The Rumour Mill

Pacha has closed. Go on, make of that what you will. You’ve read it, think it to be true, and pass the information on until it becomes so widely accepted that it must indeed be true. Except, of course, that it’s wrong. It may though remain as fact, where you’re concerned, if you hadn’t bothered to read this far.

Pacha has not closed. The club has been ordered by Calvia town hall to close one floor; that’s all. Yet it is a victim of misinformation, disinformation even (and there is a difference), and the misinformation fellow-traveller, rumour. The rumour of its closure would be techno or house music to the ears of Robert Knapp. Who he? One of the findings by Knapp, in a seminal work on the psychology of rumours, was that a negative rumour made for a better rumour than a positive one.

The closure rumour is forever with us. And no more so than in what are, minus their tourists, the small-town, wildfire resorts of Mallorca. Once upon a time, a rumour would have remained in-house, or rather in-resort, but not now. Mention a rumour to a visitor, and the next thing you know it has taken on a cyber life, plastered across the internet. Through Chinese whispers or chaos theory, the rumour evolves until a wrongful claim of somewhere closing becomes Mallorca’s tourism shutting down completely or the island being the subject of an alien invasion. Maybe there is some truth to those potty UFO sightings rumours after all. Mulder and Scully are seen collecting their luggage from baggage reclaim at Palma airport; from the little acorn of rumour to the mighty oak of conspiracy theory.

In the resorts, rumours of closure are what it must have been like when there was talk in the local pub of the mill, mine or steelworks shutting. Well maybe that’s overdoing it, but the strategic importance of the bigger hotels inspires rumours like no others. In Puerto Alcúdia, the massive Bellevue complex has been closing most years since it truly opened as a hotel in 1984.

Earlier this summer the Bellevue rumours were in full swing once again, even in other resorts. Someone in Can Picafort told me he had overheard a conversation between some “business-looking” gentlemen in a bar in Búger of all places. What were they saying? It turned out he hadn’t actually heard properly, but the conclusion was still the same. The seemingly random nature of the date that was being cited for this untruthful closure – 22 August – was, or should have been, grounds for scepticism, much as there should have been when the 22nd of a different month, October in 1844, was predicted as the day of Christ’s second coming. Closure, if it’s going to happen, which it wasn’t, tends to be planned with greater precision, e.g. at the end of a month, unless it happens to be unexpectedly brought about by an alien invasion or the end of the world, and the Millerites of the second coming got that wrong as well – to their Great Disappointment. For the record, Bellevue came under new ownership earlier this summer: reports of its death have been greatly exaggerated.

Along the coast in Puerto Pollensa, you would have heard further scuttlebutt;  another hotel and various bars also subject to closure rumours, some circulating for several weeks. The hotel in question is taking bookings via its website for next year. The bars are not closing. Bar-side or internet tittle-tattle, it has a habit of escalating. Better to just zip it, order another drink or go indulge a rumour fantasy world on the likes of snopes.com.

Sometimes a rumour is started maliciously, but more often than not it is merely the gossip that can be seen coming with the flashing lights of the prefix caveat “I’ve heard that …”. And this is followed up with the no-smoke-without-fire justification. We seem to crave the possible conflagration of a crisis, the bad-news rumour, perhaps to add to the persecution of the greater crisis as victims of what might be the end of the tourist world as we know it. We’re all Millerites in our own little way and disappointed to discover that we’d been sold a rumour pup.

Closure rumours in the current climate take hold because they fit with what we know or think we know. Times are tough and rough, so there must be some truth to them. The rumours are collectively reinforcing, despite their apparent destructiveness. The communities of the resorts allow them to flourish, and then add to them as ever more rumour is piled on, a sort of one-upmanship. My rumour is better than your rumour. And the trouble is you never know where they might come from. You’ve read this, and I might unwittingly have supplied fuel for a rumour. Tell you what. I’ve heard that … .

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

White Stripes: Why did the tourist cross the road?

