Wednesday
On Wednesday we took transit with just two backpacks to the Valencia airport, where we hopped on the shortest flight we've ever experienced: take off and touch down within one hour. From the Ibiza airport we traveled across the island to Sant Antoni and talked about islands as deserts, how Ibiza looked like a mix between California and Arizona; how it reminded me of Aruba, with less wind. Austin and I watched this one girl across the aisle whose British voice was set at more decibels than you'd think possible; she was wearing a t-shirt that said something about how she's fat because she banged your mom and ate her food, even though the shirt was completely irrelevant to her body size, and she sat with two very slender men whose t-shirts said they liked it in the back.
When we got to The Purple Hotel, we noticed the nude male photography first, and the man at the front desk made eyes at Austin, commented on my earrings for being Art Deco, told us to call him on the phone and he'd be there right away if we needed him *wink wink*, and gave us two glasses of champagne. He commented on Austin's short leopard shorts when we walked to the beach and I said well of course, here I am wearing a fine-ass bathing suit with gold chains but Austin gets all the boys.
The beach was a few blocks down from our hotel and crowded but beautiful, with the sharpest rocks you'd ever imagine lining the bay, with water clear enough that you could see your feet and warm enough that I didn't freeze, at least not while treading. Austin and I played the game we'd adopted in Valencia, the Where's Waldo of Boobs, and I thought a lot about the "empowerment" of going topless (is it still considered "empowerment" in Europe where it's commonplace?) versus the actual enjoyment of it. Rationally, it makes sense to get a tan (although who's going to see it other than your partner?); intellectually, it's kind of cool to break an American boundary; spiritually, it's like yesssss I am woman, etc. etc. But ultimately I felt like my bathing suit top matched my bottoms more than my boobs did....
Austin and I played in the water for about 45 minutes or so and then got cocktails and a pizza bread at a big seaside bar, Golden Buddha Ibiza. We laid under a cabana on padded lounge chairs and people-watched. This is vacation, Austin said: the ocean breeze, the big groups of tourists getting drunk across the bar; Austin and I sipping each others' drinks and having absolutely nowhere to be. Being in that kind of mental and physical space where you're relaxed enough to talk about bigger things, about our months apart and how we spent that time.
Back at the hotel, we showered and hurried past groups of young, drunken Irish, Scottish and English downing beers; every fifteen feet or so there was another person in your face, offering you two for one drinks, two for one tattoos, or balloons, cha cha, bubbles (laughing gas, marijuana, cocaine). By midnight, the alleys were littered with empty balloons and everyone's eyelids were heavier and the whole place was a looser kind of noise. Austin and I walked down to the restaurants and the slingshot and the jewelry booths and the bumper cars and the friends lounging in the darkness on the sand and some swimming under the half-moon. There were families and groups of young men and many pretty women and still the street vendors holding canisters in their hands, waving them as you passed.
After passing up many potential options for drinks, we walked into an open air restaurant that lured me in with candlelight and techno, but the only two-seaters were right under incredibly loud speakers. So we communicated through dramatizations, motions and mimes, mainly Austin to me, pretending he was every member of the band: the guitarist, bassist, drummer, singer, piano player, while I sipped my Pornstar martini and he his mojito with coconut de crème. We snacked on parmesan French fries and bit into bubbling big gambas (shrimp) that didn't have much taste and we watched all the people who looked like they were bored or post-drunk sleepy or had been with each other too long.
After two of the Pornstars (passion fruit cocktails with vanilla vodka and a chilled shot of prosecco on the side), we sat outside at the popular Irish pub closer to our hotel, where I sipped a third Pornstar (it was gross) and Austin a regular mojito (it was gross) and we talked to a younger Scottish girl next to us, whose three other friends kept getting harassed by street vendors dangling necklaces and fans in front of their faces. She gave us a list of club recommendations and we eventually said bye and walked inside, where Austin and I danced a few songs in the empty space before trying out another one a block away, and then a third, where an aggressive bouncer roped us into four drinks for $30, until we said no actually we only want two drinks, and so we paid 20 Euros for rum and cokes. A drunk guy fist-pounded Austin while we danced to 2010s hits--Don't you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me--and a British girl waiting in line for the bathroom yelled at the other girls: come on, how long does it take to take a wizz?! and walked into the men's bathroom twice but was forcibly ejected, to which her response was: but I'm transgender!
