Senile dogs, Banoffee Blues and Learning to Be Alone: Mallorca

A Spanish Dolce Vita gone wrong - or Not?

I was lucky enough to land a housesitting spot in Mallorca. To be fair: there are tons of listings here—beautiful houses with gardens, pools, surrounded by nature. But they’re snapped up in seconds. No surprise - Mallorca is popular. I could have ended up in a finca with a pool. Of course I didn’t.

My catch is probably the darkest house on the island. Thick stone walls. Shutters closed (like in most houses here, to keep out the heat), so it’s dark and a bit cold inside. I’m here to look after two dogs who’ve clearly passed their expiration date and barely want to eat.

I instantly fall in love with my little seniors. Twice a day, I supervise their meals to make sure they eat at all. One of them seems to have such Alzheimer's that she forgets the food bowl in front of her within seconds. The other one spends all his energy trying to steal her portion whenever he can.

They’re low-maintenance though, too old for long walks. So they have a (windowless) room in the courtyard that functions as their bathroom. And yes, the aroma drifts straight into my room.

On top of that, I discover that the house across the way is home to—what I later find out—a “mental patient” who screams every three minutes like he’s celebrating life itself. At least  someone around here has something to rejoice about.

Empracing the Solo Travel stamp

Petra, a small town in the heart of the island, is surprisingly untouristy. It offers an unexpected density of restaurants and cultural venues like a cinema and a music school. I get to spend a week here and I dive right into exploring the town’s culinary scene.

First stop: Restaurant Ca N’Oms. I enter a garden filled with dreamy decor made from upcycled objects, an old piano, a vintage sewing machine turned into a table. Today, this one’s for me. For the first time in years, I actually feel like I’m on vacation. Sun. Warmth. Good food. And then, there it is that trembling.

I think back to Thailand. My last big trip before the relationship. Just me, by myself. I loved it.

And now? I wonder if I’m even allowed to enjoy this. To be happy. To savor life without him. How can I, when he might be out there fighting for survival?

“Are you alone?” I look up, it’s the waitress. “Yes,” I say. I feel like I catch a slightly pitying look. It’s not the first time. People keep asking if I’m traveling alone.  Every time, I get surprised looks, as if I was a rare phenomenon.  I’ve never noticed it this much before. It won’t be the last time either. This question follows me through the days like a thread. Apparently, this island isn’t meant for solo travelers.

Traveling alone seems to come with a stamp: sadness, loneliness. Like being over forty, unmarried, no kids.

I used to say, “I started the trip with my boyfriend. Now I’m alone.” And every time I said it, tears would rise. My counterpart would tense up, but never ask more. No one wants to hear that you’re sad. They want heroes. A survivor story.

Now I just say, “Yes, I’m traveling alone.” And each time, there’s this faint trace of shame. Like I owe them an explanation.

I look around—only couples, families, groups. Maybe that’s why some waiters treat me like an afterthought. Or maybe the Paris/Berlin chic of too-cool-to-be-friendly service has made it to Mallorca too.

I see a family playing cards. Laughing. Lighthearted. And I wonder how lonely I must look to everyone around me.

Yes, in our good moments, Lucas and I could have sat like that too. I feel the ease in these people and at the same time, I know: I’ll never love like that again.

I don’t mean the dramatic “I’ll never fall in love again” kind of thing, which one usually says after a broken relationship. I mean the clear-headed: I’ll never love again the way I did back then, so light, so pure, so naively full of hope for a forever after. That hope left with the relationship.

If love ever comes again, it’ll be different. Sober. Disenchanted. No more fireworks. All of that stayed with him.

I cover the sadness with food. Starter, main, dessert, until I can’t move. I try a typical Mallorcan dish: slow-braised pork cheeks (Carrillera de ternera en salsa de vino tinto) that I could just melt into. For dessert, a banoffee tart. Alone or not, after this meal, I feel fantastic.

Sieneu Market Day & Historic Climbs

Someone recommended the market in Sineu to me which is supposed to be beautiful.

So of course, I go.

Once again, I follow one of those recommendations where “beautiful” and “the best” are entirely subjective and very much up for interpretation.

I wander past stalls selling “off the rack” dresses and leather bags. Cheaply made fabrics you could still get for pennies in countries like Thailand, except here, they go for full boutique prices.

There are a few lovely artisanal stands in between, but not enough to elevate the big picture.

The worst part? A livestock section, where tiny puppies and kittens are kept in cages for sale.

I walk through Sineu a bit. On another day, without the market, I might have found the town charming. Quiet streets, sandstone houses, little traffic. But today, the touristy vibe smothers everything. A bitter aftertaste lingers.

I buy a piece of cake and a few empanadas and after an hour, I drive back to Petra. Back to my senile roommates. There, at least, peace returns.

I’m sure the island has other markets. Better ones. Somewhere.

The next day, I head to Castell d’Alaró.

My tiny rental car struggles up the steep, winding road, and my heartbeat syncs with the car’s engine, uneven, strained, and not entirely trustworthy. At the next possible spot, I pull over and park (despite a very real fear of tumbling into the abyss  below). I walk the rest.

The path to the castle is rocky, uneven, ancient. Those might even be remained from those days. I wonder how they managed to get up there back then? Did they come with carriages? Or did they carry everything up by foot, stones, furniture?

I once saw a photo of a priest hauling a massive wooden cross up the mountain. That’s probably how it was. They were definitely stronger than we are today.

By the time I reach the top, or more accurately, crawl there (and of course I forgot my asthma spray), I’m rewarded with a view over all of Mallorca. From up here, you can see the entire island down to the sea.

The climb is absolutely worth it.

Rosé & Realities

Ten years ago, on my first visit to the island, I went to Deià and quickly declared it my “favorite place in the world.”

Now, a decade later, I return with a pounding heart, only to find it’s become an overrun Instagram backdrop.

The already narrow sidewalks are packed with tourists. The single main road is jammed with traffic and the air is so thick and stuffy you just want to run.

But stubborn as I am, I drive all the way down to the beach - the only parking option - and walk 45 minutes back up the serpentine roads (there they are again). The sun is blazing.

Red-faced and sweaty, I take refuge in a boutique where I can only afford a bar of soap.

I chat with the owner, an older woman who recently fulfilled her dream of opening this shop. Before I leave she throws her wisdom at me - “Anything you do from the heart will be easy.”

I think: Bullshit.

I followed my heart. My passion. And nothing about it has been easy. It feels like I’m crawling through a bog, with no land in sight.

Yesterday, in the car: rage. I crashed into a guardrail. Nothing major, but I heard Lucas’ voice in my head again: “How stupid are you?”,  “You’re just a shitty person.”

When did he stop loving me?

After a short walk through this “new” Deià, I head back, a little disappointed. Some places live better in memory, especially when their magic fades with time.

As I pull away from my parking spot and drive back up the hill, I see an older couple by the side of the road. The man stretches out his arm, heavy with heat, hoping to hitch a ride. I know how the climb feels, so I stop.

As soon as they sit down, the familiar question comes: “Are you traveling alone?”

And all I think is: Maybe in the future I will be one of those women. The ones with a few dogs, some cats. Alone. But possibly happy.

Somehow, in our society, being alone still seems to mean something’s wrong with you. Like it’s something pitiful. No one ever thinks it might be a choice.

I'd rather be alone than be belittled every day, by someone who claims to love me.

A few rosés and cheese bites later, I sit there watching the sun go down.

Mallorca might not have been the most romantic holiday ever—but the island gave me something else: peace. It made me reexamine my choices. And it quietly confirmed, once more, YES, leaving was the right decision.

Be well,

Vaselisa