[ her decision to move to SpainOpens in new window ]
Three days before that first “Hola, are you Liz?” I had stepped off a flight from Cork at 10am. It had been seven months since the house sale, the job resignation, not to mention my serendipitous escape from those deadly Sri Lankan bombs. My brother had left the keys of his apartment at a local pizza place for me to collect. “Just ask for Nuncio,” he had said.
Keys in hand, I headed off to find my new summer nest on the largest of the beautiful Balearic Islands.
I remember that first city walk more than any other I’ve done in Palma since. I felt an instant liking for the place and within a few hours, I was beginning to have visions of myself living here.
He asked me to meet him the following night in Plaza de España, 'near where the busker plays' to go for a drink. I agreed
The deep cyanic sky, the sound of Spanish music floating from an open window, dogs barking, the clink of cutlery from the apartments above me and the sound of a baby crying accompanied me to my new summer abode situated in a long narrow street choc a bloc with shabby-chic buildings, still untouched by the high street.
I trekked the calf-altering 10 flights of rickety old steps up to the lovely top floor apartment and made my way inside. Bags discarded I opened the dusty green wooden shutters and allowed the white cotton curtains to drape over the balcony. I spent the next few hours of that, my first day in Palma, unpacking, preparing food from a nearby market, listening to music, taking cold showers and writing. It was a scorching hot day.
I sat on the balcony that evening and watched the sky turn a thundery orange. Before long, there was a downpour. The gentle baby breeze was no longer being held captive by the intense humidity. I exhaled heavily in tandem with this sudden weather shift.
I watched the rain cascade down. A large grey wall had replaced the blue. Queasy with tiredness after a sleepless night in Cork the night before I went to bed early, too exhausted to even contemplate going to a bar or café. I would have plenty of time in the days and weeks ahead to meet new people and “put myself out there” as they say. Club Duvet was the only place for me at that moment in time.
As I lay myself down on the unfamiliar small single bed, too warm for even a top sheet, the sounds from the neighbours’ apartments came through the tiny window. TVs spewing Spanish words I did not understand circled around untrained ear. Sleep felt far away. Oh my good god, I have just changed my entire life. I thought. I closed my eyes and said a Hail Mary.
The thunder began to roll and so did I, over to the other side of the bed to grab my phone from the night table. I checked a few messages. The first one was from my mother. “Hope you landed safely, embrace it all girl, talk tomo”. My mother has handed me down a huge respect for life’s possibilities and she instilled in her three children a courageous will to grasp them. She was always ahead of her time.
I decided to take a quick look at the dating app Bumble. I hadn’t logged in for months - too busy parachuting out of life as I knew it to give it any real effort. I had a little gander and swiped a few times. My eyes grew heavier and heavier and the night sounds became duller. I fought sleep for another second or so.
Suddenly a big broad smiley handsome face popped up on my screen. His name was Jorge. He was 43 and he was just gorgeous! We exchanged a few messages. I told him I had just arrived from Ireland. He said he would prefer to meet up in person as he didn’t really enjoy texting in English.
He asked me to meet him the following night in Plaza de España, “near where the busker plays” to go for a drink. I agreed. I had a date. I had only been here 12 hours!
I could never have imagined the events of the days and months that followed our first meeting, in July 2019. Long lazy days and weekends spent on Jorge’s old boat fishing, swimming, sipping cold beers and eating his legendary paella became the norm. The turquoise silk carpet of the Mediterranean became my summer cloak. The lyrics of Van Morrison’s Into The Mystic took on new meaning.
My gypsy soul was rocked by this wonderful kind and caring Mallorcan man and it felt like I had come home, abroad.
I will turn it into a novel some day.
