Magaluf is the only town in Spain where it is hard to get Spanish food. Well, that’s not totally true, but Spanish cuisine takes a backseat here. Ninety-nine percent of the visitors are British, and it seems as though they have brought their cafes with them. This experience isn’t something we’d have booked, but it turned out to be quite a diversion. Our airline experienced trouble replacing a part on our homebound plane, so they put us up in a hotel here for two days, all expenses paid. When they announced that we were going to Magaluf, I was dismayed, because the resort has a well-deserved reputation for being a party place. We knew about Magaluf, having stayed the year before in Illetes, a quieter resort closer to Palma.
Magaluf and the adjoining Palma Nova is around 14km from Palma. Of the two resorts, Palma Nova is quieter. High-rise apartments line the edge of the main beach areas—I wouldn’t call it a concrete jungle, but it’s close. Fast-food cafes and tacky souvenir shops abound cheek-by-jowl with upscale shops selling high-end goods, famed Majorcan pearls, and 22k gold jewelry.
The wide beaches and shallow waters are a magnet for families. We spoke with quite a few families, and they told us the package prices are a bargain—some book the same hotel annually. There is an aqua park, mini-golf, all kinds of water sports, and Marine Land to keep young families occupied.
Once we had settled into our hotel, which to our great relief was tucked at the top end of Magaluf in a quiet area, we set off for a walk along the beach. The beaches are wonderful, and in the daytime people sunbathe and enjoy water sports. As we passed a couple on the beach, a huge fellow exposing porridge-coloured skin plopped himself down on a lounge chair, looked up at the sun, and exclaimed in a broad Midland accent, "Burn Me!" Most people on the beach, sporting lobster tans and beer bellies, seemed to have the same thought.
We left Magaluf beach because of the headland and climbed steps to the roadway; from there, we walked downhill for a few minutes and found ourselves on the far end of Palma Nova beach. Here, facing the sea, was a row of open bars, all with English names: "The Yorkshire Lass," sporting the white rose of Yorkshire, and next door, "Molly’s Bar," sporting the red rose of Lancashire. No wars were occurring, apart from the wail of the TVs, all set on Sky sports. Further down was the "El Mosquito," a Welsh bar, and the "Jungle Bar." We settled down for a couple of pints in "Molly’s Bar" and watched the beach activities. We also noticed the availability of British newspapers, but who wants to read when the view is glorious?
Later in the evening, we started our walk from the hotel to Palma Nova . Palma Nova’s beach has a excellent esplanade. It was 8pm, the shops were open, and of course, the bars were also open. We passed pubs with the names "Benny Hill", "Linakers," "Queen Vic," " Boomerangs," "Eastender," "Poco Loco," and a nightclub called "BCM" (supposed to be the biggest in Europe), where for a 15-euro fee, all drinks and hi-jinks are included.
I was fascinated by the menu offerings. Outside one café, an illuminated board was displaying colour photos of the food: egg and chips, chips and beans. I didn’t understand why the need to photograph such offerings, but there they were in full colour. An egg. And some chips. On a plate! The owner hadn’t stopped there. Photo #3 was billed as "bread and butter," featuring a round of sliced white bread cut in two, with butter. The clients who were served this gastronomic meal wouldn’t be able to say, "What the bloody hell is this?" when the waiter plonked it down. Entrée #13 was pie and mushy peas. The omens for finding indigenous cuisine were as slim as my wallet. If you’re hoping for tapas and paella, go to Palma. The nearest you will get here to exotic food is garlic bread.
Later, returning from Palma Nova, we found the nighttime transformation dramatic: lights flashing, bar touts offering free drinks… they were very persistent. We watched some fellows bungee jumping, flying upside down through the air (I hope they hadn’t eaten), and as we rounded a corner, we heard a raucous rendition of You’ll Never Walk Alone—could be the theme song for Magaluf.
Through the open bar, we saw bodies draped in soccer flags jumping up and down and waving pints of beer around. They were dancing… or, should I say, jigging on the spot and propping each other up. The TV was showing the video of a match they probably watched earlier in the day and probably would watch again before the night was over, comas permitting. Passing by another bar (all are open to the street), I noticed a sign: "Smoking permitted, but secondhand smoke can be harmful". It seemed to do little to dampen the crowd. Plastic glasses were thrown through the air, the cascading beer dramatically lit by the overhead lights, and the customers obliviously careened into each other with wild abandon.
I am told there are over 2,500 bars and clubs in this area; there is no art or culture. It is the kind of place where instant, but fleeting friendships are formed. So I would end by saying that, in the daytime, it is a fun place with scads of shops and a wonderful beach, but the nighttime antics are not for those who like culture and fine dining.
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