact, is what we did.
We went back to the hotel with our lunch bundle, used the facilities, retrieved our bags, and checked out of the Nixe Palace Hotel, a five star hotel (who gave them the stars I never found out). Remember me telling at great length about parking the car on the street near the hotel? As we were approaching our car, we noticed things strewn on the sidewalk, which was unusual because the streets in general were clean. My friend went to the passenger side of our car, which was one of - I believe - three cars and gasped: “Oh my god, look at this!” The sidewalk was covered with little pieces of glass. She pointed at the car behind ours and I saw that both the front and back windows on the passenger side had been broken completely out (thus the little pieces of glass). Also on the sidewalk was something that looked like it belonged to a set of golf clubs, a cover of sorts, and a pair of shoe trees with golf balls at the ends. Remember me telling about golfers in the lobby? Well, it appears that one of the golfers got careless, left his golf bag, shoes, and who knows what else visibly in the car that was obviously a rental car because it had a Hertz sticker in plain view on the windshield, and promptly got ripped off. We were always careful not to leave anything of value in the car, let alone visibly, and our rental car was more modest than the one that was broken into; nevertheless, we thanked our stars that this was not our car. We had to catch a plane, no time to hassle with police reports, etc. If this had happened to me, I would have kicked myself for not spending the 60 Euros it would have cost to park the car in the hotel garage.
We sneaked away before we could be cornered as possible witnesses (we didn't witness anything but the aftermath) and went back to the Joan Miró Foundation. Don't worry, I didn't go in. My friend went into their gift shop and bought four glasses which are decorated with streaks of paint in the Miró style. She intends to impress her lady friends with them when she serves them wine.
We then proceeded downtown to a big department store where my friend bought some items for our grandchildren and I had a café con leche. We bought some last minute post cards which we haven't sent yet and eventually made our way out to the airport. One more shock at the airport, I usually fill any rental car up with gas before I return it, its cheaper that way. I intended to do the same, but the sly Mallorqinas (or is it Avis) hide all the gas stations away from the route to the airport, so that when you get there and you realize that you haven't seen any gas stations, its too late, and you are forced to pay the 'fueling option.' That cost me almost as much as the rental for five days!
We ate our baguette and croissant and jammed ourselves into a full airplane (I swear the seats were closer together than on the flight down). This time we saw the Mediterranean, southern France, the snow covered Alps, snow covered Switzerland, snow covered Germany, and when we landed dreary Frankfurt.
Bear with me, we haven't got much longer, but the theme of this narrative is obstacles (or small inconveniences). I called the nice young lady at the desk of the hotel where we had parked our car at the beginning of the week and was told that the shuttle bus would be there soon. My friend Dieter, who had done a similar parking and shuttle bus routine some time earlier, had told me that it was amazing, but the shuttle bus was there as soon as they got out of the terminal. And - lo and behold - very shortly after exiting the terminal there approached a small bus, with the name of the hotel where our car was parked, on it. We hailed, he stopped, I put our two suitcases in the back with the help of the driver and was about to board when my friend broke into my happy reverie about soon sitting in front of my fireplace by asking the silly question: “Is this the right bus?” “Of course its the right bus, it says NH Hotel on it and our car is at the NH Hotel!” I bellowed. “But this bus says NH Hotel Mörfelden, is that where our car is?” “Is there an NH Hotel in Mörfelden,” I asked the bus driver, getting more irritated all the time. “Yes there is,” he answered, “but if you want to go to the NH Hotel in Kelsterbach then you are on the wrong bus.” How was I to know that the NH Hotel chain had two hotels close to the airport? Off came the bags, fortunately, the bus hadn't moved yet. A few minutes later the NH Hotel Kelsterbach bus came and all was cool. At the hotel I was so glad to be very close to my car, my fireplace, and hopefully a double Martini, that I flew into the lobby to have my parking ticket stamped by the nice young lady at the reception desk. Other passengers were crowding unto the shuttle bus which was about to make another run to the airport when my friend said: “What about our bags?” “What about our bags, oh shoot, they're still on the bus!” Luckily my friend was able to grab our bags, which the bus driver in his infinite wisdom had parked on the sidewalk, and we were off to the parking garage.
Our troubles weren't over yet. We took the elevator down one flight, got out and then I saw a sign that said “Garage” and pointed down another set of stairs. “Funny,” I thought, I didn't see anymore buttons to go down some more in the elevator, oh well, lets just walk down this one flight. Having arrived at the lower floor we were confronted by a locked door. We could see cars on the other side, but no amount of begging, cajoling, or pulling on the handle made the door budge. I didn't want to be going up and down stairs with the suitcases so I sent my friend to the nice young lady at the reception desk to ask her to help us out. After some time they came back together. The nice young lady pointed out that this was a private garage and that our car was one flight up, where we had landed originally, but had been diverted by the sign that said “Garage,” which was obviously meant for the occupants of the private garage and to be ignored by all others. We thanked the nice young lady and proceeded to walk completely around the park deck, making that rolling sound with our wheeled suitcases, until we finally found our car just around the corner (it reminded me of the search for the Abaco). This problem solved, we started to drive toward the exit, but when we got to where the exit should have been there was a steel door. So, around one more time - must have missed the real exit - nope, back at the same place. Then there in the dim light of the garage and not illuminated by the headlights of the car, a small sign could be seen. It said, upon closer examination: “Pull up close, door will open automatically,” in German, of course. I need reading glasses, but my eyesight for distant objects is pretty good, but really, that sign needs to be at least twice as big, even bigger wouldn't hurt. The door opened, we went up the ramp to be confronted with the final obstacle: the barrier where you have to put your validated parking ticket. We had 'mucked' around trying to find the right garage and then our car and then the exit, that the time on our ticket had expired! If the nice young lady from the reception desk hadn't told me that if we had any trouble getting past this last barrier, to push the little black button on the ticket machine, I might have screamed. But, she opened the barrier for us and we were finally on our way. I wonder if the nice young lady wondered what took us so long after she left us at the door to the correct park deck?
We got home uneventfully, but too late to make a fire in the fireplace, but not too late for a Martini and a sigh of relief.
Looking back on it now, Mallorca wasn't all that bad. Without the obstacles we encountered it would surely have been a bland affair, this way I added to the store of experiences I have tucked away for future recall. If you want to know what Mallorca is really like and to check out what parts of this travel log are factual, buy yourself a guide book (or borrow ours) and go there.
Very nice post - with not too many errors! As well as a guide book, you could also do some advance planning at www.mymallorcainfo.com , soon to be in German as well as English. There's even a map to Abaco!
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