It is, of course, tempting when one has taken the plunge and moved to The Island, to sporadically refer back to the old country. How would I be doing if I hadn't abandoned ship?, What would I be doing?, would I be better off?.
Life asks you these questions day after day, wherever you are, but radical changes like migration ask them more directly and more frequently. The contrasts between todays reality and yesterdays memory are more pronounced than many must confront. These questions, however real and tempting they are to hazard a guess at answering, are of course pure folly.
I used to work for the big guys in the city. I wasn't a cocaine snorting, Ferarri buying pin stripe boy, but I was on the ladder and doing nicely thank you for asking. Marked out as a guy to watch, a star of the future. This status, and the delicious jump from grace as I stuck it to the man and announced my intention to 'downsize', fed my adrenaline fuelled leap into the reckless. City boy to Mallorcan chef. 'You must be mad, you´d give up all this?', 'I may possibly be, and you can shove it', was my innner response. My outer pollitical response was measured, the product of a life lived on egg shells that I was glad I would soon be free to stomp all over.
I didn't really know what I was in for. That was the point. The staid life, and securty was exactly what I craved to be liberated from, despite an angel the size of Mike Tyson on my shoulder telling me I was a fool. 'Exactly Mike, that's the whole bloody point'. 'I want to be a fool. I wan't those around me to be envious of my devil-may-care attitude'.
Realty.
What have I done?
Have I really cocked up this time?
Pointless.
Look forward, not back.
Life on The Island is full of people like me. Some left because they had no choice, but most jumped for the hell of doing it.
It's good here, a great place to raise your kids, the countryside, the mountains, the temperate sea never more than a few minutes from your door, and the sunsets. The sunsets. If you ever lament the Christmas bonus forgone, a salmon pink sky as the late summer sun hits the Mediterranean horizon with a blazing finale to another glorious day doesn't light your candle, or illuminate your soul, you are clearly in the wrong place. Money/Mallorca, Mallorca/money, if have to ask the question then head for Stansted and the 0745 to London Bridge.
As for me?, you are welcome to it.
Poor, but happy amongst kindered spirits.
O.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
At what point did it become acceptable for men and boys to enter a womens clothes shop?.
I'm 37 and a half and as far as I can remember in Britain in the 1970's it was pretty much verboten for any male over the age of, say eight or so to enter Dorothy Perkins or Top Shop. Small gaggles (or whatever the collective noun should be) of dads and lads, reduced to the role of sherpas huddled in the doorways against the best of the British winter. Knowing nods would be exchanged between the group, feet were shuffled and occasional utterances to the effect of 'are you finished yet' would be forced from the corner of mouths into the den of the vixen. If you were lucky Dad had made a pre emptive stop at the local bakery for a meat and potato pie to fend off the cold for a while.
There were two points in the Saturday retail hell where the Dads and Lads, weighed heavy with bags would pull rank. 15.45 and 16.45. At these given signals the oppressed males would be summoned, like Batman after the signal went up, to the windows of Radio Rentals and Rumbellows and the like to watch, through rain spattered glass, a mute Dickie Davies or Frank Bough beat out the jungle telegraph of the vidiprinter. The transfixed audience would hang on every thud of the famous daisy wheel printer as it hammered out the news from football grounds around the nation. The jealously was always palpable. The beasts of burden, weighed down with treasures gleaned from M&S, Stead and Simpson and British homestores were transported, just for a moment to the terraces of Goodison Park, Elland Road and Old Trafford. Pies and programmes, swearing and a post match pint of mild in the local. Not today, not this life, not any more. For just for a few moments the hell would subside, knowledgeable glances would be exchanged as scores were revealed, before reality returned to burst the bubble. "C'mon son, lets go and find you mother, we can make it back for final score".
I'm 37 and a half and as far as I can remember in Britain in the 1970's it was pretty much verboten for any male over the age of, say eight or so to enter Dorothy Perkins or Top Shop. Small gaggles (or whatever the collective noun should be) of dads and lads, reduced to the role of sherpas huddled in the doorways against the best of the British winter. Knowing nods would be exchanged between the group, feet were shuffled and occasional utterances to the effect of 'are you finished yet' would be forced from the corner of mouths into the den of the vixen. If you were lucky Dad had made a pre emptive stop at the local bakery for a meat and potato pie to fend off the cold for a while.