By 3 am we were back at our hotel; we took a quick shower and fell to bed, but when I tried to get under the covers I realized there was an empty Twinkie wrapper, and as much as that sounds like a condom euphemism it truly was a wrapper and crumbs, so we slept just under the comforter that was so thin I woke up several times during the night so cold that I didn't want to leave the bed to turn off the A/C; I eventually did, but still had a small cough and sore throat the next morning.
Thursday
I had a mild hangover all day, the kind that doesn't quite upset your stomach but still feels better when soothed. We left before noon to walk 45 minutes to one of the "best beaches" according to the guy at the front desk, but the walk led us along curved backroads with no sidewalks under scorching midday sun. About twenty minutes in, we arrived at an impasse: Google maps wanted to lead us through a dusty trail littered with weeds and scrub and trash, but there was a fence and a No Trespassing sign cut right into the middle. So we turned around and started on the detour along a paved road before deciding we should just find a restaurant instead. Another 15 minutes later we arrived at a restaurant that had its own path down to a private beach. We ordered two cans of water at the bar for 16 Euros and sat on a shaded but uncomfortable ledge, watching the tiny cove swarm with families and couples and women with no tops. We stayed until I drank most but not all of the water, and then walked home, where we sat outside at another restaurant and gobbled down chicken curry and rice and patatas bravas and frozen lemonade and talked about people living together, what constitutes "fair" re: how everyone pays.
Back at the hotel, Austin napped while I logged into a meeting for work; afterward, we took the bus to Cala Saledeta, supposedly one of the best beaches in Ibiza. We swam in warm water in an uncrowded shaded cove as the clouds turned pink behind a rocky bend. In the shallows, a sexy woman posed for photos; in the deep, a diver swam around with a boat/flag attached to his line; in the sand, a group of friends shared blankets and listened to country and classic rock. After nearly everyone left, Austin and I scrambled up a rock and watched the sky; we couldn't see the sun, just people in the distance watching it set. I was feeling pensive, thinking about shallow things: skin and hair and all the beautiful women who present themselves flawlessly to the world.
After the sunset, we walked to the restaurant across the gravel lot, where Austin drank wine and slurped clams while I sipped the kind of sparkling water that feels perfectly sharp, that spritzes and pops in your mouth as it burns cold. We spread fresh bread with aioli and slapped away bugs. We talked about the beauty of eating outside, of taking time to savor and listen and say nothing. We were among the only patrons there; the restaurant was mostly quiet and the ocean was, too.
Close to 9:30 pm, we realized there was no way a bus would be running to a pitch-black beach where all the locals had already gone home. We were right; we had to walk an hour home. At first we rushed (we had plans), but then we strolled past multi-million dollar homes: gorgeous white villas with illuminated pools waving their water shadows on stone; soft techno music filling the green and vacant yards and the occasional voices, too, a dinner party clinking forks and sipping Spanish wine. I could have walked and walked and walked under the starry sky, suspended in that liminal space, to that feeling of being somewhere we hadn't planned to be: of passing through unhurried and unnoticed, listening to laughter and an old woman calling in her cat. There are so few moments in life that give me that kind of feeling where I could just cry from being so at peace and so present that the mind drips away and all that's left is body and breath.
After the villas, the streets descended into the city, toward the flashing green lights of the Sant Antoni slingshot. The closer we got, the more noises we heard: first cars, then locals, then drunken tourists on sidewalks, finding their way. We shared a fluffy Oreo cake from a Doner shop (Austin might think I don't know what 'sharing' means), showered, and hopped on a late-night bus to the world-famous Hi Ibiza club. The bus felt like a college field trip, with teens and 20-somethings chatting and drinking and singing out loud to the remixed pop music that played overhead. It was so packed that some women sat on the floor of the aisle; Austin and I scooted over and shared our seat. The drive was nearly thirty minutes long and I could have fallen asleep with Austin to my right, the smooth interstate underneath, the constant chatter of everyone around; across the aisle, a woman with perfect eyebrows kept shutting her eyes and nodding off. The night hadn't even begun, and at least half the bus was already tweaked out, tipsy, zombified or half-awake.
When Austin and I got to Hi Ibiza, we went straight to the main room to see Tale of Us, a Berlin-based techno duo, but the room was so packed that we couldn't even see the stage, only the VIP booths above us and the chaotic light displays overhead. Groups of men kept pushing through the front past others who gave them the evil eye; one Australian woman said, "Where are you going? There's no space!", while a man in sunglasses next to us furrowed his brow and hung open his mouth, swinging his intoxicated head around but saying nothing. Austin offered for us to be those people if I really wanted to get to the front, but I shook my head an emphatic no, so we stayed in the back, people-watching, shouldering the shoving. We smiled in the background of a selfie of a man from Mexico who lives in Dubai, who gave a glowing review of Berlin, which made me happy for Austin to hear, because being in Spain so long I've developed an insecurity that I'll bring Austin to "my" city and he'll find that it sufficiently lacks in all the things we savor in Spain: the color, the quiet, the food, the warmth. I've realized this means that my four-month stint in Deutschland instilled in me a sense of "identity" that contrasts with me feeling like a "visitor" in Spain-- as if Spain is only Austin's and he's inviting me in?
