Renting a home in Mallorca is an exercise in faith comparable to believing in horoscopes: you know it probably won’t work out, but you keep browsing listings just in case the universe takes pity. It doesn’t. The universe, in real-estate matters, is a landlord with a calculator.
The listings are a work of prize-worthy literary creativity. “Cosy” means either you or the sofa fits, but not both at once. “Bright” means there is a window, though it faces the neighbour’s wall. “Charming” is the universal euphemism for “old, small and expensive.” And “quiet area” can mean anything between an idyllic village and a bus-less wasteland.
The price, mind you, admits no euphemisms. It is high, it is firm and it does not negotiate. For what anywhere reasonable would be a decent flat, here they offer you a studio where the bed, the kitchen and the desk coexist in a non-aggression pact. Furnished, of course, with furniture that was already old when you were born.
And still you sign. You sign because on this wonderful island, where life is a pleasure, finding a roof has become the hardest feat of all. So you grab the keys, look at your charming studio and tell yourself that, well, at least you have sea views. All right, not the sea. A courtyard. But if you lean out far and it’s a nice day, you can sense it. And with that, for now, we make do.
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