Sledging in cricket has produced some fine moments of insult. One of the most famous exchanges went along these lines … Bowler inciting batsman who was not hitting the ball: “it’s red, round, in case you were wondering”; batsman responding, having hit the next ball out of the ground: “you know what it looks like, now go and find it”. The true origins of sledges have tended to become confused. This one is sometimes attributed to South Africa’s Shaun Pollock and Australia’s Ricky Ponting, which is almost certainly wrong. More commonly, it is attributed to Greg Thomas of Glamorgan and the West Indies’ Viv Richards. Not that it really matters. This is not an article on sledging.

The sledge has, though, occurred to me when driving along the local main roads. It would be something like: “it’s white, striped, now walk on it.”

The re-modelling of the main road (Carretera Arta) through Puerto Alcúdia and Playa de Muro and ever eastwards is to enter its third phase in October when the grotty thoroughfare in Can Picafort is given a similar makeover. The whole scheme has been about giving priority to pedestrians, and to a large extent it has been successful in this aim. What has not been wholly successful has been convincing pedestrians to use the white stripes and the non-striped islands as the means of crossing the road.

Bone idleness, especially while on holiday, is pretty much a given, but the planners have failed to comprehend this. True, it might bring traffic to a complete halt were there to be crossings every ten metres – you can have only so many of them, and doubtless they’d still be ignored anyway – but there are some points along the road where the non-crossing is glaring and potentially dangerous. One of the most striking is near to the Palma roundabout on the Playa de Muro-Alcúdia boundary. The Marítimo hotel is just before this roundabout. There is an island a few metres to the left where one comes out of the hotel to cross the road. Who uses it? No one. It’s in the wrong place, assuming one accepts the bone idleness theory, and I am who subscribes to it. I don’t use the crossing either. Another example is given by the hordes who head out of the Delfin Azul and Port d’Alcudia hotels. The straight line to the beach is halfway between two islands. Consequently, they are also unused.

Why did they undertake the road remodelling in the first place? It was to make the road safer. But how can it be described thus, when there are pedestrians, centre road, waving damn great lilos around and attached to the ubiquitous baby-buggy? The buggy has become that de rigueur that one wonders whether it is used solely for the transporting of infants or whether it houses all the other paraphernalia without which no day on the beach would be complete. Whatever. I am uneasy as I pass a family or several in mid road whilst a truck or coach approaches in the opposite direction. And woe betide if you stop to allow them to cross. Inevitably it takes an age for them to appreciate the fact that you have stopped for that purpose, and meanwhile matey-boy behind is getting into a strop.

When they re-do the road in Can Picafort, they’ll probably make the same mistakes, such as the beautification of the Playa de Muro stretch with its crossings where emerging pedestrians are obscured from drivers’ vision by parked cars, hedges and palm trees and the failure to prevent the inner roads parallel to the carretera from being used as rapid rat runs. One can but hope, though. The current system of Can Picafort crossings and side roads into which or out of which you can neither enter nor exit is confusing enough as it is, without having to contend with the lilo-flapping jaywalkers. Least they can do is get a new walk, don’t walk system: it’s white, it’s striped, now use it.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

The Mother Of Development: Muro, Ullal and land policy

The ongoing farce that is the Muro golf development shows no sign of pulling its trousers up from around its ankles and closing or keeping open, once and for all, the bedroom doors through which the two sides chase each other – the developers sniggering as they lay another trap and rile the environment ministry which would most likely prefer to take a horse-whip to the unfaithful miscreants.

The bee-eating bird has flown or has, at any rate, completed its procreation, and the developers have once more sent in the diggers. They’re over there! Where? Over there! In march the agents of the ministry, brandishing an order to stop them. It’s an area of bird protection. On no it isn’t. Oh yes it is. Though the developers dispute the protection area order, they have skulked off, for the time being, leaving the ‘dozers dozing in the summer heat. The government has “paralysed”, for the time being, the clearance work. (Incidentally, given that the bee population is threatened and that its demise would represent an ecological catastrophe, why are we so concerned with this damn bee-eating bird? Let it fly off and nose-bag some worms. But I digress.)