We stayed in the main room for at least thirty minutes, grooving but not really dancing. We went outside and to the upstairs bar for a breather, where Austin ordered a water and one of the best rum and cokes he's ever had (33 Euros total) (we paid 140 Euros to get in), and then checked out the second big techno room, which was more of the same.
Within the same hour and a half or so that we arrived, we walked out and down the street, thrilled that we're the same in this way--leaving a place when the enjoyment is done, rather than staying out of obligation. We talked about how the best techno experiences I've had have happened in isolation, not crowded clubs, and that the only purpose of going to a techno club is for stimulants (light, sound) that augment your chemical high. I promised myself the next time we go to a techno club, I will be buzzed at the least.
Our bus back to our hotel wasn't set to come until after 2:30 am, so we walked down the strip to kill some time. We stopped outside a doner shop where a guy and his friend started chatting us up, saying "Oh yeah they got the best falafel, but we got the best drugs." We ordered the falafel, took the long ride bus ride back home and fell asleep.
Friday
Instead of flying back to Valencia, we'd booked ourselves cheap tickets on a seven-hour ferry: long enough for me to get a full day of work in and for Austin to do art. The ferry wasn't scheduled to leave until 1, but we packed up early and found ourselves at the station with more than two hours to kill, so we split a powdery chocolate chip cookie at the messy port café (the tables were stacked with peoples' leftover trays) and then walked outside and to a little collection of shops and restaurants on the pier, where I ate a yummy yogurt-granola bowl before we stopped into a boutique. Austin started chatting with the owner, a woman who's lived in Ibiza for 35 years--who was there before Sant Antoni (where our hotel was) became the tourist trap it is today. She said most of the locals are still around, just tucked away in their rich villas. She told us that before Spain adopted the Euro, the economy was booming: rich Germans and vacationers would come to Ibiza and spend all their money, since the Spanish Peseta was worth less than the Mark. She also told us that about once a month the island hosts Flower Power parties where all the old locals converge to be hippies again...
The rest of the day we sat on the massive cruise ship, attempting again and again to do work and connect to the internet until we finally gave up and filled our time with chatting, snacking, and moving to the upper deck and getting some sun. My body felt totally "blah" by the time we got back to our apartment--not exactly seasick but just that malaise you get after a long day on the road from all the bumps and shifts. It felt incredible to be back in our loft, to bread and butter and clean water (we were told not to drink it in Ibiza) and our balcony, which was super humid ahead of Saturday's intense rains but still so perfectly inviting.
Saturday
We stayed in as long as we could on the cloudy Saturday, working and doing art; Austin went out for some food and brought me back a chicken empanada, which I've realized tastes like chicken pot pie -- buttery crust with saucy chicken inside. Around 7 we left for the special event of the night, flamenco dancing, which Austin discovered and booked for us at Palosanta. Right as we were approaching the bus, it started to rain-- it came down so hard that the people getting off the bus stepped into ankle-deep puddles. We avoided the puddles but couldn't avoid the rain-- we ran as I oscillated between laughing and whining, and then tried to find a café for food, but almost everything was closed. Finally we did: we sat there dripping and cold, sipping white wine and eating hot, delicious croquettes and patatas bravas.
The venue opened at 8:00; there was a small bar and rows of chairs facing a stage and the bathroom door; Austin and I were ushered close to the front. At 8:30, the guitarist came out first. He filled the space with intimate sound, picking at the strings in a way I'd wanted Gustavo to in Barcelona. His face twitched and he closed his eyes as he played. Two other musicians joined, both men clapping and singing and keeping the tempo, and then through the curtains came the two dancers: a man bohemian-handsome and olive-skinned, and the star of the show, a stern-faced woman with gold hoops and a big fabric bow. The choreography was perfect, both of them stomping and commanding the room, the man sometimes flashing a smile, the woman concentrating ahead, her face pinched in a kind of ultra-intense, dramatic stare-- a contrast of playful and pained. After the duo performance, the man sat down and helped keep tempo as the woman owned the stage. She whipped her skirt around with so much force that she poured sweat under the stage lights until her makeup started to blur, until her hair was falling out of its pins.
