Menorca: then, now, and always.

There is a small island in the Mediterranean that has been traded, guarded, fortified, and conquered for years. It’s the quiet sister of Mallorca… way less performative, not as well-known, but it’s got a story to tell and somehow, my family found its way into one of its chapters.

When my grandfather immigrated to the UK from Trinidad & Tobago to pursue his career as a jazz musician, he saved his money with intention and purchased a small casita in the town on San Luis, Menorca.

Our family’s town home sits in a small village of only about 7,000 people. It begins with white. Everything is wrapped in white, chalky limestone and almost all of the window shutters and doors are a deep emerald green. Every color feels nautical and rooted. San Luis doesn’t operate around tourism the way bigger islands do. It operates around its own habits which are agriculture, family, long lunches, early mornings, and restful siestas. The routine isn’t curated for visitors and it exists whether you’re there or not.

My dad spent time in his young adulthood living in Menorca by gathering his own rituals, befriending locals who are now our close family friends, perfecting his Spanish, learning which bars closed early and which beaches were worth a windy drive on his moped.

Menorca was my first taste of real travel and it set the tone for how I’ll always prefer to do it… slightly inconvenient.

• Harder to get to (new airports, unfamiliar bus systems, wrong platforms, figuring it out as you go, a walk, a wrong turn, a little hike)

• Reward of arrival (when you finally reach the destination, it feels SO earned!)

• Staying in a place that forces real conversations (with locals, and the people you’re traveling with)

The first time we went to Menorca as a family, I remember secretly loving the fact that there was no WIFI at Grandpa’s. My teenage brain needed that kind of forced presence.

So I paid attention and took note of:

Women of all shapes and sizes laying topless on the beach allowing their bodies to simply exist under the sun completley unbothered, without a trace of judgement.

Children being raised to appreciate nature, running between sand and water collecting rocks and shells…without an ipad in sight.

Couples walking through the narrow streets of Mahon, the island’s capital, holding hands and being present with one another while peeking into local shop windows.

Stone walls built during the Talyotic period that still stand as witness to those who carefully placed each perfectly uneven rock.

Horses and cows left to graze in open pastures, and olive trees cutting through the landscape that still produce the oil families use to press and pour into their cooking pans.

We’ve returned every other summer for the past ten years. We keep a running list: favorite coves, farmers markets, the bakery with the flaky ensaïmadas. Each visit adds something new, but also feels like reopening a well-loved book.

Menorca is where I am the happiest, most unedited version of myself and every time we return, the island quietly holds our place for us.

Life there is beautifully repetitive: wake up, walk to the market for fruit, swim, read, cook, wander. It reminds you that most of what we complicate in our lives doesn’t need to be complicated at all.

Lately, I’ve started thinking about what it would feel like to spend real time there (not just a week or two) but an actual stretch of life.

Maybe one day when I’m between jobs. Or if I landed a fully remote role that lets me take my laptop somewhere slower.

I imagine mornings working from the small kitchen table with the windows open. Taking a break to walk into town for coffee. Logging off in the afternoon and driving to a quiet cala to swim before dinner. figuring out which bars close early and which restaurants have the best paella.