To relate Mallorca back to America, we’ve dubbed it “The Jersey Shore of Spain,” “Vegas by the Beach, ” or “Spanish Spring Break.” Neon lights, trashy people, too many bars–that’s the side of Mallorca that we saw! Apparently, a mystical side of the island exists where obese people don’t don thongs and techno music doesn’t drown out the rolling waves. However, our college budgets required that we partake in the British debauchery that dominates the Palma Nova cove of the island–no complaints, just a little confusion with why all these British bachelor parties consist solely of fat, hairy, costumed men. No matter, our American crew was large enough to entertain ourselves and avoid (for the most part, other then optical scarring) the other island-folk.
Mallorca is just a skip away from Barcelona–a 50 minute flight and then we were landing on an island surrounded by turquoise Mediterranean waters. After a long struggle with cab drivers that didn’t even know the hotels their own dang island (can it get much easier?), we arrived at our hotel, only to be greeted by a boisterous group of drunk Irishmen–the main species of the island, usually in costume and at least 20 pounds overweight. Needless to say, we bonded a lot with each other over the weekend. The itinerary was basically: eager exploration then subsequent horror at island nightlife on Friday night, beach on Saturday, then city adventures and a couple hours at a beachfront pub playing cards on Sunday. A few long days on the beach in white sand, frolicking in azure waters, with the added entertainment of Europe’s worst dressed? Just what we needed to conclude the summer, kick off the school year, and vow never to return to Mallorca until we can afford our own private villa.