Ibiza

San Miguel

'Don’t hold expectations and you won’t be disappointed' is the philosophy that summed up LBD & I's recent trip to Ibiza. It was originally intended to be a 9-day detox after a summer of festivals but my naivety got the best of me and it too easily became a 9-day bender. It was L & I's last holiday together for a while, now that uni was over and our stint in Bristol was coming to an end. L had grown up as part of the Spanglish summer culture, so he knew Ibiza from having worked seasons there. I 'felt' like I knew it after having my ear chewed off about how amazing the people, places and parties were, but my image was tainted by thoughts of really expensive nights in big clubs that played commercial music with loads of English Lads on tour. So it took me a while to warm up to the idea of stepping into the party animals playground, but I'm so glad I did! 

We started off  in Santa Gertrudis, a sweet little bohemian town that lies directly on the middle-point of the island and is described by many as Ibiza in a microcosm. With no car (due to it costing an extortionate 500 euros for under 25's), we soon discovered the beauty and ease of hitchhiking, during which I could practise my Spanish and find out about the local hotspots around town. We'd generally get dropped off in the centre of Santa G where we'd walk passed many gorgeous boutique shops, vegan juice bars and whitewashed houses towards the dirt path ahead. After a few frustrated conversations about which prickly pear cactus was our actual landmark, we soon knew the way home like the back of our hand; passed the dry foliage and towards the faint lights of the telephone towers in the distance. 'You have reached your destination' I could hear the robotic voice of the GPS in my head as we caught sight of Y's sweet casita, decorated with pretty hand-made pots and various cacti that merged in with the surrounding desert. So while our plan had been to spend 9 days in the North, staying at my family friend's and discovering the island - we went out for one night in the South, and never really left. 

My initial concern about not having enough clothes to wear in Ibiza became not having any of our clothes or belongings for the majority of the holiday. A self-inflicted issue for sure, as we weren’t really coordinated enough to plan our trips back but we didn’t expect to fall so hard for the San-An spell. In the 7-person party palace we’d slightly taken over, lived the loveliest people (this sounds like the beginning of goldilocks and the 3 bears..) who soon became our Ibiza angels. Every day was jam-packed and nights out were balanced with chilled nights in or a heart-warming roast dinner. But the entire time, was one.long.session. Never have I packed it in so much, the constant stimulation began to feel commonplace and daily life took on a whole new set of priorities. Routine was no longer based around mealtimes – breakfast was eaten at dinnertime and bedtime would occasionally happen in the early hours of the morning, it had all gone topsy turvy.

People went out 7 nights a week to different parties followed by the after party and then back to the party again. It didn’t stop and everyone was always on it. In the brief moments when L and I did pull ourselves out of the bubble with our thumbs stuck out on the side of a highway, I’d glimpse into reality and plan to go to a vegan café, teach yoga at open-space and send off my resumes. But the plan developed into nothing more than a hopeful suggestion and within an hour, we’d be walking back down the dirt road, passed the prickly pear cactuses and through the pine trees, fiending for San-An. 

9 days flew by, friends became family and in the last few hours I was looking at flights to extend my stay. I understood why people did seasons there, but wondered if I’d ever survive one… Despite the whirlwind it had been, we’d still managed to tick off a lot of boxes. We'd seen the elusive Ibiza dinosaur (the famous, white bearded man that everyone seems to know), swum in beautiful seas by day and night, boogied to Nightmares on Wax, swirled around at Acid Sundays and managed a bit of a hot, sweaty after party. L and I had found our adventure and I'd slightly fallen in love with Ibiza – with no expectations, there was no disappointment. Despite having had no sleep, LBD and I surprisingly caught our flights back to Bristol, running aimlessly through the airport with minutes to spare. 

When we got onto the aeroplane I looked around and felt the exhaustion and lack of conversation in the cabin, the energy was definitely different from when we'd arrived.  I closed my eyes when we sat down, uninterested in any social interaction that presented itself; those few hours would be the only bit of rest I'd get until my next flight, 12 hours later from London – Morocco… If only I’d worked out my geography and avoided the massively unnecessary detour but hey, you live and learn. So we flew away from that beautiful party island with its amazing beats and beautiful, tanned girls that look like they're part of some sort of Victoria's Secret convention. With few brain cells but throbbing hearts I let exhaustion consume me, next stop: Morocco.

One of the many moments (just listen to the lyrics): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsgP8LkEopM