The way in which the developers promptly resumed their developing once the bee-eater had finished its was like a bunch of naughty schoolboys, blowing raspberries at the back of the class while the teacher’s back was turned. Right then, who did that? Not us, sir. Oh yes, it was. And of course it was. The developers have been despatched to the head’s study for six of the best, or would be were anyone sure that they had done anything wrong. They say they haven’t. Perhaps they had thought that the August hiatus would have meant they could plough up great tracts of finca without anyone noticing because they’re all on holiday.

The whole thing is a farce, in the same way as much other land conversion is farcical in that necessity rarely appears to be the mother of development. As I have asked many times, has anyone ever actually made the business case for the course being needed? Environmental issues notwithstanding, the biggest beef of opponents is that the course represents private business interests over all others. It’s the same beef being given a good larding where the projected Ullal development in Puerto Pollensa is concerned. Are the houses and apartments really necessary? Maybe they are. Or maybe they are just a case of private interest prevailing. No one has much objected to Lidl’s supermarket rising up from the asphalt of what was Karting Magic in Puerto Alcúdia, but is it really necessary? Eroski would say not, and are apparently going to close at least one of their supermarkets. All good in terms of competition, but is it the right sort of land conversion?

Ullal, Lidl and others all fall under a general land plan for Mallorca, one overseen by the Council of Mallorca which could, one supposes, still block Ullal, though it seems unlikely as it has, in effect, released the land. The golf development, on the other hand, isn’t a facet of this land plan as it is an issue for the regional government. Which all begs the question as to who is overseeing developments and as to whether there exists sensible, joined-up policy. And talking of sensible, the demolition of the Don Pedro hotel, which is covered by the land plan and which has been approved by the Council (which refers to the hotel’s “infamous invasion” of beach), is supposed, along with the demolition of the Rocamar in Puerto Soller, to lead, in return, to a new hotel being built. Where? In Cala San Vicente? In Puerto Pollensa? In Soller? No. In Sa Rapita. On the southside of the island. Go figure.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

All That Gas: Butane in Mallorca

The “butanero” delivered the other day. He does so only infrequently in summer, as there is only limited demand for gas. It was red hot, around two in the afternoon. How was he? “Bad,” he replied, with a laugh. Well, you try driving a butane-gas truck around in the heat, getting in and out of the cab, lugging a heavy bottle onto the kerb. Just shifting one bottle will induce a sweat, and he’s doing this time and time again.

One of these days, the butanero may well be no more, as there will be no more the chaps who try and come and check gas installations and who are always frauds. The butanero and butane may still rule the energy roost, but natural gas has now arrived (in Palma at any rate), and oil, solar and (expensive) straightforward mains supply electricity are alternatives. The demand for butane has been falling. A report from “The Diario” yesterday stated that sales have fallen by 20% since 2005. Even the cold winter past saw only a slight increase in sales over the norm.

Nevertheless, Mallorca and the Balearics form one of the most significant markets for butane in Spain. Demand may have fallen, but it is high compared with other regions, a reason being that, despite what can sometimes be very cold spells during the winter, the climate is such that it doesn’t justify the costs of installing other systems of heating. The cost, though, of the gas itself has generally risen over the past decade. It does sometimes go down, but at a current price of 12.50 euros it is at least a third more expensive than it was seven or eight years ago. Only when you go into the inner sanctums of some larger restaurants and see the lines of bottles hooked up, do you begin to appreciate how much the whole economy and not just homes rely on a mode of energy supply that seems ridiculously outdated.

“The Diario” also spoke to one of the chaps who attends the butane collection points. He’s been doing it for 15 years. Like the chap in Puerto Alcúdia, he is well known in his local community in Palma. Everyone knows the butane man, and he knows everyone and the inside of their car boots or the backs of their vans. For anyone who doesn’t know him, he resides, together with his truck of orangey-red bottles, on a road near to the commercial port. In summer he is quiet, but in winter he can attend to whole lines of cars which have to turn around on a road unsuited for such a manoeuvre in order to park up by the truck.

Butane supply is a relic, as is the method of distribution. For all the sophistication of Mallorca, an important part of its energy provision is via something that most Brits will only ever encounter if they go camping. One day it will surely cease to be, but there is something satisfyingly old-fashioned in having such community figures as the butane delivery man and the chap at his collection point.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Imitation Of Life: Robbie and Take That

So Robbie is back with Take That. If art imitates life, then there needs to be some readjustment in trib world.

