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Wednesday, February 15th, 2012
At first it seemed like a passing phase. A minor blip in Menorca’s gentle transition from blustery autumn to the warm winds of spring, just a few days of chill – a token gesture to winter – that would quickly be forgotten. But that was before we had two days (TWO!) of snow and what feels like several months of temperatures that have not come close to courting double digits. Admittedly, it’s probably not anywhere near several months, or even one month actually, but the whole Siberian cold spell followed by a Polar one that is playing catch up means that right now, Menorca is one wintery island.
Menorca’s not very good with cold. The island can handle wind pretty well – gusts of over 100 kilometres per hour can hammer away at her coastline without causing much concern. But cold is something completely different. Our houses are built with breeze blocks, there isn’t a square inch of carpet to be seen here – it’s mainly tiles: slipper-penetrating, toe-chilling, cold-retaining ceramic tiles that decorate our floors. And even where you find parquet, that’s only a fraction more comforting to feet – and any building more than, say, 10 years old, usually lacks both central heating and/or double glazing. The result? Much of the time, you’re just as freezing outside as you are indoors.
Islanders aren’t great with the cold either – although they reserve the right to complain about the weather on every single day of the year – but they seem to think that ex-pats, like myself, have the upper hand during cold days with wind-chill factors that drag the mercury sub-zero. ‘It’s ok for you’, they muffle through the scarf that’s half covering their face, ‘ you’re used to this’, and they’ve often shuffled off in search of shelter before I even begin to explain that, no, I am not used to freezing weather on Menorca, and that I too, am keen for a bit of sunshine. Spring, take note, and please come soon.
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Monday, January 30th, 2012
What is it about Menorca that makes it so charming? I heard one theory as to what adds to Menorca’s charm this week: that our little Balearic Isle takes a bit of effort to get to. The idea being that this sense of isolation, of being 30 minutes by plane from the mainland, and too similar in name to our nearest neighbour, makes Menorca that so much more special. I mean, if you want to come here you 1) certainly won’t be popping in on your way somewhere else and 2) had the combination of geographical curiosity and adequate spelling skills to realise that Menorca isn’t simply an extension of Mallorca, but an island in her own right. So that’s the theory, that charm equals discretion, that sense of being forgotten in the Med in a place where symbols of modern civilisation, like, I don’t know, trains or department stores, are absent.
So if this theory is correct, then Menorca has risen up the charm scale at an alarming rate this week. You see, one of the few, loyal (read: heavily subsidised), airlines that bothers to connect Mahón’s airport with the rest of the world between November and April – well, with Madrid and Barcelona actually – has run out of money. The Catalan authorities have pulled the plug on Spanair’s spending spree, and with no public cash propping up the airline, it’s not viable anymore, and neither are the 20-odd flights that it operated per week between Menorca and mainland Spain.
Now I’m all for playing the charm card, but really, Spanair’s disappearance is quite a blow. Menorca’s tip-top journalists have been quick to point out that a decade ago, the island had eight flights a day between Mahón and Barcelona during the winter. Islanders were already complaining about how connections have worsened in recent years, but with Spainair’s absence, we’re now down to two, and these flights are at a time of day that mean a Menorcan cannot possibly do a day’s work in Barcelona without spending the night there. Yet as the public coffers are already being emptied by all the other demands on Spanish government the chances of an airline coming to Menorca’s rescue are super-model skinny slim. We’ll all have to just sit tight here until May, then. But at least we are safe in the knowledge that this isolation could be doing wonders for the island’s charm.
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Monday, January 23rd, 2012
Real Madrid. Barça. There’s no room for indifference when it comes to these two football teams. Regardless of your personal sporting abilities and/or couch potato skills, one never-written, always adhered to obligation placed on Spaniards and Spanish residents is that you must have a preference when it comes to a Real Madrid / Barça clash – everyone does.
Before I lived in Menorca I couldn’t have picked out one of Real or Barça’s team members out of a line-up. Neither could my sister, who – in one of my favourite anecdotes when short of football-friendly conversation – once asked Raul (a Real Madrid veteran who spends his summers on Menorca) ‘what he did for a living’ when she coincided with him in a bar in Son Bou. Unimpressed with his reply, she then queried, ‘are you any good at it?’ But now there’s no escaping the nicknames, the nationalities, and the nuances of these well paid players – at times, you’d be forgiven for thinking that there are no other teams in the Liga.
Menorca’s take on any ‘clásico’ between the two teams is divided: you’d think that geography would steer islanders towards supporting Barça, but proximity does not guarantee loyalty, and the fact that many Catalans consider the Balearics to be ‘their’ islands is sufficient for football fans to cheer for Madrid instead. As soon as they can kick a ball, Menorcans know exactly who their team is – and they stay that way for life. Us immigrants who have the luxury of choosing a team at a later stage in life are granted a short window of deliberation time – that’s all – before we, too, are slotted into the appropriate batch of supporters.
