Family vacation in Mallorca: Corona or not, the party goes on

“Omaaa, we’re coming,” yells the twelve-year-old into the cell phone. Before departure, Mallorca is considered a low-incidence area, Corona can take us.

The superspreader kids celebrating high school from Playa de Palma are finally far away in Port d’Andratx . And we are now looking forward to our formerly green hill, where pine and olive trees have been falling victim to black-funded residential complexes for years.

But our view of the harbor remains. To the lighthouse on the pier, where my nephew caught a dogfish close by. On fishing boats that my mother has been with since now 30 Years watch as the ideal world symbols return to their home port in the evening. To the blue infinity of the Mediterranean.

My children don’t feel like tourists here, but as resident grandchildren. They want ensaïmadas from La Consigna, where Helene Fischer also gets her breakfast rolls. And it doesn’t (yet) bother you that around 993 residents at Königsberger Klopsen practice subculture in its purest form for lunch.

German is spoken, Corona or not, the party goes on.

On weekends, buses spew never-ending Replenishment of largely textile-free breasts and legs on the harbor promenade, the sons with 17 sometimes find it quite attractive. Who later yells at Tim’s bar again without a mask against live music. So really nothing against live music – but sleep with “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” until dawn, with a broken mosquito screen, with still 30 Degree while the offspring toddles around between scantily clad incidence accelerators. I feel like a mother who sends her offspring to measles parties.

“There used to be parents who said: ‘Children, don’t catch anything.’”

Since 10. July incidences increase daily, on Friday the 23. July, Spain officially becomes a high incidence area. “What the fuck …!” Comments my big guy, 17, and sees his friend’s one-week visit to us in danger. Because it is »that kind of shit always only to paddle through the harbor with a grandma, a mom and a baby bro … What good is that for me?”

“Uh, what are you looking for?” I ask stupidly, whereupon he rolls his eyes upwards.

Of course I know, as if it was yesterday, how in my youth I looked restlessly in this very harbor for the life that mainly took place at night and from up here was a promise full of colorful lights, speedboats and adventure.

At that time there were no incidences. But there have also been parents who said: “Children, don’t get anything.” My son’s friend, currently in Nantes, plans to return our corona and school-damaged youth cargo via France, where they can then pack them both in the car and take them to Hamburg.

Good idea, I’ll text her. Five minutes later she booked flights for the boys.

Another five minutes later: SMS from the child’s father.

Our plan is completely crazy, a violation of the Epidemic Protection Act, a criminal offense and anti-social fraud in society anyway. My arguments fizzle out under the blue of the Mallorca sky. He is right and I think: The shit pandemic is ruining half of our children’s youth.

“I’ll be really tough.”

I had booked Mallorca for four weeks. However, having my laptop with me at all times belies my main job as a mother, nanny and driver who manages leisure and incidences. Four weeks in which I wanted to write with a view and also drive the children to appointments.

The next one on the twelve-year-old’s agenda: a 13. Birthday in the Aquapark!

I text the anniversary’s mother: »In the event of incidences of over 300 – isn’t that going to be a superspreader event? ”

You:” Duhuu , I can’t get out of the number. ”I see. But I do, and now I’m really tough.

So me, to the twelve-year-old: »Well, Aquapark, with the incidences … We have to cancel that! ”

He, roaring:” Waaaas! If I can’t go there, you’ll ruin my vacation, my whole life, I don’t give a shit if I get Corona! «

Me, SMS to them Mother: “All right, we’re happy, he’s coming.”

I’ll jet off to Palma, hour there, hour back, child handover in the McDonald’s parking lot. Pick up in Pollença, but the day after tomorrow, please, two hours there, two back – even if you live next door to each other at home: “Menno Mama, Mallorca is something different …”

Three return flights for the seventeen year old Meanwhile, my Danish neighbors in the facility are happy (four parties: Germany, Denmark, Sweden, England): one less boy who makes loud ass bombs in the pool so that afterwards the entire edge is wet and slippery every time.

They worry because the English are coming next week: “They should stay at home”; we blaspheme the Swedes: »They ignore Covid«, who appear on the steps to the pool at that very moment. What the heck, the other day I heard one of them call me “lady with the noisy boys”.

If they knew, I think. From tomorrow there will be three!

Because the seventeen-year-old’s buddy lands from Nantes the next day at eight o’clock.

I’ll jet to Palma then. The seventeen-year-olds have shortened their time together in Mallorca from eight to four days in order to correctly fulfill the quarantine (which could also be renamed “gaming at home”) after the return flight. So it is the third return flight that I book for the big son, three times as expensive as usual one-way with the same airline.

But he needs it to dance correctly and on time in high school.

On the evening after their departure I realize: The two have forgotten half of them, especially their books (they would never use cell phones to forget). Instead, rum (which I got for Mojito) evaporated – so be it, I’ve never had so many different types of alcohol in the fridge as I did during this vacation. “Cheers,” I say and toast the evening harbor, which always promises more than it delivers.

I urgently need a vacation.

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