When I was putting together HOT!, one possible feature was on the local Robbie, Rob Idol. It didn’t happen for reasons I can’t be entirely sure of. But had it, a tack I had thought of taking was for Rob to actually be Robbie. It was perhaps as well it didn’t happen as I might have lost my audience in a confusion of surrealism. Nevertheless, a question would have been about re-joining Take That. Now that Robbie, as opposed to Rob, has teamed up once more with G. Barlow et al, the possibilities for trib imitation of life are increased.

There is fundamentally something rather surreal about trib acts, but to have them mirror real life, as in Rob and the local Take That performing together, would be not only hugely entertaining it would also be hugely bizarre. They must do it. Or you would hope they would. Even now, local TV should be interviewing the reunited fivesome in broken English, and plans should be afoot for a grand reunion concert of the whole of an alternative Take That on Puerto Alcúdia’s promenade. Have these people no imagination? Forget Michael Jackson and his story, forget some sappy alleged Beatles. Give us the reformed and totally tribute TT.

Imitation of life and strange juxtapositions. It goes back a long way. I was probably only six when I was introduced to how art can create the unexpected combination – if the TV Western could have been described as art. But the episode when Bronco Layne crossed over into an episode of “Tenderfoot” (or it might have been the other way round) had, I now appreciate, a profound influence. It has of course happened on many other occasions, such as Kirk and Picard together, but to a small child the insane notion of two cowboys from two cowboy series appearing opposite each other on a black and white screen with a bad signal was sufficient to inform him that normal rules don’t always apply, that the strange can and should happen. Which is why the doppelgänger Robbie and Take That must perform together this summer. And, moreover, mean it.

A Load of Balls – On Water
And word up for Mark and Andrea and their Walk On Water Balls next to the Las Palmeras tennis centre in Puerto Alcúdia. This looks, and is, huge fun. The set-up at WOWB is rather different to what can also be experienced at hotel swimming-pools. Firstly, it is sheltered, which means there is no direct sun onto the über-PVC balls (I’ve forgotten what Mark said was the exact material). Secondly, it is open all day, so no restrictions to a couple of hours here or there.

It’s all very safe, and the pool being shallow makes it doubly so. Five euros a roll, or however one wants to describe it. From midday to around 22:30.

But if you’re looking for a bizarre angle in this, then think “The Prisoner”, think Rover.

(In the photo: a couple of kids enjoying the water balls while Mark watches on.)

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Spain Win The World Cup: The view from Alcúdia

In the end, Iniesta. In the end it didn’t matter that it was no great final. In the end it didn’t matter to the millions who will have spilled out onto the streets across Spain, just as they did in Puerto Alcúdia.

The car horns had been going off well before the match started. Is it possible that car horns can lose their horn? If they can, they will have by now. In the end and at the end it was not just the street sides that were full of flag-waving, so were the roads, right down the middle, right around the roundabouts. I came close to ending up in hospital, or worse, as I crossed the road by the Magic roundabout and a motorbike came haring around at high speed, seemingly the only road user unaware that something remarkable had happened.

And it was remarkable. Even for anyone with no interest in football, he or she could surely not have been overtaken by the outpouring of joy and euphoria. It was the greatest fiesta of all, and one not programmed by an organising committee. Fireworks went off, wherever; the people’s party.

The Mile was packed. A cavalcade of flag-waving, horn-blowing cars jammed the road, as did the onlookers, cheering and crying with ecstasy. Near to Magic, the customised chainsaw with its loudhailing amplifier was roaring, being played like a guitar to passing cars and behind a police bike rider. The lorry that doubled as a float was getting more and more loaded. Kids, with no obvious sign of parents, were throwing themselves onto the dewy grass of the roundabout in an abandon of happiness. Everyone was going mental.

Yet amidst all this, bizarrely other life was going on. A group of tourists outside the Delfin Azul with their suitcases, waiting for their transfer coach; a late-night supermarket, moving the lilos inside. It is at times like a World Cup final, a World Cup final in a Spanish town, that it is hard to believe that anything else could actually matter.

