June 18, 2007--Monday On Mallorca: "My Way"

When friends said, “How about joining us for dinner at the Villa Italia,” since it occupies a special place in our hearts, we eagerly accepted their invitation.

We originally found our way to Puerto Andratx on Mallorca by accident. Actually, as a sort of third-choice accident. It was not at all where we wanted to be visiting. We had been to the island the previous year and had stayed at a wonderful rural hotel, or finca, in Valldemossa and wanted to return to it, the Vistamar. But we were late in making plans and it was completely booked. Very disappointed, we did some quick research and came up with what appeared to be a reasonably similar country place in Deià, in the same general area so we could still eat at some of our favorite restaurants. That at least would be some form of compensation. But, alas, it too was all booked and we had to settle for something that felt very much less desirable, the Villa Italia in a place we had never heard of with an unpronounceable name, what with that ATX at the end. Less desirable, we thought, not just because it was in Puerto Andratx, wherever that was, but what kind of an authentic experience could one expect at a hotel whose name sounded as if were a pizzeria?

But we wanted to experience Mallorca again and so we reserved a suite. Since it wasn’t really where we wanted to be, we thought—let’s make up for it by splurging. On the other hand, when they told us we would be staying in the tacky-sounding Michelangelo Suite, to tell you the truth, we thought maybe we should cancel the whole trip and go instead to, I don’t know, Disneyland.

Rona said, “Who knows, maybe it won’t be as bad as it sounds.” And so we took off for Spain. After a week of delicious driving around Andalusia, we flew to Palma on Mallorca and after a couple of very good days there headed south and west toward Andratx. When we got to the port itself, as we looped around it, passing the scattering of cafes and restaurants, it looked pretty enough; but since the traffic was heavy and we didn’t know where to go to find the Villa, we didn’t get a good chance to look carefully at things—Rona’s nose was buried in the map and I was straining forward in the driver’s seat, clutching the steering wheel, to get a better view of who might be threatening to cut us off or slam into us. Thus it was by pure chance, after zigging and zagging up a torturously narrow road, truly better suited to one lane of cars than the two it permitted, exhausted from the effort, we miraculously found ourselves stopped right at the entrance to the hotel—a nondescript wall of stone with an entrance rudely lanced through it.

There was no place to park, except on this hellish road, and no one to greet us. So I squeezed into a parking place with literally inches to spare front and rear, needing to use the emergency brake liberally to keep us from skidding violently backwards into the car behind us as I popped the clutch when shifting to first—the road was that steep. Even more exhausted, we scrambled out of the car—Rona needing to crawl into my seat to get out on via my door since I had to park so close to the wall to allow cars to pass without shearing off my side-view mirror—retrieved our luggage, and thought, without saying anything to each other (we were afraid if we spoke even one word it would lead us to an argument about whose fault it was that we chose this place or, worse, whose fault it was that we came to this stupid island when we could be . . . ), and thought, “We have no choice so let’s try to make the best of things.”

Again, since there was no bellman or porter in sight, we decided to take just our bag of valuables and leave the rest—who knows, maybe we would be able to find someone after we checked in who would agree to come get the rest of the bags if we schmered him with a million pesetas.

We passed through the entrance and were faced with a steep stone staircase. It wound its way up through a series of balconies, we had to admit, one more spacious and charming than the next. This place was in fact beginning to look like a real Villa—though we weren’t as yet ready to feel good about the Italia part.

A series of signs led us to the small office which was cut into the side of one of the terraces; and when we got there we were not only warmly welcomed by the clerk, but a man who was clearly a porter leapt up, asked for our car keys, and quickly disappeared. By the time we had finished signing in he was back, smiling and holding all four of our bags in a remarkable act of balancing. He spoke enough English to say, “Your suite is right this way.” He added, with considerable pride, “It is the Michelangelo!”

We followed him into what we later learned was the main part of the Villa and, once inside, up a series of yet many more steps--there was no lift. I thought, not only does this appear to be a nice place, even for a third choice, but having to go up and down all these steps might not be so bad after all if we could think of it as a natural form of exercise—I was looking for as many ways as possible to rationalize and feel good about the experience.

After about five minutes of trekking we finally arrived at the entrance to our suite. The porter carefully set the bags aside and took from his belt where they were hooked a set of huge, medieval-looking keys, the largest of which was for the door. He inserted it and needing both hands, it was that large, twisted it to disengage the lock. The door swung in and he stepped back to allow us to enter, gesturing with his right hand to direct us that way once we passed into the room.

In an instant we knew why he had pointed us in this direction because out of the five arched windows we had a sweeping view of the entire harbor and the glorious cliffs and mountains surrounding it. The light was perfect, glinting off the water, making it look as if it had been painted by Monet, and the windows themselves turned this glorious panorama into a series of framed landscapes.

