“You are Kevin?”
“Pardon?”
Embarking on a solo week driving around Mallorca, then losing my drivers license in transit? Not my finest hour. A fairytale wedding near the citrus grove-laden seaside town of Sollér brought me to the largest island of the Baleriacs. A chest infection, some big deadlines and three hotels to review an hour’s drive south of the venue inspired me to hire a car, so I could pootle around at my own pace.
I realized my problem in Barcelona, waiting for my connecting flight. Paying for a coffee, I spotted my license was missing. I’d booked via OMIO (a journey planning site that pulls together trains, planes, ferries and coaches — I love that thing), which I quickly consulted to confirm the dearth of public transport on the island.
For a brief moment, I let myself romanticize taking the scenic route on the big day. I’d hop on Tren de Sollér, the iconic vintage train connecting Palma to Sollér, in a ridiculously large hat. Tick off the famous “photo stop” dolled up in my bridesmaids dress. Regale other guests with my easy-breezy, romantic plan.
Alas, the earliest ride wouldn’t get me there on time. Taxis can be extortionate in mid-summer traffic. Buses are few and far between. The rest of the guests are staying on the other side of the island. No Uber. Sweltering heat. High heels. A raspy, painful cough and high temperature. This is a pretty big fuck up.
“You are not Kevin?”
I smile weakly at the stranger waving from Meet & Greet. I figure I’m approaching delirium after a day’s traveling, under the weather.
“Come!” Wiping poor Kev off his white board, Francisco grabs my suitcase. I protest, between wheezes.
“Amy! Yes? I can do it. Hotel Portixol.” He points at the logo on his shirt. In my daze, I’ve forgotten the emails I’d fired off to private car companies in the airport café. While I was in the air, Royal Private Transfers spotted my plea. Things were looking up, even if I didn’t get the joke.
“These are my cars,” owner Francisco gestures to a row of large Mercedes minibuses complete with disco lights. “This is my house,” he points at the airport, hauling my suitcase into the trunk before firing up the light show for my benefit. “I don’t sleep! Always working. I saw your text. Let’s go.”
He leaves me at Hotel Portixol with a cheery high-five and another booking for two days’ time.
“Don’t worry. The wedding! It will be OK!” He scoots back “home,” presumably in search of a despondent man named Kevin traipsing around the concourse.
Lights twinkle along the edge of inky waters, Portixol beach just 300 meters away. The chic harbor is flanked by a mix of upscale restaurants and laidback cafés where tanned locals smoke from plastic chairs on the pavement. Busy Palma is within five minutes’ drive. I tumble into Hotel Portixol’s calm, refined lobby, casting a glance at the elegant cocktail bar and pool area. Within ten minutes I’m curled up with a cup of tea on my balcony’s sun lounger, watching boats bob in the dark.
Next morning I spy mountains of jamon and fresh bread at the breakfast buffet, but mainline as many vitamins as possible: eggs made to order, fresh juice, vegetables and all the fruit I can see. I spend an inordinate amount of time in the sauna, determined to feel human again. I find flip flops and a beach bag in my room, prompting a quick walk around the harbor that sends me into a deep sleep until my alarm sounds for check out.
It’s a ten-minute taxi to my next stop, INNSiDE Palma Bosque, a buzzy, playful bleisure hotel in Santa Catalina. I admire an impressive twenty-four-hour gym set up that I won’t use and an extensive program of exercise classes that I won’t book (boxing, zumba, cycling, yoga — next time!). Instead, I park up on a Bali bed by the huge outdoor pool and try to get some work done. Another stroll takes me as far as a convenience store, where broken Spanglish affords me Ibuprofen, a huge slab of chocolate, sweets and full-fat Coca Cola. Music plays on the terraces where cool crowds gather for a drink before strolling into town for tapas and ice cream. I crawl back to bed, grateful for the AC and the hotel’s ironing service — if I’m going to be sick tomorrow, I’d better look half decent.
I get two pages into my book before that damn alarm goes off again. I spy a cool view of Bellver Castle from my balcony while I drag a brush through my hair, anxious to check if Francisco kept his promise. I needn’t have worried; he’s already waiting in the lobby, eager to show off his island. En route to the (spectacular) wedding venue Finca Son Termes, he namechecks the Serra de Tramuntana mountain range, which I discover to be a UNESCO World Heritage site stretching along Mallorca’s northwest coast.
“Call me Paco. My friends call me Paco. Now. You need to go hiking. And get a boat.” A quick Google shows me rugged cliffs, lush valleys and picturesque little villages like Valldemossa and Deià. The wine region of Binissalem looks like heaven. You can charter yachts for the day from Calvià, hurtling past the teenagers long-arming booze buckets in Magaluf. I actually start a spreadsheet to keep track of everything I want to tick off next time. This trip, I’ve accepted, is about survival. And alcohol.
Team Bride starts the morning in kimonos, drinking bubbles. Then, a ton of local whites and reds, which contribute to my miraculous if momentary recovery. The sun blazes above the magical celebration, the magnificent bride starting the party by joining the live Spanish band with an epic surprise harmonica solo. We soak up the wine with ensaimada (a spiral-shaped puff pastry) and gató d’ametlla (Majorcan almond cake) before I crawl to my 2 a.m. pick up, worse for wear.
At 9 a.m. sharp, I drag my broken body to Melia Palma Bay, where the seventh floor swimming pool with 360-degree views of Palma affords me the classiest sick day of my life. I’m granted access to an exclusive area called The Level Lounge, AKA hangover heaven, where a buffet of filled croissants and desserts is available throughout the day for members. There’s a Bloody Mary trolley stuffed with champagne, and a Nespresso machine. Everyone is friendly. I float around in a stupor, drinking as much water as physically possible, looking out at the bay. I’m leaving tomorrow. I need to get out there.
Hazy memories come flooding back; I’ve promised I’ll explore the island with some friends. A pregnant pal comes through on the transport front, happy to pick me up as designated driver. Next morning we take aim at UM Beach House in the southwest, an Ibiza-style gathering place, “meant to transcend the artistic, spiritual, and social life of its tribe.” We don’t know what it means, and we don’t care — there are shaded loungers and espresso martinis. Excellent ones. I later become hooked on Los Mareados — a heady mix of Herradura tequila, blackberry liqueur, lime and ginger beer.
Next door at UM Chambao Portals, we try beautiful razor clams, Boletus croquettes, Andalusian-style fried calamari, the obligatory Iberian hams and cured Mahones cheese. It’s a sensational lunch, then a slow afternoon of more boozing and snoozing. We dry off and make the drive back into Palma for a wander, noses pressed to the window as we pass the imposing Gothic facade of La Seu Cathedral (tick). Early nights and paracetamols all round.
We cap off the trip with a preflight lunch at Treehouse by UM, a glitzy open air treehouse-style sushi lounge perched atop the marina. A glorious spread of California rolls, salmon nigiri, avocado hosomaki and grilled vegetables takes the edge off the journey home. Downstairs, there’s an Amazonian theme, a young crowd soaking up thumping Latin American folk music that starts gaining momentum as we lose ours. I add this place to my spreadsheet; one day I’ll be back, when I can stay up past 8 p.m.. I think I’ll invite Francisco. And Kevin.