In which we flee Palma for a pool full of strangers

Some mornings you wake up ready to conquer the world. Other mornings you wake up still negotiating a peace treaty with last night’s dinner. Today was very much the latter. My stomach and I agreed on a ceasefire that involved yogurt, red fruits, and the diplomatic gesture of a couple of glasses of diet juice — pineapple this time, because even my digestive drama likes variety.

A full breakfast spread sat there, glistening, judging me. I looked away. This is what growth looks like.

Back in the room by 9am, which sounds responsible until you realize it was purely so we’d have time to pack. Packing, as always, was less “curating a suitcase” and more “aggressively negotiating with zippers.” But we made it work, because today we were saying goodbye to Palma and hello to Alcúdia, on the island’s northern shore — a place that, spoiler alert, had not yet earned my affection.

Checkout came, an Uber was summoned, and off we went to the airport car rental station, where an unreasonably cheerful Argentinian clerk handed over the keys to an almost-new white SEAT like he was gifting us a small nation. Within minutes we were merging onto the motorway for exactly one hour of driving — because apparently this island runs on Swiss precision — and rolled into Hotel Moré, seaside, at midday. On the dot. Someone clearly set a stopwatch.

Of course, our rooms weren’t ready. Hotels have a sacred tradition of making you arrive exactly on time only to tell you to go away for two more hours.

So we did the sensible thing: dumped the luggage, changed into swimwear (order of operations optional, dignity also optional), and joined the assembled masses at the pool overlooking the sea.

And that’s when the vibe hit me. Or rather, didn’t. Something about this place just wasn’t landing. I missed Palma’s buzz almost immediately — the noise, the chaos, the sense that something was always about to happen. Here, it felt like everything had already happened, decades ago, and was now just quietly reclining by the water.

Which brings me to my working theory of the day: “adult-only hotel” is sometimes just a polite euphemism for “geriatric ward with a swim-up bar.” I’ll withhold final judgment — it’s only Day 5, and Alcúdia hasn’t had its say yet — but right now, Palma, I miss you like a diet peach juice misses being an actual peach.

After a couple of drinks at the hotel bar, our room is finally available. It is quite acceptable with a small balcony and the view is not too bad.

Redemption, Served with a Side of Saffron Rice

By evening, cabin fever — or rather, sun-lounger fever — had set in, so we laced up and walked the 25 minutes into town. Best decision of the day, possibly of the trip so far. Somewhere between the hotel and the centre, Alcúdia apparently remembered it was supposed to be fun, because we stumbled onto a couple of streets absolutely humming with life: shops, bars, restaurants, actual human energy. Where had this been hiding all afternoon?

We landed at a properly Spanish spot, the kind of place where the menu doesn’t really ask your opinion — it was paella or nothing, and honestly, who were we to argue with tradition. So paella it was, and paella it remained, right down to the last stubborn grain of rice.

The real entertainment, though, came free of charge courtesy of the head waiter — an Italian running the floor of a Spanish restaurant on a Balearic island, which felt like its own small act of geopolitical chaos. He kept us thoroughly amused all evening, equal parts charm and theatre, the sort of waiter who makes you tip generously purely out of respect for the performance.

Fed, entertained, and considerably more optimistic than we’d been at the pool, we wandered back to Hotel Moré and made a beeline for the bar for one last nightcap before surrendering to bed. All in all, a day of mixed emotions — geriatric pool doubts giving way to a genuinely lovely evening — but we turned in looking forward to more exploring tomorrow. Alcúdia, you’re forgiven. For now.

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