There were two points in the Saturday retail hell where the Dads and Lads, weighed heavy with bags would pull rank. 15.45 and 16.45. At these given signals the oppressed males would be summoned, like Batman after the signal went up, to the windows of Radio Rentals and Rumbellows and the like to watch, through rain spattered glass, a mute Dickie Davies or Frank Bough beat out the jungle telegraph of the vidiprinter. The transfixed audience would hang on every thud of the famous daisy wheel printer as it hammered out the news from football grounds around the nation. The jealously was always palpable. The beasts of burden, weighed down with treasures gleaned from M&S, Stead and Simpson and British homestores were transported, just for a moment to the terraces of Goodison Park, Elland Road and Old Trafford. Pies and programmes, swearing and a post match pint of mild in the local. Not today, not this life, not any more. For just for a few moments the hell would subside, knowledgeable glances would be exchanged as scores were revealed, before reality returned to burst the bubble. "C'mon son, lets go and find you mother, we can make it back for final score".
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
It's Sunday afternoon here on the Island, but wierdly the calendar tells me it is Tuesday evening. It's been Sunday afternoon for at least a week and a half now. In the height of the frenetic summer everything comes at you fast and hard. Parry, volley or fire it back as fast as you can. When the summer ends here its as though your opponent has called in sick. Great!, for a while it is easy to bask in the quiet. The email flow slows to a trickle, and the perpetually demanding mobile phone stares back at you. You stare back at it, daring it to ring, but it declines. The respite is wonderful, for a week or two, until the realistation that these two brutal task masters pay the mortgage, fill the pantry and provide wood for the hearth. You, the hunter gatherer have to be a little more creative in these times. It is no longer suifficient to stoop and collect what lays at your feet. This season, this year more than ever you have to don the metaphoric deer stalker and go hunting for the buck.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Rain, rain stay a while.
It´s raining here on the Island, and I love it.
The transition from summer to the autumn storms comes quickly here, faster than you bargain for, however long you have lived here. Sodden washing remains on the line, furniture left on the terrace, and car windows left casualy open, secure in the knowledge that it won't rain, not yet.
But it does, it rains like rain was supposed to rain. Not the incessant drizzle for weeks on end that characterised my autunms in the old country, but short, sharp tempests that sweep in from leaden seas accompanied by all the cannon and mortar fire essential to stage a grandstand finale to the balmy bonus summer that always happens, and always delights.
Our house, like most of the older houses on the Island realises the value of the bounty falling from the sky, every drop that falls on our roof pauses briefly in our cisterna before being reanimated in the loo, shower or kettle. Ramon, the guy who delivers tankers of water to the village in drier times, dressed unfailingly in carpet slippers and shirt unbuttoned to the waist hibernates for the winter, his work for the year is done.
Rain on the Island is such a rarity that it always stops play, for a day or two at least. In the old country it holds no novelty value, so life must continue regargless. Turn your collar to the intruder and press on regardless. Not here, everything stops, as though an earthquake or tsunami. 'No pasa nada' in a day or so it will be dry again and normality can resume its laconic autumnal pace. Shut your shutters, throw another log on your fire, pour yourself a glass of hierbas and enjoy the show.
Whatever it is, it can wait until the rain stops.
The transition from summer to the autumn storms comes quickly here, faster than you bargain for, however long you have lived here. Sodden washing remains on the line, furniture left on the terrace, and car windows left casualy open, secure in the knowledge that it won't rain, not yet.
But it does, it rains like rain was supposed to rain. Not the incessant drizzle for weeks on end that characterised my autunms in the old country, but short, sharp tempests that sweep in from leaden seas accompanied by all the cannon and mortar fire essential to stage a grandstand finale to the balmy bonus summer that always happens, and always delights.
Our house, like most of the older houses on the Island realises the value of the bounty falling from the sky, every drop that falls on our roof pauses briefly in our cisterna before being reanimated in the loo, shower or kettle. Ramon, the guy who delivers tankers of water to the village in drier times, dressed unfailingly in carpet slippers and shirt unbuttoned to the waist hibernates for the winter, his work for the year is done.
