Goodbye, summer, here's to the next time

Fifteen years ago or more. It must be that long. I wrote an article wondering why there wasn't some massive great party for the end of the season. A party at Halloween before the long days of the winter dead, a party for those who worked in the tourism sector. They would be departing. The waiters, the chefs, the entertainers, the reps and others. And now, towards the end of October, there was such a party.

It was strange though. The season hadn't ended for some but had for others. The latter had probably already gone. But then that's how the season is. Still often defined by six months of contracts, with variable start and end points. It's not as though all the shutters come down at Halloween midnight, even if this might be the impression.

Strange also in some respects from years ago. For example, the reps are nowadays less likely to wish to rave on a beach. Their profile is older. They live in Mallorca. At least for that part of the tourism industry handling the British, Brexit has brought about a change. And it's not as if they all necessarily anticipate a non-working several-month hiatus. Seasonality isn't as sharply determined as it once was and nor is this seasonality now so determined by the resorts.

But it continues to be the case for many. You see car boots being loaded. Apartments that had been found are vacated. These are the signs of the wandering workers. Not just those who call it a temporary day at the end of the season and depart. There are also those who move on to another season. In the Canaries, for instance, the high season is on the point of getting under way.

It's a very odd month, November. They talk of seasonal affective disorder, but this isn't it. An adjustment is required. All of a sudden there is a degree of silence. Living in the heart of a resort, you notice it most acutely. For months there is at minimum a constant hum; more than just a hum. Then it goes. Just like that. Attuned to this abrupt alteration, it's perhaps why I found the pandemic less than alarming. It was like a prolonged November.

In truth, it's that you become accustomed to the rhythms of Mallorca's seasons that are the beats of tourism. These rhythms produce wishes for it (the season) to end. There are those who get sick of it. God, I can't wait till November. Not just residents, but workers and business owners as well. It's true that Mallorca, some of Mallorca that is, has an imbalanced economy of months on and months off. It can seem weird that people head off to claim their benefits and that this is how the economy operates. Perhaps. But how hard have these people worked? Ask yourselves that question.

Hard work? Pfff! They should try being health workers (as an example). Fair point, but cut them some slack. On their feet for hours on end, day after day, serving on tables in the summer heat. Labouring in kitchens in that heat. Making sure you keep smiling from the show stages at the regularly changing faces of audiences, for whom you are new, even if the routines have now become monotonous. Dealing with the stream of holidaymakers with questions, some of which are plain dumb, and with complaints, some of which are plain spurious.

Tackling seasonality. It's not as if everyone welcomes this. Typical, perhaps, was a comment regarding longer seasons from someone in the villas' business. The season is hard enough as it is without it being extended; words to that effect. I know those who count the days in anticipation of when they can close. That's how it is, though I guess I'm intrigued to know what they think in the Canaries. Those islands may not be as busy as the Balearics in summer, but it's not as if they are quiet either. There is all-year working, no question about that.

A party to mark the end of the season. To thank all those in hospitality, etc. for their efforts. A nice gesture, but at the same time rather sad. Ah, is this me being afflicted with seasonal affective disorder? No, it's just sad that the rhythms of the season make it so and have made it so for many a 'summer' season. There again, there are the other signs. Literally, and they contribute to that sense of winter ghost town. The signs being covered up even as the last holidaymaking stragglers bravely head for the beach and the chill breezes of autumn. Closed down. Glass facades papered over. Shutters not just down but in some cases welded down to prevent any possible break-in or occupation.

November. Adjustment. And then November passes into December and January. It's all very pleasant. Mallorca has been reclaimed, lives have been reclaimed. How many are counting the days until it returns?