Last week, Real Madrid and Barça met in quarter finals of the Cup (no need to say who won, it’s been all over the press), and face each other for the return leg in Barcelona on Wednesday night. So if you’re in Menorca, or in Spain for that matter, this week, and you’re short of chit-chat with the taxi driver / barman / neighbour … the clásico should help kick off an extended conversation.
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Tuesday, January 10th, 2012
Sometimes it’s hard to keep a secret, and the truth be known, I’m actually running out of them, especially Menorcan ones. And now I’ve been asked to give up two more. I just hope that the island will churn out a few more over the course of the year, so I can restock my secret stash of recommendations.
I’ve been asked – and this is a question that gets sent my way on a regular basis – to reveal two ‘secret’ tips about Menorca. You know, insider info that you don’t find in guidebooks or from travel forums or from travel agents or brochures, as these kind of tips, secrets, whatever, are only possessed by those on the inside, here on Menorca, day in, day out.
At first I was quite flattered that anyone might even care about my personal opinion on, say, which is the most beautiful beach, or where you can find the best cocktails, or the smartest shoes, or the most tasty pastries. But now I’ve become a bit protective over my favourite corners of the island. I mean, it’s one thing proclaiming where you can pick up the best pizza, but do I really want to risk not being able to grab a table without making a reservation, when I’m used to just turning up?
I make no excuses for my selfishness. In fact, I’ve even been as flippant as to declare that I never really tell anyone a genuine ‘secret’, as I want to keep all the best spots on the island hidden, rather than overrun. But I don’t really mean it, as I get that niggling feeling when you really do know the answer to something (say, the best spot for tapas in Mahón, or where you’ll find some nightlife on a dreary January evening, or why Menorcans purchase dates and oranges on Sant Antoni’s Day) and you’re just bursting to tell someone. Because you know the answer. And even if you don’t, you know someone (and I mean a person, not Google), who does. And that’s the side of me that usually wins. So I just have to rely on Menorca to let me discover some new secrets, as the old ones are already out there.
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Monday, January 2nd, 2012
That Spaniards like to stuff twelve grapes down their throats at midnight on December 31st is no secret. It’s part of their end-of-year ritual – alongside copious amounts of cava – and a successful gobbling of grapes is a good-luck insurance policy for the year to come. But even as my Spanish New Year’s Eve toll reaches double figures, I am still surprised as to how there are so many variations on the grape theme, and how much conversation these juicy fruits can generate.
Yesterday I caught up with some girlfriends. It being the first day of the year, and the fact that we hadn’t spent New Year’s Eve together meant that the conversation focussed on the night before, comparing gossip from the previous night / the state of our hangovers / and who needed to get some sleep more urgently. Inevitably, the conversation turned to grapes, and it went something like this:
Paqui: 2012’s going to be a fantastic year for me, (dramatic pause to permit eyebrow raising), as for the first time ever, I actually ate all twelve grapes in time with the right bong.
Gloria: I didn’t. Someone put the grapes in a plastic bag, and we couldn’t get them out fast enough (general chatter about what alternative recipients were preferred).
Dora: I ate all twelve too, we had those little ready prepared tins of seeded, peeled grapes.
Ague: (tuts) Those aren’t real grapes.
Dora: I know, I know, but at least I can eat them that way.
Neus: By 11.30pm, I’d already peeled and deseeded my grapes, so I was ready – I couldn’t eat them any other way
This was followed by comments that ranged from disgust to admiration about people – usually our boyfriends and husbands – that could just munch through their twelve grapes without leaving behind so much as a dribble of juice on their chin.
So there you have it. If you ever find yourself in Spain, on New Year’s Eve, and short of small talk – give grapes a chance. You’ll find there’s plenty of opinions on them to keep you nattering.
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Wednesday, December 14th, 2011
Ciutadellencs have now got two new reasons to never travel to Mahón: a swanky sports centre and a multi-cinema complex. The former opened last weekend and the latter is set to open its shiny doors on Friday night. While neither might sound like the most original in terms of leisure facilities, for Menorca’s westerly inhabitants, they’ll be delighted to spend even less time 45 kilometres down the road.
