The Plastics of Ibiza
It’s one thing to hear about the biggest clubs, the best shows, the beautiful people, the drugs, fast cars, the excesses and another… to be part of it. No, not see it, be in it.
Ibiza, with a “za”, not “tha”, please.
We stay at Vara de Rey, epicenter of all action Ibiza. Luis, the Argentinean, designed, built and runs this funky hostel, each room is different; all quirky with a good vibe.
There are really only 3 things to do in Ibiza; party, beach and shop. The island is blessed with beautiful beaches and some decent hills. We hit the party scene just as we arrive on Friday; first Amnesia, then Privilege, the former being the biggest club in the world; housing 10,000 kids, 17 bars, 2 stages, the swimming pool spreads across the dance floors, DJ console in the middle of it, you get the picture. Lame drinks going for USD 10, door entry for nothing less than USD 50. Yet, even with this economy, the clubs are full. What you are paying for are the DJs working your music imagination.
Omar’s friend who is a costume designer everybody knows on this island, gets him backstage passes and drinks, making these beautiful people now available a little closer. So close perhaps you realize that seeing them on stage suffices.
The shows. The bodies. The quality of the costumes. The performers. It’s all the best you will ever see.
People of Ibiza. Hippies, fashionistas (beyond HK fashion slavery!), exhibitionists (beaches, parks), porn stars performing on the beach (not exaggerating and not sexy), Cockneys, performers, augmented breasts, Russians, 3 pairs of Manolo Blahniks in one day, you name it. I name it ; unreal. Or plastic.
Gay beaches. Men are gorgeous to look at, they take care of themselves, are fun and interesting to talk to and have no kids throwing freesbies at you. My thing.
Our day has moved to ‘late Spanish’ hours; dinner at 11p, first quiet drink at 1am as the clubs have little to offer before 2am. In bed by 4-6am. Just 3 weeks ago I did the reverse at the Vipassana meditation centre.
Then there is Luis (our hostel man) who we make friends with quickly. Supposedly gay. The day Omar leaves Spain, he drags me out of my PJs at midnight insisting his friend’s party is the best in Ibiza. He drives us in his vintage Alfa Romeo convertible, playing The Cure. His friend’s splendid villa is set off the Ibizan cliffs, Wallpaper-coverage material. More beautiful people, everybody very friendly, warm, open to talk to. Right…
2 sangrias later I tell the host I would rather not drink as I plan to cycle 50km tomorrow. He laughs and I shift into a panic mode; the sangria had MDMA in it, or ecstasy. And how can it not, it’s Ibiza after all. It’s assumed to have it.
Ibiza or no Ibiza, I do not do plastics, never did and never will. The few times I puffed on a joint I got an anxiety attack. I volunteered at a rehab center age 15 one summer, you don’t do drugs when you see what I saw.
Oh, and Luis turns out not to be gay, in fact he’s very straight and very interested. Me coming out with him encouraged him. So I play the withdrawal game from being guard-down-to-my-gay-friend to ‘let’s just be friends’. It’s awkward and I feel trapped. He does not want to go home as his ecstasy trip had just began and it’s only 3am, the night is early. Call a taxi? I don’t even know where I am.. Omar, where were you?!
A prelude to a bad, cliché horror movie? It all ended well apart from me feeling really tired, rather depressed the next day (withdrawal symptoms from X), realizing that I can still be naïve at times.
And need to work on that gay-dar too.
What struck me the most about the party scene in Ibiza is that the amount and drugs and alcohol consumed is not correspondent to the amount of fun you see people having. I ask; what happened to the good old 3 tequila shots when you are ready to climb that bar top and feel all confident to dance this samba move you never dared before.
As you do with some things, you end them with ‘Did it, know it, ready to move on’. Plastics aren’t my thing, I dig the real shit.