Mallorca

somewhere in the south of spain was an island forged in the heat of the summer. you could follow the roads north from the city to a small town which sat high above the rocky coastline with dry streets and a towering church. it was called Sóller, the golden city where the afternoons were warm and you felt dizzy in the heat under the white umbrellas that lined the square.

you could drink apéritifs in cafes as the night fell and the tram passed through every few minutes carrying tourists from the old town to the main gates where the city walls fell away and the orange groves began.

to the east you would find the winding dirt road that led down to Cala Deià with the restaurant on the water and the big rock ledge that cut out from the beach where you could climb up and bathe in the sun. they would serve plates of fresh fish and grilled octopus in red sauce and you could drink sangria made from lemons that were picked from the gardens beneath the city.

in the summer it was busy and you couldn't dine without a reservation unless you knew the hostess by name and she knew you too. the best table was on the edge of the cliff where the water was deep and the swimmers would pass by towards the boats that anchored just offshore.

the sun would hang tall above the cove until late in the afternoon and you could barely pitch umbrellas between the rocks that crowded the shoreline. people would swim up to the house opposite the restaurant to see which celebrities had made their way down from the riviera to swim in their private pool with their sunglasses and bottles of cool champagne on ice.

it would take no more than a few nights in the city before you began to feel restless in the heat and the clear blue water from the south began to call. white buildings and narrow streets twisted across the town towards Santanyí where the bluffs rose high above the blue azur below.

on still mornings you could swim in the cove with the hidden stairs at the end of the street where the silver ladder blurred into the deep blue water and you felt a little unsure. a private beach with warm bathing water that seemed removed from the world as if part of a chapter from an old book.

in the haze of the noon the people sprawled across the beaches with the sand hot beneath their feet and the yellow buoys dotted in the water across the horizon. there was a small ledge at Cala Llombards where the children dived into the water and the ladder was slippery with the green moss of summer. you could hear the call of the fruit men long before you saw the water as they huddled in the shade with their wheelbarrows and white caps and an array of fresh fruits from the gardens around the city.

there was a little bay in Cala Santanyí that was removed from the main stretch of the beach by a few meters with tourists sprawled across the rocks under the spanish sun. there were tiny boat ramps that led up to green doors that never seemed to open, as if guarding secrets in rooms that moved and changed with every passing summer.

the town had a feeling of life after death, after Barcelona came Majorca, from purgatory to paradiso. you felt like you had found the next world here, swimming under a different sky, drinking grappa deep into the night when the moon shone pale against the harbour and the boats rocked in the breeze. the clouds parting as the winds blew heavy from the south and you could see the stars shine brightly from the first floor of the apartment.

playing cards into the late hours of the morning, waiting for a taxi in front of the hotel next to the beautiful girl with the pale blue eyes and the long dress. watching as the couples stumbled out of the bar across the road and kissed in the middle of the street. noticing their eyes ignite at the sight of each others, wondering if they felt the same yearning that we did. if they felt good under the haze of the midnight with their motorbike helmets in hand and desire sweating through their skin.

and although I wasn't in love right now, in some ways it felt like I was. maybe with the people and this place, maybe with the way that I felt at home here and that going back would feel like leaving. and despite knowing I would probably return, the taste of the red sangria and her lips would simmer in my mind until the day came when it was time to stop thinking of this place like a dream, and to make it a reality.