by Rocío Romero
Dec 22nd, 9:30 am outskirts of Manacor (Mallorca)
A youngish hairdresser in a small local salon.
It is the periphery of Manacor, grey, a bit gritty and cold.
Two housewives in their late 50’s come in first thing.
Rollers in for one, Hair wash for the other. Settled in their chairs, in front of large mirrors, gossip mags on their laps. Chit chat chit chat. Getting ready for Christmas Eve. But today is rather special. At 10 am the TV goes on. The three of them are glued to it and then, with the rolling of the vessels, as the National Lottery draw unwinds, it becomes a murmur in the background. The ladies share a ticket, a décimo, so if one wins they all do.
by Ben Walton
Being an English boy, I love a Sunday Lunch and – preferably – one with lots of red wine! On moving to Mallorca, one of my greatest concerns was whether the long, boozy Sunday Lunch was going to be a thing of the past. My nickname is Barrel and to keep that moniker, one needs plenty of roasted meat and vino tinto so I was relieved to discover that Mallorca has a ‘healthy’ Sunday lunching culture.
In fact, Sundays have been a lot like being back in London; stagger out of bed, go for a run along the coast (obviously that part never happens in the Big Smoke) before the hangover has a chance to totally grip me, building up a huge hunger, eating way too much and then coming home to collapse on the sofa to watch a Premiership match, ideally featuring the mighty Chelsea – much to the delight of the girls (wishful thinking!).
The first of my special Sunday lunches was up in the mountains, just underneath Alaró Castle at Es Verger. To get there you have to traverse up a mountain road, offering spectacular views but a real pain if a car is coming the other way – especially as there is a distinct lack of barriers to stop you from slipping off into to oblivion (and cruel too if you’re on the way up and have to check out with having had the amazing lamb on offer at Es Verger).
by Rosa Cosmelli
Mis fines de semana suelen ser muy tranquilos, alejados de toda idea de actividad frenética que muchos de mis compañeros puedan pensar. Del ajetreo de la semana en el trabajo, conduciendo y recorriendo la isla buscando localizaciones, llegando a hacer cientos de kilómetros, lo que menos me apetece es coger coche y conducir más. Razón por la que prácticamente el fin de semana lo paso en mi barrio, el Molinar.
by Lourdes Ribas
¿Quién vive en la torre del amor? ¿Quién pudo poner este nombre a su humilde morada? ¿O qué loco arquitecto tuvo el desliz romántico de bautizar su obra con tan sugerente título? Todo parece indicar que una historia de amor yace escondida, perdida su esencia al pasar el tiempo y sin que nadie se atreva a desvelar su secreto. Misterio, romance y lascivia quizá, o tierno amor adolescente. Así empezó una labor semi-detectivesca cuyo final nunca podríais ni siquiera intuir… Atreveos a descubrir que a veces, sólo a veces, hay amores que pueden llegar a matar. Y en Mallorca existe un lugar llamado “La Torre del Amor”. A los que no sois de aquí, os propongo el reto de encontrarla.
by Maria Carrera
Friday afternoon and I’m in a hurry to finish work as I’ve been invited to the opening of Lo más cerca que estuve del paraíso (The closest I was to paradise) at the contemporary art museum, Es Baluard, by celebrated Spanish photographer, Alberto García-Alix (National Prize for Photography 1999).
by Cesare Danese
I leave through the gate, early in the morning and take the first descent. A tight curve to the left jolts me out of my sleepiness and now I’m on full alert. The air pinches me while the sun lets me imagine the explosion of light that will shortly break out. I turn east! I love riding into the changing, evolving, light of dawn.
The slopes in the centre of the island change rhythmically; high and low, pushing down, standing up on the peddles, sitting, a change of gear, hands in the air, hands down; the landscape is fascinating and changes like the light behind every curve, like postcards at the newsstand, as they turn on their rack. Like my own curiosity, my own joy.
Sheep in the yellow fields, burnt by the summer sun, look like peasants on a chessboard. I´ll do kilometres before the sun – high and steady – soaks my shirt with sweat and the drops fall onto the horizontal bar below. I still have at least an hour to go. Here summer goes on for much longer. I’ll do the next descent at full speed until my eyes weep!
