I'm more of a nuisance in my house than a drunken tourist.

PalmFor reasons beyond my control, last week I had to go to Arenal. A work meeting required me to meet at a hotel located in this corner of the world where life goes on completely unrelated to us. "It can't be that bad," I thought, unaware that to get to the hotel I had to cross Calle del Jamón. What I found was a postcard from a time I thought was past, but which, unfortunately, is still present. It's as if the world had stopped in that urban landscape, where anarchy seems to apply not only to human behavior but also to the appearance of things. Everything seems to be pointing to an incorrect date, which could easily be somewhere between the 1970s and the 2000s. T-shirts that say "I love boobs," beach towels with a map of Mallorca, Frankfurter stalls on every corner, restaurants packed into a house that seems to have faded from the sun... years.

I must say that a part of me—the one fascinated by local color, vintage, and just the right amount of decadence—can't help but enjoy this spectacle. I find the names of the restaurants incredibly funny, for example, especially those that try to romanticize the tourist experience, making them feel more Spanish than the frying pan or the bullfighting: La cita, Bamboleo, Salsa Rosa, El jardín de las maravillas… They all end up sounding like the title of a Julio Iglesias song or a gossip show. There are also less creative ones, like the sign of a bar that simply says "Fresh Beer." A phrase so desperate it doesn't even need a verb. Right across the street, another very narrow establishment advertises itself with a huge Playboy bunny logo. A callback so obvious it doesn't even need words.

Everything borders on parody, like in the song's music video. Mon Cheri Go Home, by Fades and Maria Jaume, or that of And <3 Barcelona, by Svetlana. It's all too kitsch, too sloppy, too shabby to be true. But no, it's all as real and raw as a photograph of Martin Parr. They have tried to make us believe that we are exaggerating, that Palma "does not have a tourism model problem". We've heard the words "quality," "luxury," and "reconversion" so many times that they've almost managed to erase the existence of these places and the people who frequent them from our imagination. As is the case with the native guiri species, those totally tanned men—from "the cold beer" and the sun—who always go in packs. After crossing paths with three of these groups—each wearing their respective team colors—on my five-minute walk, I wondered if it wasn't possible that these same tourists had been wandering around there for many years, so unscrupulous that they still hadn't been able to return to my homes. I ended up in one of the hotel blocks that make up this layout of avenues made of concrete and cement, where I felt I was not only in the wrong era, but also in the wrong place. While I waited, right in front of the hotel—which wasn't luxury, but the hidden face of the euphemism—how little impression I made of a tourist. "Miss, are you all right?" he asked, his tone betraying his annoyance rather than concern about my presence. "Yes, everything's fine. I'm waiting to meet someone staying here. Can I sit over there?" I asked, pointing to the lobby. It was clear from his expression and the amount of hesitation I found in his answer that he was annoyed. "Hmm... Okay," he finally replied.

To finish my sociological study for the day, I decided to amuse myself by watching the people parading by. Until the grand finale of the day arrived. It featured a group of friends in their 40s who entered carrying a case full of beer. I burst out laughing. I couldn't stand looking at them, but no one else shared my indignation.