In the end it didn’t matter that De Jong should have been sent off, it didn’t matter that Spain never really played that well throughout the whole tournament. What did matter was that Spain won. And to have been amongst it was astonishing. There was a sense of gatecrashing someone else’s party, but it didn’t matter; far from it, as Germans, Brits, Swedes and others joined in and revelled in one of the greatest nights most will ever experience.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Houston, We Have A Problem: Hotels – smells and receptions

From the Exagon in Son Bauló, along the bays of Alcúdia and Pollensa, into the coves, into the towns and finally to Son Brull by the golf course in Pollensa, there is barely a hotel that I have not been into.

To varying degrees, the resorts are defined by their hotels. The towns – Alcúdia and Pollensa – merge into a oneness of the “petit” or interior hotel, all designer-chic or townhouse stone walls with boutique room and furnishing heterogeneity, the total opposite of the standardised sprawls of the holiday camps of Puerto Alcúdia – what are now Clubs, Bellevue and Mac, Resort (Sunwing) or both Club and Resort, Sea. Can Picafort, to an extent, shares the gardens and airiness of Iberostars and Vivas with its neighbour, Playa de Muro, where are also the Romanesque columns of the imposing Palace de Muro five-star.

The coves and remoter parts are a mix of the homeliness of the More and the heavy doors of the Cala San Vicente, which one takes it were the model for Son Brull (same people) where the doors are even heavier and larger, like gates to a castle, and where one expects a Swiss Guard to be standing to attention.

Then there is Puerto Pollensa. More modern, purpose-built tourism hotels there may be, but it is the grand old dames of Pollensa bay that are emblematic of the resort – from the Uyal to the Illa D’Or. I happened to be in both yesterday. In the latter, there is rarely ever a sound to be heard, save for the ticking of a clock. The hotel’s connections with Agatha Christie are unsurprising. In the Illa D’Or everything probably stops for tea and a Miss Marple will be served her Earl Grey and scones, while reminding the waiter of her six o’clock gin and tonic order. As I left, some pink-faced old buffery was stumbling out of a taxi. The Uyal, like its twin great aunt, the Pollentia, has the feel of a southern England seaside hotel from the ’60s. It seems perfectly suited to the pith-helmet, straw-hat home from home of Puerto Poll-esra. It is hard to reconcile the fact that Puerto Pollensa once had something of a Bohemian reputation.

The Uyal also has a smell. It is reassuringly musty and antique; in the lounge at any rate. It is also poignant. I had forgotten about hotels and their smells until yesterday and was transported back to the sixties and indeed to southern England seaside hotels which had a smell I couldn’t explain then but was probably the accumulated, cloying and trapped odour of beef, Yorkshire pud and gravy.

Other hotels around and about have smells. Two of the sweetest are the air-conned fragrances of the Alcúdia Beach and Molins. There is little more pleasant than to enter a fresh reception and whiff vanilla. While hotels can define resorts, it is their receptions which define the hotels. And it is these, the receptions, that, more than most aspects of the local hotels, are changing. Moreover, like the default style of the “new” architecture is straight-lined, neutral-coloured, steel, so the receptions are being interior-designed to complement this contemporary landscape. The Playa de Muro Village went space age a few years ago. The Las Gaviotas, or what we must now call Las Gaviotas Suites, is similarly a showroom reproduced from the pages of the latest design bibles. The receptionist could be in touch with Houston. Even the Sol Alcúdia off The Mile (not to be confused with the Sol Alcúdia Center opposite) has been made over with the faux-industrialism of Kraftwerk receptionism. None of it looks bad. Far from it. It all looks fantastic, but it is also clinical. And is it comfortable? One hardly dares to sit on a sofa at Las Gaviotas for fear of marking the white light of the upholstery.

