There are lots of places I would die to go back to. Other places have quite the opposite effect. They make me wanna die.
Last year I made my way from Mallorca’s capital Palma to Mallorca’s booze and party capital Magaluf. They’re only thirty minutes apart in distance, but a world apart in content. You start noticing the tell tale signs on the bus ride along the coast. The buildings get taller, the beaches more packed and the shops are covered in neon coloured beach towels, inflatable mattresses and skimpy party clothes. Not my cuppa.
Once in Magaluf, it’s plain to see that it isn’t its location that has placed it on the tourist map. The place is ugly. A miserable blast from the seventies with concrete tower blocks, pubs and loud adverts. Happy hour is in your face, wherever you turn. So are the burnt Brits. Then there is the beach. The Mediterranean shore with its gentle breeze and tempting sandy appearance. It could have been paradisical. Shame about the stag parties all kitted out as Borats, police officers or super heroes. The hens are not so inventive. They stick to their bunny rabbit or nurse outfits in the hope that it’ll turn heads. Enough said.
Writing about it puts me in a bad mood. Why did I go? To interview newly graduated bartenders whom are planning on making a career out of summer indulgence. Needless to say, I did not spend the night. The newspaper who ordered the interview would’ve had to pay me tenfolds to spend the night amongst the tack and the puke. Magaluf, I shall never ever EVER return.
This post is part of the Travel Blog Carnival hosted by Jennifer over at theturkishlife.blogspot.com.
Check out the whole REGRETTABLE TRIPS carnival to make sure you don’t step in unfortunate footsteps!
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