Hilde’s studio was a little tavern built on a hill that wound it’s way through Deia like a stoney and dead snake left in the sun for the kids to guess at. I asked her where Cortazar’s house was — a famous writer who used to come here- and she pointed to the houses of all the famous writers that still or recently lived there. A British poet. A German playwrite. An art collector. But no cortazars. Hilde was blonde and 47 but living on the island had obviously given her eternal charm. My heart shuddered and I choked on my tongue as I asked her for a tour. She smiled enormously. Inside it was just her. She lived alone out here. I was tempted to ask her to marry me, but with me was my girl, and I had no chance with her around. On the shelf were her dolls. I asked her how much and she told me to pick whichever I wanted. This is the one I picked. My girl and I walked away. I thought of Hilde all night as I trampled Donkey Joti - my new friend - around on my chest. I made love. I slept. In the morning the sun rose in #Mallorca a and Hilde was just brewing her coffee. Alone. Smiling. Painting on those winding mountains where #Cortazar used to blow his trumpet under a lemon tree.