J’adore the Illa D’Or for its bonkers colonialism. I want more of the More and its permanent smell of old breakfast. Do you-yal? You should do, before it ceases to be pinafored into its Upstairs Downstairs old civility. The problem is that the drive is towards renovation and upgrading. All receptions may one day be out of a catalogue. While this will often be no bad thing, the fear is that a loss of charm follows. President Antich is calling on the hotels to reactivate their investment, reminding them of the funds available to do so. Much is made of the ancient nature of some hotels and of the resultant lack of competitiveness with other destinations, but renovation needs to be sympathetic. And if you want the best example of a reception that was modernised in tune with the atmosphere of the hotel and indeed the previous reception, then take a look at the Niu in Cala San Vicente. It can be done, and done very well.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Everybody Had Matching Towels

The lobster season lasts for four months; it has something in common with the tourist season, as is now being claimed. Following the cuttlefish harvest of early spring, from May until August lobster becomes the prized catch for the fishermen of northern Mallorca who operate out of the four main fishing ports – Pollensa, Alcúdia, Can Picafort and Cala Ratjada.

The season has been pretty good, but there are ripples of discontent on the waters between northern Mallorca and Menorca, the location of the lobster catch. They all have to do with money. In “The Diario” yesterday it was reported that fishermen’s income from lobster is back to the level it was three years ago, as low as 30 euros a kilo, while their costs – fuel most obviously – have risen. By comparison, fishermen in Menorca receive 50 euros per kilo. It is nothing to do with differing quality; it is, after all, the same lobster.

The problem lies with the regulation and organisation of the markets on the islands. From Alcúdia comes the observation that whilst there is an association for the fishermen’s catch, it doesn’t seem to function that well. Moreover, there appears to be a missed opportunity in terms of exporting to the mainland; the Mediterranean lobster, so it is said, is appreciated more than that which comes from the Atlantic.

Lobster is delicious, but it is not to everyone’s taste. Or rather, the method of cooking is not liked by everyone. Get over that, and it is a treat. But a question is, where can you actually eat it and where is best to eat it? One of the oddities of local restaurants is the sheer absence of what one might classify as genuine fish restaurants. There is plenty of fish on the menu, and lobster in some cases, but I’m struggling to think of anywhere that proclaims its truly fish credentials. Bogavante in Puerto Alcúdia was one such place (“bogavante” and “langosta” both mean lobster, but different types), but it is no longer. The Miramar remains, and it boasts about its “caldereta”, lobster soup if you like. Someone (half Mallorcan) who I know well once suggested I went with a group to Menorca, partly for the lobster. Why go there? I asked. You can get lobster locally. “No,” came the reply. There is nowhere that does good lobster. Not even the Miramar, he reckoned.

Lobster is lobster, I would have thought. Stick it in a pan of boiling water, wait a bit and then scoff it down with a side serving of garlic mayonnaise. There’s not a lot to it. Ah but the lobster in Menorca is better, I was informed. How can it be? It’s the same lobster, and it presumably costs more in Menorca, if the fishermen are getting 50 euros a kilo. Yes, but the caldereta is better. Indeed, Menorca is the place to get caldereta. I’ll take his word for it. I have never actually been to Menorca, to eat lobster or for any other reason.

But the mystery as to the lack of fish restaurants remains. Or maybe it’s just a reflection of the need to cover all bases that restaurants choose not to specialise only in fish. And were there, then they would probably engage in lobster wars. “Real” lobster here; “authentic” lobster there. But the fishermen of Puerto Alcúdia would still only be getting 20 euros less than their Menorcan counterparts.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Waving Flags

So there I was, thinking that maybe I’d do something about it being the fourth of July, as in making the observation that there aren’t so many Americans hereabouts, save the incoherent, Riki Lash, the scuba-Mallorca-ing, Mick and Jessie, and the Hollywooding, Michael Douglas. I was thinking about something for independence day, something about flags being waved perhaps, something about national pride, and then … along came the Germans.

