Palma in 24 hours

I arrived in Palma just as the sun began to rise, painting the bay the color of fresh oranges and rosé wine. The Cathedral, La Seu, stood silent, its spires sharp as marlin fins against the early sky. I took coffee in a small café on the Plaça Major, the espresso bitter and strong, the way morning demands. Men and women hurried past, but the old men stayed, watching, knowing there was nowhere to rush to. Walking through the winding streets of the old town, I stopped by the Arab baths. They were ancient, cool, and calm. Their arches told stories without words, and in that quietness, one felt the weight of centuries. By midday, the sun was fierce, and I sat at the market, Mercat de l’Olivar, slicing thick chunks of Manchego cheese and thin cuts of jamón ibérico, washing them down with cold white wine from the local vineyards. Afternoon brought me down to the harbor. The boats rocked gently, tethered but restless, dreaming of open water. Fishermen sorted nets as I watched, their movements rhythmic and unhurried. I thought about fish and the sea, about struggle and reward. As evening cooled the air, I climbed the steps to Bellver Castle. The city sprawled below, lights winking on, marking human life. The sea beyond had grown dark, mysterious. I drank a glass of red wine, heavy and warm, feeling the stone walls around me solid and reassuring. Dinner was a small restaurant on a side street. I ate squid grilled simply with lemon and olive oil, the taste of salt and sea and smoke. The night stretched long, filled with music and voices drifting from taverns. Palma had shown its rhythm—slow and fast, ancient yet alive. By midnight, I walked the promenade, feeling the breeze from the sea, salty and soft. Palma had given enough for one day. I walked quietly back, the city resting but never fully asleep, ready for tomorrow, as was I.