Figuring that walking around smelling like hand soap was preferable to walking around smelling like four days’ worth of sweat, I took the opportunity to wash the t-shirt and shorts I’ve been wearing since last Friday.
The Mallorca sun gives a new meaning to the phrase “watching clothes dry.” You kind of actually can watch clothes dry. After 20 minutes, my t-shirt was done and emanating heat. I pulled it inside to avoid any spontaneous combustion issues. These shorts were soaking wet 10 minutes ago. Imagine what that would do to your skin.
I don’t have to imagine because I have seen lots of formerly pasty Brits who didn’t put on enough sunscreen yesterday. I helps me understand why people at Mediterranean resorts wear so little in the way of clothes – it can hurt too much to get dressed.
Then I sat outside and read for a couple of hours, something I’ve
been meaning to do for much of my adult life, half listening to the Scottish
couples next to me discussing nothing meaningful, but doing it with the best
accent ever.
And one thing occurred to me today, Mallorca is a magnet for
people from all over Europe. So lest we judge too much by appearances, that
means that almost every bun-haired, porkpie hat wearing, bearded hipster and
every Middle Eastern or African immigrant here who works in a restaurant or bar
is functionally literate in at least four languages – Spanish, English, French
and German – plus whatever their native language is.
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