The Vacationers

“Let’s go,” he said, and Terry revved the engine. Jim had never been a car guy, or a speed guy, but he was starting to understand the appeal of life on the blacktop. If he hadn’t cashed in his chips on Madison Vance, he might have splurged on a midlife crisis on wheels. He could see it so easily—he and Fra

Joan had four CDs in his car: Tomeu Penya’s Sirena, Enrique Iglesias’s Euphoria, Maroon 5’s Hands All Over, and One Direction’s Take Me Home, which he claimed belonged to his younger sister. They started with One Direction, at Sylvia’s request, and Joan tried not to nod in time with the beat. It was a perfect day—warm and breezy, and once they were driving, they didn’t even need the air-conditioning anymore. Both Joan and Sylvia rolled down their windows and let the actual air do the trick. Sylvia’s hair whipped around her face like a blond tornado, but she didn’t care. When she’d had her fill of pop confection, she ejected the CD and put in the Tomeu Penya, the one person she hadn’t heard of. In the photo on the CD cover, Penya (she assumed) looked like a creepy hitchhiker, in the same way that Neil Young looks like a creepy hitchhiker. A song began—Joan hit fast forward to the second track, and Sylvia clapped along.

“This sounds like a lullaby by a guy in a tiny jacket playing in the corner of a Mexican restaurant.”

Joan looked at her as if she’d called his mother a whore.

“What? Do you actually like this?”

Joan shook his head, which at first Sylvia took as him agreeing with her, but his face turned red, and that was clearly not the case. “This is Mallorcan music,” he said, pointing at the stereo. “This is our national, country music.”

“Right. And everyone knows that country music sucks, Taylor Swift notwithstanding. Makes perfect sense.” She turned the CD case over in her hand. “Wait, we have to listen to the ‘Taxi Rap.’” Sylvia hit the forward button a few times and waited for Tomeu to start rapping about taxis, which he did.

“Oh my God,” she said. “This is like seeing your grandfather naked.”

Joan slammed the stop button, silencing the car. “You are such an American. Some of us have actual pride in our history, you know! You sound so stupid!”

Sylvia wasn’t used to being yelled at. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window. “Whatever,” she said, until she could think of something more cutting.

“There are five languages in Spain, plus dialects, did you know that? And Franco tried to demolish all of that. And so yes, it is important that we have a Mallorcan singer, who sings Mallorcan songs, even if they are sometimes not the best.”

Sylvia sat as far back against the seat as possible, as if she were in the dentist’s chair. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not all about your swimming pool and whether or not your brother is an asshole,” Joan said.

“You’re right,” Sylvia said again, and said good-bye to the idea of Joan ever coming close enough to kiss her again, and to the idea that the rest of the day would be any good whatsoever. She almost told him to turn around and take her home, but she feared it would make her seem too petulant, and so she just kept her mouth shut and stared out the window.

The restaurant was on a pier, and shabby in the way that Fra

“Do you enjoy coaching? It must be exciting to work with Nando.” Fra

Antoni took a short sip of wine. “It is good.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but Antoni turned his attention to the menu. A moment later, the waiter returned, and he and Antoni had a brisk exchange. Fra

“Did you ever think about leaving Mallorca?” she asked. “When you were playing on the tour, you must have gone all over the world. Was there ever another place that spoke to you? You know, somewhere you wanted to stay?” She cupped her hand under her face. “Do you have any kids?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Antoni said. “Or maybe you’re still recovering from your brain injury.”

Fra

Joan and Sylvia stopped for a coffee in Valldemossa, a charming little town with pitched cobblestone streets and a robust number of tourists wearing backpacks and Coppertone. They sat outside and drank their coffees out of proper little cups, which made Sylvia feel like she’d been a hobo all her life, carrying disposable paper cups down the street. Mallorcans knew how to slow things down. After their coffees were done, Joan directed them up a small hill to the monastery where George Sand and Frédéric Chopin had spent a miserable winter.

“Seriously, if you were going to move into a monastery with your boyfriend . . .” Sylvia said. “No, even if it was in the summer, that still seems like a bad idea.”

Despite scolding her in the car, Joan seemed happy to play tour guide. He pointed out everything—ikat fabric in a shop window that was made on the island; powdery ensaimadas, even better-looking than the ones Fra