The world as we know it will soon change forever, and irrevocably, when the new baby is born in March, which is why we decided to take a week's vacation with you - and without extended family, for once - in Mallorca this Fall Break.
You are the manzana of our eye, and for this week at least, you get all the attention you want and deserve. We are also celebrating that Mommy's nausea has finally abated after a rough third and fourth month of this pregnancy.
We are staying at a cozy, charmingly shabby, yet clean apartment complex in Santa Ponsa where we have our own kitchen and can have a pleasant family breakfast before venturing out for the discoveries of the day.
The beach is in a protected inlet with next to no surf and at least 200 meters of shallow sandy bottom (langgrunt). There is a motley mix of tourists here - Brits and Irish (mostly from council estates?!), Northern and Eastern Europeans, Spaniards and even a few Arab and Indian families, and all can be seen daily at the beach in an eye-opening array of shapes, skin tones, fitness levels, ages and swimsuit styles (or lack thereof;-).
Parrots cavort and squawk in the tress that line the beach, and we have already become well acquainted with some of the local eateries and tourist shops in our first three days here. This is not the type of place we normally choose to travel to, but we wanted something that would be easy and fun with a two-year old, and Spain will always hold a very special place in our hearts.
You love the beach, and your Spanish is coming along well, although you're usually too shy to reply in the moment when the waiters and shopowners call you 'guapa' or 'guapita.'
We have learned that Mallorquin is closer to Catalan than Castellano, but has been subordinated by both languages and is not taught in schools here. In fact, Catalan has been forced upon students with such intensity over the past twenty years that parents are no longer to help their kids with homework, and teachers hold PTA meetings that no one can understand.
This evening I met a man from Galicia who remembers hearing Gallego for the first time when, as a seven-year old, he had to share a hospital room with a boy who spoke no Spanish. When he asked his grandmother what he was hearing, she said that it was his own language but that it was forbidden by the Franco regime. So, politics have always affected language, and can deal a death blow to regional culture as swiftly as can hordes of tourists, who disfigure the faces of historic towns like the garish tattoos that mar their pasty flesh.
This evening I met a man from Galicia who remembers hearing Gallego for the first time when, as a seven-year old, he had to share a hospital room with a boy who spoke no Spanish. When he asked his grandmother what he was hearing, she said that it was his own language but that it was forbidden by the Franco regime. So, politics have always affected language, and can deal a death blow to regional culture as swiftly as can hordes of tourists, who disfigure the faces of historic towns like the garish tattoos that mar their pasty flesh.
But none of us are without our peccadillos, and this morning started poorly for Daddy, who went out to get breakfast but dropped a box of yogurt - splat! - on the supermarket floor, and all over his sandals, got yelled at by the shopowner and had to mop it up himself! And this after a tube of toothpaste exploded all over you at toothbrushing time the night before...
Ayayay, the adventures were many on this trip. We rented a car for three days in order to see different parts of the island and partake of the exquisite rural cuisine. As fate would have it, the restaurant that had been recommended to us was closed on Wednesdays (the day we chose to go, of course) but we found another just a stone's throw away and it turned out to be one of the best eating experiences of our lives, at the Hostal Algaida. The food in Spain always astounds us with its depth and variety of flavor, but this was something else entirely. Their 'tumbet,' the Mallorcan version of ratatouille, was so good that we came back two days later just to eat it again!
Another day trip took us up a winding, narrow mountain road to a sprawling monastery-and-statue complex that housed a most unique and peculiar collection of religious paraphernalia. The view from 1500 feet was spectacular, although we arrived in a mist that evoked the mysteries of The Name of the Rose. Upon entering, we were greeted by a twelve-foot long stone sculpture of the Last Supper that was encased in glass and mounted on the wall - why?! It must have weighed at least 500 pounds, but had obviously stood the test of time (un milagro, quizas?). The chapel was the real stunner, though, with its cavelike altar complete with dioramas and a jukebox. Yes, a jukebox.
We had just left the chapel when we were lured back in by the sounds of choral chanting and orchestral bombast. A curious family had deposited a few Euros into the jukebox, and we now sat spellbound alongside them in the pews, beholding the heavenly strains coming from the Bose speakers, as section after section of the altar was thrust into the glare of red, white and bluish-purple spotlights. Rarely have I found myself closer to God, or the Holy Trinity of Technology, Theatrics and Tithes. I mean, hey, if you choose to put your monastery on a mountaintop, might as well make the journey - and the show - worth everyone's while.
Other car trips turned out to be less successful; or at least, a real mixture of dulceamargo - bittersweetness. In Port Soller on the mountainous western coast, we had a glorious day and another great meal, and Sunniva was simply radiant as she carried her little Dog proudly wherever she went. Then all of a sudden, when Mommy rejoined us on the beach after a quick bathroom break, she asked, "Where is Dog?!" and a shot of panic ran through our hearts. Somehow, in the space of ten minutes since leaving the last store, Sunniva had managed to drop Dog without us noticing, and now he was nowhere to be seen. The hour that followed was one of the blackest that we have experienced as parents, as we paced back and forth along a 50-meter strip of storefronts, scouring the street, gutters and trash cans, and asking every storeowner and passerby if they had seen her precious peluche. Only then did we realize what an important family member Dog had become, and we were devastated thinking of his demise.
