The swifts speed, chase and soar above Carrer d’Arabi in the warm afternoon; conversation rises from the café tables in the street to our apartment on Carrer de la Confraria de Saint Miquel.
Earlier a busker strummed his guitar hard and sang in Spanish or maybe Catalan: I could not distinguish the words coming in the window. Then an accordionist played ‘Those Were the Days’, ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ and ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’.
We walked around the town, listening to Senegalese music or reggae. Other street performers are elaborately dressed and perfectly still, or appear to levitate as they sit by a pole.
We went to Palma beach and then had a meal at a restaurant where the proprietor was extremely friendly, and gratified that Susie had kept last week’s promise to bring her parents. He showed us all a photo of his son, who lives in England, as a suitable boyfriend for Susanna. He was mortified then to hear, on enquiring about our other children, that we had lost our own son – Pauline showed him a photo of Sean. As we left he was still apologizing unnecessarily for being ‘insensitive’. The food was excellent, as was the proprietor’s English. Continue reading