There is a fantasy every Mallorcan nurses in winter: going down to the beach on an August day, laying out the towel and swimming peacefully in the same old sea. A fantasy, yes, because the reality is a depot of parasols where the last free spot was taken under the previous government.
You arrive at eight in the morning, proud of your early start, and discover you’re the last. The sand is already a mosaic of towels laid out with military precision, without a centimetre to spare, as if someone had drawn lots for every square metre at dawn. You walk between them apologising —apologising again— in search of that little patch of sand that turns out to be, invariably, next to the shower and the bin.
And when you finally settle in, the aquatic part begins. The swim, which in your memory was a solitary pleasure, is now a lukewarm human soup in which you try to swim without kicking anyone and without a flamingo-shaped inflatable crushing you against the rocks.
Don’t get me wrong: the beach is ours and we love it. But there is something bittersweet about sharing your usual corner with half of Europe, about queuing to dip your feet in your own sea. One consoles oneself by thinking of October, when the beach will be empty, grey and perfect again, and we can go back to complaining, this time, that nobody comes any more.