In which we are defeated by a beach and redeemed by a swimming pool

Let it be known that our air conditioning unit staged a small rebellion overnight, deciding that “cooling” was more of a suggestion than a job description. It spent the small hours exhaling warm air like a sulky dragon. And yet — one glance at the view this morning and all was forgiven. Funny how a good view works like a reset button for the soul, no apology from the a/c required.

Breakfast did its part too: eggs, bacon, all the trimmings, the works. Fortified and slightly smug, we set off for Pollença, because it was Sunday, and Sunday means market day, and market day in Pollença is apparently a religious event we were obligated to attend. The drive took a scenic half hour along roads so narrow they seemed designed by someone with a grudge against wing mirrors.
We were, predictably, not the only geniuses with this plan. Parking required the kind of patience usually reserved for tax forms, but we prevailed. A café con leche restored our dignity before we waded into the crowds — art stalls, clothes stalls (a pair of linen trousers did not survive the encounter, RIP to my willpower), and produce so comically oversized it made our local supermarket fruit look like it was on a diet.

Then came the day’s great ambition: Platja de Sa Font de Sant Joan, rumored to be a hidden gem with crystal water and minimal crowds. Reader, it was crystal clear and thoroughly rumored. It was also packed, parking-free, and facility-less. We assessed the situation with the seasoned eye of people who have made this exact mistake before, and made the executive decision to retreat — to our own hotel, our own pools, and the blessed absence of a decision-making process.

Two pools, a poolside bar, a shared Caesar salad, and the sacred institution of the afternoon nap (technically more of a “horizontal rest with my eyes closed,” but I’ll take it) rounded out the rest of the day. I even did some light forward planning for the days ahead, which felt very responsible of me.

By evening we were back in town for round two, tapas at a Spanish restaurant staffed, somewhat ironically, by people who preferred speaking English — a small running joke of this trip that continues to write itself. Mojitos were consumed in a supporting role. The walk home was swift, and the hotel bar delivered a nightcap of such generous proportions that the staff are now, worryingly, starting to recognize us on sight.

The a/c, perhaps sensing it was on thin ice, behaved itself all night. Wise dragon.

Previous day / Following day