Magaluf XL

PalmaI spent my Erasmus year in London denying I was Italian and answering the same questions at the pub where I worked: no, I didn't understand what my Prime Minister was doing in the Azores photo; the euro had made everything more expensive for us (they nodded proudly); Aserejé was just the phonetic adaptation into English of a disco-rap song and – to their disappointment – it meant nothing; and no, I didn't frequent Magaluf. For the customers to whom I served pints and shots, pronouncing Magaluf lit up their faces. For me, it was just a place that was very far from all the nightlife areas of Palma and whose appeal was eating ecstasy pills on a Saturday night at BCM. I'd say I hadn't even set foot there. Therefore, I limited myself to nodding with a smile while returning their change in pounds from their Foster's or Carling. I didn't want to add another disappointment to that of the Ketchup, famous at the time at Tony Blair's level.

I like British people. I must confess. It entertains me that they adore the monarchy and devour the headlines with which the tabloids ridicule its members; the uniform aesthetic baroque of the middle class (eyelashes of "drag for them; profusion of tattoos for them) and a carefree life attitude in which, if they go out partying, they give it their all.

After years without stepping foot in the United Kingdom, on Saturday I walked through the port area of Bristol: bachelor parties; mothers with daughters holding hands, staggering with smudged mascara; gym specimens clinking beers with guttural shouts, and everyone dancing to that wonderful music they have shared with the whole world. It was then that I realized that the Magaluf model – no, we are not buying the elitist kitsch of Calvià Beach – is no tourist invention. We have not created drunk tourism out of nothing; we have simply imported its uses, customs, and way of having fun, so that they feel at home while we bill. It would be another debate what interest there is in traveling to find the same thing you have every weekend in your city, but the secret perhaps is that it is an extended version, in "extralarge and much more economical. They can indeed say that it is cheaper for them to spend a week in Mallorca than to stay in Manchester, Liverpool and Leeds. They drink garrafó happily, pay without looking at the bill and adore The Strip, a Punta Ballena that smells of vomit and revelry; an improved franchise of their leisure and, for them, a win-win absolute. Cheers!