In the background, the three musicians cued off of her-- the guitarist kept his eyes on her upper half, responding to her expressions with ones of his own; the man in the middle studied her feet; the young guy at the end looked up the most-- when he sang, it sounded like he was using an older man's voice. I loved the way the musicians and dancers surprised and impressed each other, how they'd shout words and intonations of support, how when they synchronized the last clap and foot stomp and lyric and guitar chord with the finale gesture of the dancer, the stage erupted in pride and joy. Austin said it was the most incredible performance he'd ever witnessed: the intensity and the power and the talent and the sound and the art. I didn't disagree but didn't agree either; I think I like the precision and tension and romanticism of the tango performances I've seen better-- dances that have more of an arch, a slow and then fast. But then again I missed a key element of flamenco by not understanding the songs:
As an accompanist to the dancer (bailaor[male], bailaora [female]), the singer (cantaor) relates the legends and stories of daily life that reflect the experiences of an outcast subculture within predominately white, Christian Spain. The dancer is the protagonist of the singer’s narrative and its interpreter (Britannica Encyclopedia).
After flamenco, we got Agua de Valencias at Bear Club, a sports bar where we'd watched Spain beat England in the women's World's Cup (the bar had exploded in momentary clapping and a few shouts but that was the extent of that). The hostess was incredibly friendly but playful in a way that almost seemed drunk; she pointed to a table outside and giggled and hovered close to us like she was telling us a secret-- she said it was ours but that a street vendor had set down all his goods there to go into the bathroom and he'd been there in a while, and when he finally came out she walked up to us again and laughed before wiping the table down and letting us sit.
The drinks were incredible: sweet but not overly so-- maybe one of the only cocktails the whole time in Spain that not only tasted delicious but also got me from zero to totally buzzed just from one glass, and definitely tipsy in two. I don't remember what Austin and I were talking about, but at some point the hostess walked over and asked us how long we've been together, and when we said four months (we're not officially counting the time we spent apart) she said ahh okay that makes sense, that's not very long. She said she loved watching us, that we were like Disney with magic everywhere, and that we should enjoy the time now together because it doesn't stay like that. When we left, she smiled at us and said keep writing your story.
On the way home, we passed a restaurant with a giant butternut squash in the window, and Austin didn't believe me when I said it was real, so he motioned to the owner and chef -- the only two people in the restaurant at that time, since they were closed -- and next thing I know I see him inside talking to them (I'd hid myself around the corner), so I approached all smiley and the lady comes over to tell us that yes indeed it's real, she bought it at a market a few years ago, would I like to hold it? She put it in my arms as the chef laughed, and it was all so happy and wonderful, and then we stopped at the late night vending machine for Oreos to watch an episode of Beef, and outside the entrance there was a scantily clad woman with long hair posing in front of her phone, and when two men walked up I heard one of them say, TikTok?, and she said yes, and one of those men saw Austin and me counting our change (the card reader wasn't working) and insisted we take the Euros in his hand, and it was all so nice and really I guess the night was magical.
Sunday
After sleeping in on Sunday, we walked to a seafood restaurant Austin found on Google, but when we arrived it was closed-- not just closed for the morning but like closed-closed, so we tried another option but Google was wrong on that one, too, so we ended up at Dulce de Leche, an incredible bakery Austin and I had been to once before. As we waited in line, we saw the man at the counter full-on grab his girlfriend's ass, not just a small pinch but a grab followed by a slap by a grab, and of course the best part was that the woman didn't react because it was so routine. One of my favorite parts of being with Austin in Spain, aside from people-watching together, is watching people watch him when he practices Spanish-- almost everyone smiles and waits for him to finish, and often they help. At the bakery, for example, Austin got up to get us a second fork but didn't know the right word, and I watched as the man behind the counter held hostage a fork (and looked over and winked at me) until Austin said the correct word back.
Ooh the caramel cheesecake was so good, and that was just Part One-- we ate Part Two of our meal in the same alley we'd eaten Argentinian steak a couple weeks before, except this time we got Italian: fondue with a baked crust, spinach lasagna and tomato truffle noodles. We ate and ate and strolled our heavy selves home, where we finished packing and cleaning and saying goodbye to our penthouse Airbnb, to the shower that leaked puddles and the couch bed that swallowed my side. We chatted one last time on the slanted balcony stone and inside watched Beef and shared the Oreos we never ate the night before, and we slept and the next morning took transit across the city to our next AirBnb.
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