Suddenly, German flags have started to appear where German flags had previously not been. Outside Spanish bars, for example. How bizarre, except as a flag of economic convenience. Flags were waving and flying from cars along the main road through Alcúdia and Playa de Muro yesterday. Horns were blowing. Deutschland was über alles; Germans were over all, especially the Argentinians. Then Nobby (Linekers) phones. All kicking off down in the port. Shame, I’ve gone in the opposite direction. Shame, might have been nice to have seen the plod cordoning off the road around the Alcúdia Garden while Argentinians and Germans piled into each other. 200, 300 mass brawling, suggests Nobby. What great sport in the name of sport. Flags waving and punches flying. But take note. Argentinians and Germans. Nary a hint of trouble when Germany beat England. Just a load of very drunk people, too embarrassed to do anything about it, other than to want to attack a plasma screen and get at the ref.

In the port the other day, I happened to look up at flats. All the flags were hanging. From the balconies. Brazil, Spain and Germany and Argentina. Two have probably been taken down now. You wonder, though, what might happen when the flags fly when Germany meet Spain or if Germany meet the Dutch. If there is one nation that has more reason to dislike the Germans than the British, then it is the Dutch. All historical, and all nonsense, but there you go.

As for the Americans. Well, no American flags have flown during the World Cup and you are unlikely to see one. But how Mallorca would love it were you to. When they talk about seeking out new markets, there’s a pretty old one that has never been tapped. Palma airport needs to have transatlantic flights, then a greater state of Mallorcan independence might follow.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Something’s A Bit Fishy: Alcúdia and San Pedro

The San Pedro (Sant Pere / Saint Peter) fiestas kick off in Puerto Alcúdia tomorrow. The programme has a familiar feel to it – giants dancing, humans towering, demons running, San Pedro an-imaging and a-floating. The less familiar will be a “pirates” night party and Michael Jackson, or someone like him. It is, though, the very familiarity that makes one wonder as to the “brochure” that has been produced. Not for the first time, I have to question the expense of this promotion. I had questioned it B.C., but A.C. or D.C. if you prefer (after or during crisis), it should be questioned even more.

A fish. That’s the brochure. Pages sprung together in the shape of a fish. Inevitably, it’s only in Catalan. There may only be 15 pages of it, but the process of cutting it into the shape of a fish doesn’t do a lot to limit costs. (I’m presuming it’s been done with a custom die-cutter, and anything with the word “custom” when it comes to printing brings with it a premium.)

The result may well be different, but what’s the point of it? If you are local, and especially local Mallorcan, who lives in Alcúdia or Puerto Alcúdia, you know full well when San Pedro occurs; you also know pretty much, with some exceptions, what the programme will comprise. Much of it is the same every year; same “events”, same time, same day, same place. If you are local, but non-Catalan-speaking local, then the fish doesn’t really address itself to you. If you are not local, but a visitor who hasn’t a clue about Catalan, then you are deep-fried and battered into incomprehension. Always assuming you ever see a fish, which is unlikely.

At the tourist office in the port, they had a fish yesterday. One fish. Not several. Not a whole load. One. What they also had, and have had for about a week is a couple of A4 sheets in English, giving the programme. I should know because I did it for them. The tourist offices across Alcúdia and Pollensa and in Playa de Muro and Can Picafort also have these English sheets. The fish only appeared in the flesh, so to speak, yesterday.

I struggle to understand the impulse, especially during a period when belts are meant to be being tightened, to go to the trouble and expense of a fish. It’s clever, of course it is. It’s also well done. But this is not the point. And if you think that they haven’t actually printed many, given that the tourist office had but one fish, then think again. A waiter at a nearby restaurant said there were a whole load of fish tossed into the entrance of his block of flats. Aimed at locals, but not visitors, one has to conclude. Perhaps if the tourist office had two fish, it could feed, via some miracle, the information appetite of a multitude of five thousand tourists. There again, I’m not sure if Saint Peter was involved in that particular gig.

Meanwhile in Muro, the bullfight on Sunday having been rained off, there is talk of hurriedly having to do a replacement poster for the re-arranged bull-off this coming Sunday. Bullfight posters, as much as the fight itself, have a symbolic power, but might they not just stick something over the existing one giving the new time. Not that they would need to, because anyone who plans on going will surely know anyway. Daft.

If you want to see the fish, you can download it here: http://www.ajalcudia.net/documents/santpere010.pdf. The English version is available on http://www.wotzupnorth.blogspot.com.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.