First night in my own bed after six on the island, missing the constant feeling of sand and humidity and a pillow that’s been oversuffed and overfluffed to provide a better view of the 10-inch tv that hung in the far corner of the room. Having a tv in bed always disrupts my dreams, so a (relatively) quiet night in Gràcia allowed my subconscious to take a journey not interrupted by Spanish-dubbed CSI repeats.
Not surprisingly, I found myself walking over the pock-marked, rocky trails that lead to the beaches which separate the lazy tourists from the intrepid blue-water seekers. The rocks are incredibly uncomfortable to walk on with sandals and the smooth patches are convered in a fine dust that I can still feel between my toes right now.
In the middle of this dream path were the walls of two demolished buildings that left something like a rock-strewn vacant lot on an otherwise unspoilt Menorcan coastline. The current heat wave has blocked me from really deep sleep, so I started questioning the logic of brick walls where dunes should be when I started spotting little fragments of wall murals, half-destroyed stencils and wheat pastes covered over by graffiti and immediately reached for my camera and started shooting. I believe this has officially become an obsession.