In The Tramuntana

Captain 

In 2012, at age 12, we came upon Mallorca by sailboat. I created an onboard restaurant, “Tramuntannas.” I never cooked much before, but took to the galley. Searing pasta sauce splattered onto my wailing baby sister's scalp. Stubby candles nearly keeled over, as we rocked back and forth in the choppy waters. It was a one-woman show and my imagination was captain. “Tranuntannas” was a hit- in theory rather than in taste. 

I wrote a song about the island. I didn’t sing well. As we sailed off and left Mallorca in the rear, I sat at the bow, letting my feet dangle off the edge and my tune drown into the wind behind me, pushing us onward.    

“Cause in Mallorca Mallorca 

The wind never dies

You will always hear it’s cries”

Mallorca evoked creative ambition. It was the first time I saw the power in being able to throw yourself into something unfamiliar. The power in the ability to make yourself feel full, all on your own. 

Palace in Palma

Three months ago, exactly ten years after my first encounter with the Tramuntana, I returned to Mallorca. I wore my green tank top that I had purchased there when I was 12, fitting now with the right amount of midriff peering out. The fast winds and slow speed of life had attracted me back, and the plan was to be an au pair for a month. 

Three days in, I realized the host family was full of false promises, like a bed to myself, and far too much Tito’s. After a dramatic confrontation with the tiny, aggressive, and hungover mother, who just kept repeating “have you no conscience,” I fled with nowhere to go in a state of anger and gaslit guilt. 

Then came the apartment in Palma. A miraculous bit of luck handed to me by a family friend. The catch was that nobody had been in it for at least 20 years. According to the neighbors, the apartment was left to rot after a nameless old man died inside. This story didn’t quite align with that of the owners though. I phoned a locksmith, we showed up at the address, and broke in. This horrified the building’s super, she didn’t know who the American was drilling into one of the doors upstairs. 

The apartment was grand, elegant, and overpopulated with Victorian-looking furniture. There was even a tremendous balcony overlooking the marina and city. It was also a disaster. Dead birds scattered the ground, the windows were so dirty you couldn’t see out, dust and mold coated almost every surface, and everything was broken, from the lights to the toilets to the stove. The relaunch of the apartment was not exactly smooth. However, after setting alarms off by accident and bringing the whole fire department to the building, as well as accidentally disconnecting everyone’s wifi, which sparked quite the ruckus among many, the place became livable. It was by no means pristine, but to me, it was a palace. 

Smoke in the wind

The French boy, stubborn and sassy, was on vacation in Mallorca. He sat smoking on my balcony, and I watched the smoke waft through the air and disappear into the Tramuntana. I imagined the reaction when the two met, the smoke that always rises and the Tramuanta that descends to the sea. A swirling excitement as these forces entangled in each other.

Our relationship made me think about language. He spoke little English, and I, little French. With him I had to be selective with my words and concise in my ability to convey ideas. I was forced to narrow down my point in a way that showed me just how much I often overcomplicate. We take for granted being around people that just naturally understand the meaning behind our words and ability to help us to reach conclusions, following us as we go. I was so used to just thinking aloud instead of having to pause and then explain my thoughts. With him I had to take a thought and work backwards to find the right way to express it. Sometimes he didn’t get it and I had to go back again and start from scratch. I had never had to revise and edit my speech like this. It taught me to consider the endless routes to an idea. Even when we struggled, it didn’t empty us, but instead, filled us with momentum to figure each other out. There was an unfamiliar kind of creativity and innovation intertwined in our commutation. Although our overlap in language was limited, it felt like our means of communicating could be infinite because our imaginations could pick up anything that got lost. 

The last morning he sat smoking on my balcony and I felt inspired to try some poetry for the first time in a while… 

Balcon Morning 

The weak wooden chair with a plush red seat 

Is where you remain and appear so discrete 

As you puff on your morning treat. 

You chatter on the phone 

The words twirl through the air in your graceful tone 

Of a language so foreign and unknown.

How wild it is we share this same balcon. 

You play faintly French rap 

Though it's nothing compared to American trap.

The sun kisses your face, it illuminates your map. 

I follow the route from your eyes to your lap. 

Together we sit and watch the boats, 

Your smoke flings around us as a morning overcoat. 

Dialogue streams, vaporizes, and begins to float, 

Yet for each one’s quote 

An extra moment for understanding we must devote 

And for every new word- take note, 

From the balcon, that is the only way we will cross the moat. 

Patience is our boat. 

For you this little anecdote 

I wrote- 

And this is your footnote.  

The time I didn’t spend traveling with the french boy, I spent writing. I thought about what 12-year-old me would think if she saw me writing away in my dusty palace. When I was alone, my writing protected me from loneliness, it was something I could spend time with and that made me feel excited and productive. I hadn’t felt this way in so long.

After three months of making Palma into my home, writing from the balcony, and living through a romantic saga with the French boy, my tourist visa came to an end and, sadly, so did everything else.

Perder La Tramuntana 

I have spent so long being envious of my 12 year old self. The one who wrote songs even though she couldn’t sing or created restaurants even though she couldn’t cook. I wanted to let my imagination be the captain again. 

There is an expression “perder la Tramuntana” meaning “to lose one's mind, one’s sanity,” which tends to happen in winds at sea. When I was a wild child at sea, I, too, often “perder la Tramuntana.” I returned to Mallorca to find that imagination full of unrealistic ideas, and spark of impulsive, slightly insane, “creative genius” that I once had. To really be innovative, to expand our world of creativity, we often have to step into an illusion and be a bit delusional, don’t we? Why not allow ourselves to believe that it’s possible to have something real with someone despite not being able to speak the same language and living in different countries…or why not allow ourselves to believe that life can be as simple as sitting on a balcony all day writing poetry? We shouldn’t be afraid to “perder la Tramuntana” every now and then if it can open our minds and fill us with something unfamiliar. We are often influenced to look forward at what we could become, but should never be discouraged from looking back at who we once were.