How did I get here?!

A journey begins with one step, or in our case forty-five hundred miles.  This floating family has found themselves in the simply astonishing land of Mallorca in the Balearic Islands of Spain, where it rains of blood and blows dry, fast, then still.  Madame Geneva, our sailing vessel of now three years, arrived by ship and we arrived by plane(s).

The overnight from Philadelphia to Barcelona was pleasant if you consider being squashed into uncomfortable chairs, staying up all night, and momentarily losing Big Froggy agreeable. We were even served dinner on the plane!  When given the option between pasta and chicken, I asked, “What is the chicken?”  The response was something like, “This,” and a steamy plastic box was gently shoved in my face.  I went with the pasta and another glass of wine.

Madame Geneva was docked at Real Club Nautico Palma.  She looked bare without her canvas but was otherwise well put together.  Justin’s excitement involved getting things together until he finally looked over at me and realized maybe we should get a proper bite before we dive into work.  We slipped over to the club where we dined in very proper fashion. Seemingly elegant, they welcomed our ratty tribe into the restaurant where tall windows created a panoramic view of the great marina.  Sandwiches were surprisingly only a couple euro.  There was nary a complaint from the tired crew, once fed.

Palma is filled with walking wonder.  The relatively arid climate is thick with succulent vegetation. Palms, not so startlingly, are abundant.  Brightly colored flowering bushes and vines spread through the cultivated pathways and parks.  The civil organization is alone worthy of praise.  Designated bike paths, pedestrian designations, and crosswalks everywhere, despite a multiple lane, high in traffic, street running along the coast.  From our boat, we had quite a view of the Cathedral of Santa Maria of Palma (Gothic Roman Catholic, which is as cool as it sounds) as well as many other buildings of such grand architectural style that it is hard not to get lost in the smallest detail of the cornices, buttresses and gargoyles.

In truth, the first few hours alone offered us exactly what we were looking for. How simple to encourage the depth (or frankly the scratching) of study of culture, arts, character and language by sitting in one of a few tables inside a bustling cafe with most of its guests sitting in the square with an early gothic cathedral adorning its border.

All slept in the next day, but still I found myself roaming the streets before the rest awoke. My back, sore from days before the flight, was rather tense and I decidedly needed some fawning over. My study of Spanish was (is) grossly neglected and when I thought whether I was more capable of asking for a massage and the implied consequence or a pedicure (where I could get a chair massage at the same time!), I went with walking into a nail salon and pointing at my feet while saying “pedicure”. Who would’ve known that you just had to remove the “e” and add an “a”?! I spent my time wisely and decided to study up on my lessons in Babbel. This was only awkward when I was working on the dictation part and they had me saying “guau” repeatedly. Apparently making animal sounds in public is alarming in any culture.

We found ourselves later strolling down the quay toward a large park, with promises to the children of loads of geocache not only along the way but in the park itself (which also had a castle). Distractions of various order found Justin and I chatting with an interesting couple at a seaside cafe. From Poland/Libya and South Africa and yet well versed in travel by sea and incredibly versed in life in Mallorca, they provided us with an itinerary that may prove we will never leave this land (well at least the surrounding sea).

The “walk” (yes, we still must use this term especially as this one ended up with a foot clock of seven miles) led us through street stairways and into gardens and cafes for bathroom/beverage breaks. I wish I could honestly say just the cafes for the bathroom breaks. When, at last, we meandered our way out of the park (with promises to return, as much still had to be explored including the castle!), down a long and busy street with local traffic, we were pleased to stumble into a Mexican/tapas restaurant. To say the kids were bone tired is akin to calling the sea blue…does it really matter how tired or how blue?

Justin walks in and says, “Is ok por ninos?” It is possible he used more Spanish than that but that’s what I heard. The response was, “Why? Did you read our trip advisor review?” We settled into the back and had a wonderful meal, sampling all sorts of great food and drink. The server and owner were great. We had almost made it out of the restaurant representing America in great fashion (they thought we were from Norway or Sweden because of how well behaved the children were), when Quinn fell into the aisle on top of the server, Che tripped up on Quinn and I stumbled on top of them. Ahhh, so close.

We awoke the next day to a boat painted red. Lest we think it a curse inflicted solely on us, we realized all the boats and the dock shared our messy haze. The blood rains had fallen in the night. Dust pulled from the Sahara desert, and mixed with precipitation, made for a morning both biblical and scientifically curious. You decide.

captains note: really called “blood rain” this is one of the most bizarre and amazing natural phenomenon we’ve seen to date. Red mud falling on the boat from the Sahara Dessert. We’re in something way different now!

Convinced we had to take a gentler approach with the kids, we decided to venture to the Cathedral Palma and really just have a lazy scenic day. After lunch and gelato, we requested a carriage ride, hoping for an English educational tour of the town. We were led to an English speaking guide, who led us to Manolo, who spoke with gravel in the throat and sparingly of anything, whether English or Spanish. His approach was simple. He would steer us along and point to a building and say “casa” in such a way that the dust swept through and it mattered not that we knew no more about this house than that. It was a house that had lived by the lives through it. Pause and imagine. The horse was named “Vicky” much to everyone’s delight. We rounded about the stone streets through narrow passages, past several cathedrals, museums, squares. I know this because Manolo said “cathedral”, “museo”, and “centro”. Views of overhanging verandas, ever ornate frieze work, architectural ornaments, mosaics, and tall doorways (fit for a horse) perfected the ride.

The club accommodated us until Monday, and is allowing us to return on Wednesday so we had to slip the lines yesterday to head up the coast (a grand three miles!) to anchor. This could have gone more smoothly but we are in need of an electrician to help with the charger for the bow thruster. As it is, we have none. So obviously the wind picked up significantly as we left the slip. Our fuel being low, we made for the fuel dock. With no bow thruster and a strong wind pushing us into the dock, Justin and I simply shook our heads. We watched as another boat just went in bow first and crashed into the dock. Ahhh, yachting.

Much love and stay tuned.