I’m not sure who first silently began to weep at this magnificence—Rona or me. But in that instant, both with wet eyes, we were totally taken in, smitten by the splendor; and in retrospect, this is when our love affair with Mallorca, especially with this region of it began.

It did not hurt to learn later that evening that the Villa Italia had been built early in the 20th century by a deposed Italian royal for his mistress, as a trysting hideaway. It made the place even more romantic for us when we also learned that it took so long to construct, carved as it is out of the granite of the mountain in which it set, that she never saw it, having tragically and unexpectedly died. Becoming, thereby, a kind of local Taj Mahal.

And so, when recently, eight years after our initial visit, we were invited to dine at the Villa, we were swept by these first memories.

From the same impossible road, nothing appeared to have been changed, though we had heard it now had new owners, Dutch someone sneered, who were interested in doing things “differently” to attract a “younger crowd.” This to us had actually sounded promising because though we loved it that initial time and during subsequent visits, it attracted a decidedly older crowd, mainly German tourists and the menu in its restaurant reflected that—heavy on the meats and light on the local seafood and vegetables. Nothing very Mediterranean about that diet. In fact, unless the hotel could attract that younger crowd we feared it might not be able to remain economically viable—the older crowd was, well, dying off. We loved the Villa so much, including the Italia part now that we knew its history, that anything they needed to do to preserve it and not let it slip into governmental hands (where one would need to go, for example, to renew drivers licenses) was all right by us.

So when we saw that they had enclosed the previously open terrace with its expansive harbor and mountain view with sliding glass walls and had replaced the foldable canvas awnings with retractable aluminum and had covered the stone and terrazzo terrace floor with planks of teak wood, though these were not our favorite kinds of changes, we knew that that younger crowd they were seeking would probably think this made it more modern, sleeker, more nouveau-Euro. More like what they were used to back in Berlin, Hamburg, or London.

They seated us at the table where years ago Rona and I had had our last candlelit dinner together—we felt, what a great sense of hospitality this represented: we hadn’t been there in six years and even these new owners remembered. Tears began to return to our eyes.

Every table was filled and in spite of all the renovating and “improvements” the view was still spectacular—nature here is so powerful and abundant that whatever humans do cannot overwhelm it. But though there was not one empty table, even a casual glimpse around did not reveal a much younger crowd than we had remembered. In fact, it was decidedly middle-aged and not at all sleek or sophisticated. Though it was still early for Spain, just 9:30, it was evident that drinks had been plentiful and as a consequence the crowd was already not feeling much pain. They were having so much boisterous fun that it was difficult for the four of us to hear our own conversation.

Just as we were getting used to this (I reminded myself that for the Villa to survive it probably needed to attract this kind of fun-loving and hopefully high-spending crowd), just as I was half-convinced of this and even beginning to get reconciled to it, ah the view and all the love that suffused the Michelangelo Suite--including some of ours, just as I was feeling good again, as the vino began to work its magic, the music began.

Not the piped in cool jazz that we recalled (yes that older-crowd liked jazz) but from a local band. A loud and raucous one, heavily miked and amped, with a singer no less who blasted out medleys of 1940s, 50s, 60s, and 70s popular music. “Something In the Way She Moves,” I think was first, followed immediately by “The Way You Look Tonight,” and of course, three or four times during the next three hours, “My Way.”

We cringed—too much change that even the views could not obliterate. And worse, everyone else there appeared to be loving every minute of it—offering standing ovations, yes, and even jumping up frequently to dance! So that’s what the teak floor is all about.

During one of the band’s infrequent breaks, we were wishing they were governed by U.S. musicians’ union rules that required them to take 15 minute breaks after every 15 minute set, Rona leaned over to me and whispered, “Do you think that maybe tomorrow we should go to the real estate agent to see if they can sell our flat?”

Unlike in the past when we were suffering from jet lag and feeling frustrated that neither the telephone nor septic systems were working, and thus we were really serious about putting our place on the market (at least serious for an hour or two), this time Rona said this with a wink and half a smile.

Though we reside here periodically and because of that intermittent relationship with the town and its residents and visitors, we have fantasies about who is here with us. Those fantasies certainly do not include anyone who was having dinner much less dancing last Tuesday at the Villa Italia. Indeed not!

But the next afternoon, on more sober reflection, we found a way to begin to become all right with that reality. If we truly want to be a part of this place, to begin to belong, we need to accept its full reality. To stop being so self-satisfied and exclusive. Get over it.

We are not the only ones entitled to a place in this glorious sun.