Mahon, Menorca

We’re gliding into town through what’s said to be the largest natural harbor in the world. Since Menorca is also a tiny island, I’m forced to conclude that half of it consists of harbor. But what a sight for sore eyes; I feel home at once. Tiny European houses built smack on the shore, which is doable because there are no tides here. The Med feels like a big lake to sailors; no tides, no swell to speak of. But if Al Gore is right and the water level will rise by two meters, we’re in for a dip here in Europe. Unless of course they build some kind of dam across the Gibraltar Straight, with locks like they have in the Panama Canal. And do the same with the Suez Canal. They would have to install a bunch of pumps too, I guess, because then the Med won’t drain naturally into the Atlantic. It’ll take some thinking but hey, they can always come and learn from the Dutch because the Netherlands has been below sea level for centuries. We had the Southern Sea that’s now the Ijsel Lake. Who said it couldn’t be done?

And while we wait to see if Al Gore is right, we can enjoy cute ports such as that of Mahon, the capital of Menorca, which is an island in the Balearic group that also contains Ibiza and Mallorca. These islands have been inhabited since the Neolithic era. There are remnants aplenty; boulders turned upright defying time and leaving the onlookers guessing at the why of them. Then there are traces of the Romans and pretty much every invading force since. We pass buildings on little islets that are unmistakably Napoleonic, but quickly the coast is dappled with splendid waterfront villas, all with private beaches and docks and boat houses. Downtown, where we end up, a boulevard filled with restaurants and bars curves along the water’s edge. Yachts of all sizes are tied up in rows, and there’s even a blue fisher boat from Barendrecht, a Dutch city close to where I was born.

Menorca’s claim to fame is the invention of salsa mahonesa, known in the rest of the world as mayonnaise.



A bastion from the Napoleonic era in the harbor of Mahon, Menorca



The Barendrecht, making Mahon, Menorca look like a toy town.

Down town Mahon, Menorca

The boulevard of Mahon, Menorca

Saint Francesc Cathedral, Mahon, Menorca

Waterfront of Mahon, Menorca

Villas in the harbor of Mahon, Menorca

Villas in the harbor of Mahon, Menorca



Cartagena, Spain

We arrive when it’s still dark but as soon as the sun is up and I tear away from the goings on, the town of Cartagena fills me with memories of grandiose plans and romance. Row after row of yachts of all sizes bob in the marina. Buildings from every age thrust up from the sandy soil, and there is a handsome promenade to separate the two.

“What I want,” I tell Draga, who is always interested to hear what I want, “is to drive the entire southern coast line of Europe, in a camper.”

“We’re buying a camper now, hm?” she says with a tone of gentle forgiveness in her voice. “Is that before or after you build our house in Belgrade, with a library for you to work in and with a tower that overlooks the Danube? Coffee and donuts on the balcony? To the theater twice a week?”

“You’re forgetting the indoor swimming pool and the sauna,” I say. I have the tendency to loose grip on monetary reality after three months of hard work, 12 hours per day with barely any recreation. I also want a live-in kitchen and a yard to run around in.

Then we stare out over the town, imagining having the time to even see each other for longer than a coffee break once or twice a day. We’re both exhausted. We’re losing weight like drunk dromedaries. “I just want to be with you in a tiny little space and hold you,” she says while my eyes follow the road that meanders along the coast and up the hills, past an ancient looking building and across the horizon. A camper it is then, I hear myself say. Draga holds me closer for a brief moment. Then she has to go.

 

Cartagena, Spain



Cartagena, Spain



Cartagena, Spain

Cartagena, Spain

Gibraltar Straight

It’s always a milestone in any journey: crossing Gibraltar Straight. We look forward to it for weeks and then it’s over in an hour or two. But thank God we’re off the Atlantic. From a sailor’s point of view, the Mediterranean really is a big lake; there are hardly any tides and hardly any swell. Sailing the Mediterranean is a walk in the park, so to speak.

The weather is always a surprise in Gibraltar Straight (as it is anywhere else, I suppose). Sometimes gales get bottlenecked to full fledged storms and passing the straight is like passing a cactus. Sometimes it’s spectacularly clear and you can count the leaves on the trees on either side. Once I’ve seen a wind-still day produce strange whipped-cream globs of clouds just sitting on the water, for us to circumvent.

Today conditions are boring but not very trying. Rain and fog keeps the Rock of Gibraltar from our sight. We pass along the African Coast, along with countless other ships, safely separated in a convoy going west and one going east. And as we stand and stare and each other, we notice the dorsal fins and arched backs of a large herd of dolphins moving gracefully between us out the Mediterranean and onto the Atlantic.

A container ship in the Gibraltar Straight

Dolphins in the Gibraltar Straight