Fortunately, Mommy had purchased two identical Dogs last year (at which decision Daddy foolishly laughed) and she had the presence of mind to tell Sunniva, even in the heat of the moment, that Dog had decided to take a plane back to Drammen to take care of Bunny and Lamb and watch over the house until we came back. Thank God for the trust of two-year-olds, for Sunniva bought this story, which lessened the blow of having to change a poop diaper on the seat of the rental car that had a parking ticket on it when we finally resolved to drive home after abandoning the search for Dog.
Footnote: Upon waking up this morning in Drammen with Dog II in her arms, Sunniva said, "Dog is white," and all we had to do was explain that he had taken a bath!
All's well that end's well, I guess, as long as one follows one's parental instincts and has prepared a handful of contingency plans for any outing or outcome. And so this historic vacation, our first and probably last as a family of three, has left us richer in experience and more than ready for our world to be turned upside down all over again, soon.
https://goo.gl/photos/AmKzTsRKLvHAvzsE6
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-gzaXsOaOLY
Ayayay, the adventures were many on this trip. We rented a car for three days in order to see different parts of the island and partake of the exquisite rural cuisine. As fate would have it, the restaurant that had been recommended to us was closed on Wednesdays (the day we chose to go, of course) but we found another just a stone's throw away and it turned out to be one of the best eating experiences of our lives, at the Hostal Algaida. The food in Spain always astounds us with its depth and variety of flavor, but this was something else entirely. Their 'tumbet,' the Mallorcan version of ratatouille, was so good that we came back two days later just to eat it again!
Another day trip took us up a winding, narrow mountain road to a sprawling monastery-and-statue complex that housed a most unique and peculiar collection of religious paraphernalia. The view from 1500 feet was spectacular, although we arrived in a mist that evoked the mysteries of The Name of the Rose. Upon entering, we were greeted by a twelve-foot long stone sculpture of the Last Supper that was encased in glass and mounted on the wall - why?! It must have weighed at least 500 pounds, but had obviously stood the test of time (un milagro, quizas?). The chapel was the real stunner, though, with its cavelike altar complete with dioramas and a jukebox. Yes, a jukebox.
We had just left the chapel when we were lured back in by the sounds of choral chanting and orchestral bombast. A curious family had deposited a few Euros into the jukebox, and we now sat spellbound alongside them in the pews, beholding the heavenly strains coming from the Bose speakers, as section after section of the altar was thrust into the glare of red, white and bluish-purple spotlights. Rarely have I found myself closer to God, or the Holy Trinity of Technology, Theatrics and Tithes. I mean, hey, if you choose to put your monastery on a mountaintop, might as well make the journey - and the show - worth everyone's while.
Other car trips turned out to be less successful; or at least, a real mixture of dulceamargo - bittersweetness. In Port Soller on the mountainous western coast, we had a glorious day and another great meal, and Sunniva was simply radiant as she carried her little Dog proudly wherever she went. Then all of a sudden, when Mommy rejoined us on the beach after a quick bathroom break, she asked, "Where is Dog?!" and a shot of panic ran through our hearts. Somehow, in the space of ten minutes since leaving the last store, Sunniva had managed to drop Dog without us noticing, and now he was nowhere to be seen. The hour that followed was one of the blackest that we have experienced as parents, as we paced back and forth along a 50-meter strip of storefronts, scouring the street, gutters and trash cans, and asking every storeowner and passerby if they had seen her precious peluche. Only then did we realize what an important family member Dog had become, and we were devastated thinking of his demise.
Fortunately, Mommy had purchased two identical Dogs last year (at which decision Daddy foolishly laughed) and she had the presence of mind to tell Sunniva, even in the heat of the moment, that Dog had decided to take a plane back to Drammen to take care of Bunny and Lamb and watch over the house until we came back. Thank God for the trust of two-year-olds, for Sunniva bought this story, which lessened the blow of having to change a poop diaper on the seat of the rental car that had a parking ticket on it when we finally resolved to drive home after abandoning the search for Dog.
Footnote: Upon waking up this morning in Drammen with Dog II in her arms, Sunniva said, "Dog is white," and all we had to do was explain that he had taken a bath!
All's well that end's well, I guess, as long as one follows one's parental instincts and has prepared a handful of contingency plans for any outing or outcome. And so this historic vacation, our first and probably last as a family of three, has left us richer in experience and more than ready for our world to be turned upside down all over again, soon.
https://goo.gl/photos/AmKzTsRKLvHAvzsE6
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-gzaXsOaOLY
