2014 – Mallorca, Spain

We started the trip off with a quick snack at SichtBar in the Hannover airport. For some reason, I found it amusing they have Ben & Jerry’s ice cream all the way over here in Germany.

Here is my wife pointing to the city of Palma on our travel map. Southeast of Palma (right under my wife’s ring finger), you’ll find the area where all the spring breakers go.

This is the view you’ll see as you depart Hannover. (Or, if you’re afraid of flying like me, you’ll see your cold, white knuckles strangling the armrests.

Here’s a terrible picture for you! I included it because it’s the only one I have which shows the actual island moving into view.

Another Photo of the Year candidate! (Note: that hazy stuff is not frost on the window or a storm approaching. It’s just condensation. I hope.)

Here’s the Palma de Mallorca Airport, also known as Palma Son Sant Joan Airport. First thought upon arrival: “Why is everything in Spanish? Oh… right.”

Here’s our taxi driver from the airport. The fare read 15 Euros when we were almost to our rental apartment. Then it magically jumped up to 20 Euros. “What the hell, Pedro?”

This was our bathroom. Look! An actual bidet! I tried to get my wife to try it, but she refused. I, on the other hand, refused to try it because some guy back in college once told me, “Bidets are for girls.”

There’s the ocean! Just sneak past those stalled cars and dodge a few pickpockets and you’re practically there!

Ah yes, the Mediterranean Sea. It may look warm, but in April it will freeze your grapes right to the vine.

Here’s a street near Palma. Look how I walked into traffic, risking life and limb, just for you, Dear Reader.

I’m not sure I’ll ever feel totally comfortable around palm trees. I think it’s because I grew up in Oregon. When I see a palm tree, I know I’m only on vacation, and my joy must inevitably come to an end.

Check it out! Tapas! Tapas are basically just Spanish appetizers designed to make you so fat you can’t get out the door. You just stay in the restaurant until it’s time for the next meal!

Here’s our first sunset. We still couldn’t believe it was sunlight we were feeling on our skin, rather than the cold, gray damp of a German spring.

“Look honey! It’s only April and I’m going for a dip in the ocea–HOLY TAPDANCING CHRIST THAT IS COLD.”

Women can go topless on the beaches of Mallorca. I think they’re supposed to keep their bottoms on though, and sadly, dudes aren’t allowed to flash their beans at all.

Here’s a sign on the way up to the Cathedral of Santa Maria of Palma, also known as La Seu. Apparently, we also could have gone to a theater or a synagogue. Oy vey!

Look at that awesome street. Doesn’t it just make you want to jump into an Aston Martin and haul ass away from bad guys while you spill a shaken martini all down your front?

These are the recycling bins in Palma. I think they look like little hostages. “Now, look into the camera and renounce the infidels, Gunter!”

When you get close, you can see the recycle bins actually look more like those Sony dancing robots.

The Wife and I stumbled into this little secret garden. Only it wasn’t a secret at all. It was totally open to the public. (It’s still ours, though.)

Lemon trees, yo! I wanted to pick that little bitch, but then I remembered how much it sucks when you bite into a lemon. Seriously, what are lemons good for except making lemonade and dodging scurvy?

Here’s an up-close shot of the Cathedral. It was pretty sweet. Look how blue that sky is! Almost makes me sad to look out the window here in Germany and see only gray. Gray, with hints of darker gray and a general hue of hopelessness.

This is the view from the Cathedral overlooking a big pool of water and a fountain. I’m sure it has some fancy name, but I never bothered to learn it. I was too busy reapplying sunscreen to my hideous, corpse-white skin.

Here’s a horse! His name is Virgil, I just decided. Virgil pulls lazy tourists around all day and deliberately farts in their faces. It is his one true joy.

There’s the facade of the Cathedral. Pretty fancy, huh? And not a spot of dirt to be seen. I guess the Spaniards like to keep this sumbitch CLEAN.

There’s the Cathedral from the opposite side of the pool. Except for those two nerds on the left, it looks sorta lifeless, doesn’t it?

Aaaand here’s the fancy church again. I promise this is the last picture of it.

Here are some boats and further down, in the middle, you can see a yacht. We saw a lot of yachts on Mallorca, and I bet every single one of them was owned by an asshole with a small pecker. (Or a greedy woman with sagger tits).

As we were biking home, we stopped at this bar for some ice-cold beverages and found these two shutter jockeys doing a photo shoot with a cosmopolitan.

It got COLD at night, man, lemme tell ya. If you were foolish enough to be riding your bike at night, with the wind coming off the ocean and everything, your junk would wrinkle up like a baby’s fist.

