Palma de Mallorca.

After our unplanned layover in Barcelona, we arrived in Palma around 4:30 pm. We got ourselves to our hotel without problem. Because Palma is Spanish, we knew that a late dinner was on the agenda. So, we killed some time in the hotel spa, alternating between a super-hot sauna, a hot lounging chair, and a cool jacuzzi.

For dinner, we took a recommendation from the N.Y. Times. In a "36 Hours in . . ." article on Mallorca, the author recommended tapas at Bar Dia, but warned that "[t]he owner will be sitting in a corner smoking and playing cards with his mates, and couldn't be less pleased to see you." Truer words have not been written. The food was incredibly good but it seemed like the people working there had a word limit. However, as we were closing our tab, the owner poured us a shot of hierba, which is a local specialty, an anise-flavored liquor (I think). We were heading for the door, when some of the owner's mates stopped us to point out that it was raining and surely, we would rather stay and have a drink with them rather than brave the rain. Surely.

Except that a drink seemed to turn into ten.

Don't get me wrong. We had a blast. We met a lot of very gentlemanly locals who took us out. One of our fellow diners was an American bar owner who married a Mallorcan bar owner, whose father also owned a bar. Soon enough, we were at his bar. The night begins to blur for me after that. All I know that the next morning was not kind to us. We felt awful. And, upon some pained recollection, we realized that at no point during Saturday did we have a single drop of water. No bueno.

But, Palma itself es bien, with very friendly and welcoming locals.