The whole east/west divide is something of a mystery to anyone who has lived off the island. At first, I blamed the fact that Ciutadellencs were still irritated that their home had its ‘capital city’ title stolen by a bunch of Brits who figured that Mahón’s bigger port was reason enough to give the easterly end of the island that honour. All this occurred nearly 300 years ago, I might add. But today’s tension goes deeper than arguing over who gets the larger font size on a map. Residents at one end of the island usually find it a real expedition to travel to the other, but on the rare occasions that they do, they are clearly productive visits: when in foreign territory they still manage to gather sufficient evidence to fuel detailed explanations about why their home town is better.
So when it came to sport, Ciutadella was missing out a bit. Yes it has what every user claims is the best (salt water!) indoor swimming pool on the island, but not much else to boast about. Not now. Last weekend a tip-top Sport Bike Centre for mountain bikers opened in Cala en Blanes and really got locals talking. And Ciutadella’s also set to get a decent, multi-screen, cinema (watching a film there until now felt a bit like sitting in a school hall, and what’s worse is that the movies had already been screened in Mahón and Alaior first). So Ciutadellenc teenagers finally have somewhere to go on a Saturday night rather than just hanging around parks (and moaning that Menorca’s only decent cinema is a long bus ride away). So if spotting a Ciutadellenc in Mahón (or vice-versa) was challenge, now take a good, long look, if you do manage to see one. These days, such a sight is on the brink of extinction.
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Sunday, December 4th, 2011
No one is going to attempt to claim that Menorca is a big island. At just 47 kilometres from east to west, you can’t blame visitors for believing that you can ‘do’ Menorca in under a week – luring in unsuspecting tourists keen to tick the island off their personal places-to-visit list. But appearances can be deceiving, as tourists, and even locals, manage to get lost from time to time.
Take Ciutadella as one example. Everyone can manage to find their way to the open spaces of Plaça des Born, bordered by its souvenir shops, family-run bakeries and quirky cafes and bars (although some of that quirkiness was lost with the smoking ban as these days you can see every single table, whereas before a few would invariably be hidden behind clouds of smoke). But from here visitors who dare to venture beyond the cathedral or the port find themselves wrapped up in a maze of cobbled streets – most of which appear exactly identical to the previous one – which twist and turn in the shadow of tall, terraced houses to ensure maximum disorientation. If the streets themselves weren’t enough to get you confused, locals magnify this further as few appear to know any street names. (And before you smugly think, well with Google maps this isn’t a problem, let me remind you that this valuable city compass is rendered useless much of the time because Menorca’s streets a) are often misnamed/have two names or b) assigned a landmark by Google that in reality sits two streets away or c) are just omitted or d) are far away from anything resembling 3G reception so your smartphone suddenly isn’t all that smart anymore.)
Spotting tourists scratching their head as they try to make sense of some colourful map that’s pretty sparse when it comes to details is something I do almost on a daily basis. But it’s not that Menorcans are much better, as when I’ve asked them for directions for galleries or restaurants tucked away in the old part of town, they struggle to come up with a clear answer too. Part of me thinks that all of this old-town urban planning is actually part of some bigger, tourist promotion plan – the essence of this being: if they can’t get out, then they’ll stay longer and spend more. So if that’s the case, maybe I should join in, and start giving vague directions just like everyone else.
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Thursday, November 24th, 2011
One of things that frustrates me about Menorca is the whole fruit and veg situation. With supermarket and grocers’ shelves geared towards the season, you can only find certain fruit and veg at particular times of the year. I realise that it’s a bit unreasonable of me to expect to find exactly what I want exactly when I want it (and that’s before I even consider the environmental and economic consequences of purchasing air-freighted fruit), but when I’m in the UK and see Spanish raspberries or strawberries for sale in November – when you can’t find them in Menorca at that time of year – it’s frustrating to say the least.
Right now, shopping baskets are laden with citrus fruits as oranges are in season. Unlike their tart lemon cousins that grow all year round, you can’t be guaranteed of succulent Spanish oranges, clementines, tangerines and Satsumas until November at the earliest. But you won’t find oranges in supermarkets alone. It’s a common sight to spot orange trees (and lemon ones) in gardens, beside vegetable patches and filling entire orchards – and you’ll even see them in town too. In Alaior, for example, orange trees decorate a courtyard next to the church and line several streets. I’ve been told this particular variety is too bitter to eat, and is only used for decorative purposes – but I’m not sure if that’s just a ploy to prevent locals from picking them.
And another orange-coloured fruit that’s at the peak of its very short season right now is the sharon fruit. Easily mistaken for a fist-sized tomato, a gardener friend of mine assures me that sharon fruit have to be picked with care, as their flesh is so soft that they simply splatter into an orange mess if they fall on to the ground. Eating them in public is a challenge of immense proportions – how does anybody manage it without trails of sticky juice descending to their elbows? Until I master that particular skill, I’ve resigned myself to enjoying them in private.
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