Apparently, this is how all the cool kids park their bikes on the beach. (You could also make a sweet-ass fort if you took two bikes and draped a towel across them.)

The bike lane may appear to be wide enough, but it absolutely isn’t. I felt like I was going to smack handlebars with every bike going in the opposing direction. “Look out you assholes! Oh Jesus–” *RING RING*

Look! A pirate ship! (My wife loved this one.)

Every time I see a yacht, I just want to find the guy who owns it and kick him right in the hemorrhoids.

This bar sucked. Look at those weak little tapas. The waiter should have warned us we were only ordering enough food to feed one of the Olsen Twins.

Even on Mallorca, they have Kinder Surprise eggs. Here, they call ’em Kinder Sopresa. (And I can even figure out what that means, because I took 3 years of Spanish in high school.)

This is the day we decided to bike to Palma and see Bellver Castle. Little did we know there would be a lot of stairs involved, so we had to leave our bikes behind. Chaining them to this sign was my wife’s idea. We were still absolutely convinced they would be stolen or towed away by the time we got back.

These are the steps leading to the castle. As we were huffing and puffing our way up, two assholes in short-shorts jogged right on past us, ascending the staircase like it was fun.

This is the view of Palma from a little rest area beside the steps. My wife and I took this as an opportunity to crack a couple cold ones.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair! …or just cut it, you ditsy prostitute.”

If that doesn’t remind you of the Sarlacc Pit, you have clearly never seen Return of the Jedi.

That’s the view of Palma from the top of the castle. I was convinced this would be the moment I finally dropped my iPhone to its death.

That handsome fellow is one of the monks who used to live in the castle. (Pretty tall for a Spaniard.)

“Holy balls! Our bikes are still there!” …said a shocked American to his German wife.

And that, my friends, is Bierstrasse in the S’Arenal district of Mallorca. It’s like “Little Germany,” if it were designed by someone running on nothing but stereotypes.

Disco Erotic Show! Does that mean the naked ladies come out dancing to the Bee Gees?

My wife thought all this German shit was pretty silly. I have no idea why.

There’s the Deutsches Eck, or German Corner, where we stopped for a couple brew doggies.

“Titties ‘n beer! That’s Germany in a nutshell, right? Right, Honey?…”

Translation: “1 boiled egg, 1 Aspirin (which will do absolutely nothing for your hangover, but you’re still hoping) and Vitamin C.”

This is my wife and I playing Heckmeck. We love this game; it’s quick, easy and requires no skill at all. A functional understanding of probability will only hamper your success. No, what you need to win is a real “fuck it” sort of attitude.

This was when I decided to start cramming sea shells between my wife’s toes.

Look! Tiny little piglet hats!

I think these legs were hanging in a Lidl grocery store. (The Lidl stores in Germany most definitely do not display their meat in this fashion.)

This is the historical train running between Palma and Port de Sóller. This was our favorite part of the trip!

Joan Miro drew this picture of Bellver Castle when he was 12 years old. Personally, I think he half-assed it.

This is the landscape on the way to Sóller. It was hot, dry and full of dirty citrus trees.

That little building serves as the headquarters for a local drug cartel I just totally made up. The slogan above the door reads: “Lavas mi peine,” which means, “Wash my comb.”

This was the view from the back of the train. We were totally allowed to stand back there without adult supervision.

Here’s another shot out the back door. (Did that sound porno?)

Pictured: The most multilingual sign in the universe. I feel truly welcome.

This is the conductor’s booth in the caboose. I pushed all the buttons and pulled all the levers, but the train simply would not jump the tracks and run off a cliff.

Here is the beautiful little port town of Port de Sóller. I thought this photograph ruled until I noticed the stupid garbage can in the corner.

Here’s another shot of our Mediterranean paradise. Ahhh, can’t you just feel the skin cancer?

There’s our train, just waiting to take us back to Palma. I loved that little guy. I named him, “Nachos Calientes.”

We ordered these coffees so we could drink them on the beach. They were the smallest coffees ever, but it’s funny if you imagine they’re normal sized coffees and my wife’s hand is just enormous.

That’s Joan Miro sitting next to Pablo Picasso in 1969. Just a couple of paint slingers chillin’ in paradise.

Dammit! It’s our last night on Mallorca. These vacations always end too soon. It’s like experiencing life, from birth to death, in 7 days.

Here’s the view as we departed the island. Doesn’t that engine look like it wants to just fall right the hell off?

How do YOU deal with the post-vacation blues after arriving in your home airport? My wife and I go directly to McDonalds, apparently, where we order McRibs and drink beer. (I ate 2 McRibs because I hadn’t eaten fast food in 2 years. This rationale made plenty of sense at the time. YOU’RE NOT BETTER THAN ME.