When in Germany, go to Mallorca
Why, I asked myself, must I listen to German while I'm officially on Spanish soil? Endure sore eyes from seeing chicken-legged German men wearing socks and sandals? Listen to the not-so-inspiring Germanisms like One can't change it, that's just how it is! No, I always told myself, I will not travel to Germany's unofficial colony for vacation.
One simply must go home to appreciate one's adopted home. The you don't know what you've got til it's gone theory applies here.
But with three children, and five full-priced plane tickets to the USA during the summer season, going home for vacation is no longer a reality every year.
So. . . we headed for the sun and sand of Mallorca and enjoy many comforts of life in Germany: easily attainable 45-grain, bark-coated bread, red-nosed drinkers, passive aggressive stick it notes on the car that read, "If you had parked properly, two cars could have fit in here!" And of course, my favorite, the bare breasted, butt exposed folks who simply can't keep their clothes on once they get near a large body of water.
But hey, when in Germany, go where the Germans go. . .