Rain on the Island is such a rarity that it always stops play, for a day or two at least. In the old country it holds no novelty value, so life must continue regargless. Turn your collar to the intruder and press on regardless. Not here, everything stops, as though an earthquake or tsunami. 'No pasa nada' in a day or so it will be dry again and normality can resume its laconic autumnal pace. Shut your shutters, throw another log on your fire, pour yourself a glass of hierbas and enjoy the show.
Whatever it is, it can wait until the rain stops.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Summer ends on the Island, perhaps not just for 2008.
It's early November here in Mallorca, the relentless summer has given way to autumn. The pungent smoke from almond wood fires curls into the still skies and residents reach into the back of their wardrobes for the socks and long trousers packed away nearly six months earlier. The last of the late season holidaymakers catch the dying rays of the Indian summer, and the Mediterranean, as blue as ever is too cold for all but toddlers and the more hardy of Northern European tourists.
All over the island businesses are closing for the winter, the bars and restaurants in the resorts are cleaning and packing, and poring over the summer takings. Make hay while the sun shines, squirrel away as much of the summer profits as possible, and spread them as thinly as you dare through the long winter months is the strategy, but for many doing the seasonal sums, the reality is dawning that they may not reopen again come next spring.
Meanwhile the real estate agents rearrange their paperclips in empty offices for the third time today, their cheery smiles soon drop as they realise you won´t be buying into the dreams that mock them from the gaudy window displays promising permanent blue skies and seas. The Porches and Mercedes parked out front are looking like expensive liabilities now, rather than the executive treats bought to celebrate another bumber year twelve months ago. 'The Germans are still buying', 'The top end of the market is fine, the rich will always have money', 'Mallorca is different'. The thin veneer of optemism vital in a market based on confidence is beginning to show the cracks. Catch them off guard and they'll tell you that the gravy train has left the station. Unfinished constructions of over priced apartments stand like monolith reminders that prices do not always go up. The banks have called in the loans, while the botomless pit of new buyers arriving by the plane load have all but gone, at least for this year. It will be a while before they arrive back with pockets as deep as they used to have.
It´s been a lean year here on the Island, no fat to trim, no winter stores to eek out until spring welcomes in the new harvest. We must all learn to forage wherever and whatever, to line the pantry shelves this winter, and hope for better next year.
There isn´t a corner of the world that the credit cruch hasn´t touched, but it´s bitten off a little more here than in many places. Life´s little treats, foreign holidays, meals out, second homes, boats or a round of golf are always going to be the first to go when pocket books and purses begin to lighten. What to do when your economy is based on those treats?, that, is the million, or maybe even billion Euro question to which Mallorca is desparately trying to find an answer.
All over the island businesses are closing for the winter, the bars and restaurants in the resorts are cleaning and packing, and poring over the summer takings. Make hay while the sun shines, squirrel away as much of the summer profits as possible, and spread them as thinly as you dare through the long winter months is the strategy, but for many doing the seasonal sums, the reality is dawning that they may not reopen again come next spring.
Meanwhile the real estate agents rearrange their paperclips in empty offices for the third time today, their cheery smiles soon drop as they realise you won´t be buying into the dreams that mock them from the gaudy window displays promising permanent blue skies and seas. The Porches and Mercedes parked out front are looking like expensive liabilities now, rather than the executive treats bought to celebrate another bumber year twelve months ago. 'The Germans are still buying', 'The top end of the market is fine, the rich will always have money', 'Mallorca is different'. The thin veneer of optemism vital in a market based on confidence is beginning to show the cracks. Catch them off guard and they'll tell you that the gravy train has left the station. Unfinished constructions of over priced apartments stand like monolith reminders that prices do not always go up. The banks have called in the loans, while the botomless pit of new buyers arriving by the plane load have all but gone, at least for this year. It will be a while before they arrive back with pockets as deep as they used to have.
It´s been a lean year here on the Island, no fat to trim, no winter stores to eek out until spring welcomes in the new harvest. We must all learn to forage wherever and whatever, to line the pantry shelves this winter, and hope for better next year.
There isn´t a corner of the world that the credit cruch hasn´t touched, but it´s bitten off a little more here than in many places. Life´s little treats, foreign holidays, meals out, second homes, boats or a round of golf are always going to be the first to go when pocket books and purses begin to lighten. What to do when your economy is based on those treats?, that, is the million, or maybe even billion Euro question to which Mallorca is desparately trying to find an answer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)