One of the perks about living close to Geneva at the heart of Europe is that a flight to, oh, say, Palma de Majorca is only a hop (skip and jump unnecessary) away. Last week Fred took five solid days of vacation and we took the hour and half flight to Palma. The first family vacation without skis in tow since Nash’s arrival almost a solid two years ago! It was due time, and who better to convince me to embark on such a journey than my most recent Geneva departee (and beloved girlfriend), Laura, who I have been missing since February. She also has a little boy who has about 13 months on Nash, and our hubs get along well, so we figured why not?
You would think living at the heart of Europe that we do these kinds of things all the time, and every time we do something like this I think longingly, ohhhh why not more often, but to be honest this is one the first of its kind in YEARS. We’ve done the odd weekend here and there, but not a real deal week-long out and about just being wanderlustly obnoxiously oblivious yet oh so obviously TOURISTS. And it was fabulous, even if we were obnoxious, which I assure you we were. Oversized bags hanging off the sides of loaded down strollers, city map in hand looking up, down and around at sights, pushing our way into crowded restaurants and then plopping our nap deprived child into the high chair (Ipod in hand to watch downloaded Yo Gabba Gabba, mind you), him all the while protesting ‘WALK.’
But the flip side of all of that was that once we were at our little casa in the middle of the Soller orange groves, feet kicked up on the coffee table sipping lattes and catching up with two of our favorite people as our babies finally slept upstairs… vacation at last. At least until morning when the boys were up and as rambunctious as the day prior. The two wee ones definitely had a love-hate volley going on throughout the course of the week, something that was good for me to see. It’s funny that primal sort of ‘Here you, go, my friend,’ and then, ‘NO!! MINE!!’ dialectic that kids are constantly oscillating between. Here in Geneva, most of my close girlfriends have girls. And we adore those girls. And I think Nash is having to learn about personal space and respect and discipline and kindness and sensitivity to a great extent from these girls. I must admit that it was very enlightening to see just how different being around other boys can be for Nash. It was rough and tumble like the kid had never experienced before, and for most part, he absolutely loved it. It was the week of tackles. Nash has officially learned how to be taken down and take it on the chin (again, for the most part, we had our fair share of meltdowns!)
So yes, our trip to Mallorca was amazing. We took a little vintage train from Soller to Soller Port, then Soller to Palma, spent a morning swimming in Cala Deia, this remote little cove where we were seriously the very first ones on the playa. We climbed through the cliff side village of Deia one morning, and strolled the old cobbled alleys of Soller many times over. Wandering the streets of the port side city of Palma, watching Nash soak it all in all the while. The food was amazing as to be expected, and most of my day was spent pondering the next course. Fresh olives to open the palate at every meal, squid every way you like (even in its own ink, which surprisingly was one of the boys favorites!), a little sobrassada (black sausage of Mallorca… their identity symbol from what I understand), fresh (unpasterized, of course, so off-limits for my 8 month pregnant friend, Laura) cheeses in many colors, varieties and degrees of pungency. And the wine. Oh the wine. I mostly stuck with local whites, though I did bring home one of the reds certified ‘Designation of Origin,’ which I will be trying once the weekend is a little closer upon us (I am attempting to detox a bit this week after last weeks indulgences.) They were delicious. It was all delicious. But most delicious of all was sitting on the sofa with a glass of my Majorcan white and being asked by my sweet girlfriend if I would be the godmother of her son.
This week was indeed one to go in the books, folks. Good, good times.