A Letter For St Valentine's Pt 2 (Palma de Mallorca)

As far as I know, Mr G has never ever had sex in his life. He told me this as I was wanting to kiss him over our coffee and llagosta at Bar Bosch, in one of the most famous squares in Palma. This bar is probably the best in its specialty, those cheap and yummy sandwiches with ham and cheese. It is also the oldest bar in town, and the waiters working there seem like they ran away from a classic movie. After our coffee, we walked hand in hand up Jaime III and down El Parque de la Faixina. You see, with Mr G I have always felt like a princess. It is the thing about love, and Palma. Even though time changes the original feeling, the elegance still remains; sometimes it is easier to see than most days, but the hope that Cary Grant will appear next corner never fades away.
I was thinking so as Mr G made some joke about singles. I never listen to his jokes. We were walking and admiring Paseo Marítimo. The wind made the sea curl into a grey and threatening mass, crushing loudly on the sea sore. I look at Mr G, and we walk back. It has always been fun to see the same people at the same places. You see, that's another virtue of Mallorca, you get to know everybody.
That's why Mr G was never my Cary Grant nor my Frank sinatra...He was, I think, my George Peppard, my beloved true friend. And he still is.
We haven't walked Jaime III for a long time now. Everyday I walk by our favourite ice-cream store (San Miquelet) I think of the good days. Mallorca is him. When you are a foreigner in Mallorca, you love it, though the people living there don't want you to stay. The reason is, if the Mallorcans are clever, they wanna be foreigners.

A Letter for St. Valentine's Pt.1 (Palma de Mallorca)

Everybody has their own story. It is a simple fact. The sad thing about us, men and women of the world, is that we honestly believe our very own story could be turned into a book or a movie (or both, for some). Well, the truth is, would you read your own story? Would you watch something you know what, how, when, why and where it happened?
This can also be applied to the stories of the REAL people we just don't know. Reality, as it is, is boring. However, when we read something we know for a fact that is impossible, it becomes far more appealing. You see, it is far more entertaining to dream about something that might never happen than to accept that real people have real lives, and real love stories, for that matter.
My point is, would Frank Sinatra's songs be so wonderfully romantic had they been written for your best friend? The answer, obviously, is no! In the case that happened, you would probably laugh while dying of jealousy inside.
In order to understand the story I begin today, you have to pretend it is ficticious (for if you don't, you will be terribly bored, as I have just explained). Play some vintage music such as "Bye, Bye, Blackbird". Dance to it; slowly, so painfully slowly you are aware of every single one of your movements. Lit a cigarrette, one won't hurt. Pour yourself a drink and find that status of complete and absolute relax.
Vintage music does the job for me. It is in one of this moments, while listening to Sinatra, that I decided to write this letter, or two, or three. What the heck! I could even write a book if I wanted to!
On St. Valentine's eve, it occured to me that I have always dream of a knight riding a white horse to my rescue. He would be caring, respectful, perfect. Our song would be "It had to be you", by my beloved Sinatra, and he would propose in one of those social clubs in London or Manhattan.
As you might have assumed, my knight has not appeared yet, but this is a tale of all the toads that tried to replace him.
The first one? His name is G, and he is from my hometown, Palma.



Mr G and I met in this city one cold afternoon, but I'll tell you the full story next Sunday, once this romantic frenzy is gone and forgotten.
Miss me a bit, xx