An American in Ibiza 2008

****ing IBIZA Island, Baby!

There it was out of the window of my expensive-cheep seat. It's a lot bigger when you first see it than you might think. You can see the whole island at once from the air at maximum altitude but when you get up on it you realize there is no way a couple of weeks are going to allow you to even get a glance of a piece of a slice of a particle of the island or it's natural culture. It's way too big. There are hundreds of little beaches, vicious cliff overlooks, smaller outer ring islands, rock outcroppings...basically from the air on approach the feeling of an Ibiza Virgin (IV) is that of just being overwhelmed. At least that is what I expected and felt as the plane circled over the Eastern portion of the island and came in for a landing.

I don’t know what I was thinking at 10am in the morning, but I could make out Bora Bora from the pictures I've seen and was a little let down there was no one there to cheer for my landing. When the plane did touch down the lower classes (snob-snob) in the rear of the plane erupted in a roar of cheers and I had to fight back a little tear from the corner of my eye. It was a short walk from the plane to customs where they didn't stamp my passport or even expect me to fill out a customs card. I guess that should have been done when I got to Madrid but for some reason arriving from Paris they didn't even make me go to passport control. Weird security at the airports and nothing I'm used to. How do you people keep from getting attacked…oh yeah, your not Americans. Oops… American guilt raises it’s ugly head again.

Getting your baggage in Ibiza is the same as anywhere but with all the bad press on Taxi's, I'm running out the front door trying to get ahead of the rest of the flight. After reading how terrible it is there, I am sure that when I get to the front door of the airport the glass will slide open to a line (or Q as you crafty Europeans call it) about an hour or two long. The airport in Ibiza is kept at a balmy 85 degrees fare height for some reason...welcome to Europe and sweaty public places.

MYTH NUMBER 1: Taxi's are difficult to find: Bullfeathers! Go to any taxi Q in Playa Den Bossa or any club (BEFORE it closes and 10,000 tired people need a taxi at the same time) and you'll wait a maximum of 5 minutes. The whole "Taxi's are rare" is bull**** and was made up by some people who are a bunch of spoiled brats who think that the taxi drivers should all line up for the mornings when they all decide to quit the bar at the same time. I officially now hate the haters.

The taxi driver speaks English of course and knows right where the Garbi is. I'm as excited and as bee-bob-"ish" as a dog with his head out the window. I'm counting off the places I've read about and noting the way to this and that. Legends whore house, way to DC 10 and naked beach, JET, Bora-Bora- Yada yada... And there it is looming out of a sea of tickey takcey box hotels: THE GARBI! Total taxi fare: 11 Euros with a 1 Euro tip. The driver was surprised I tipped him at all and I saw him outside of my taxi stand most of the times I went to get into a taxi near the Garbi.
 
The Garbi: Jewel of Playa Den Bossa!

THE GARBI...jewel of Playa Den Bossa. I'm expecting something a little quainter and a little less bedazzling. I get more than expected. It’s my first non-let down of the trip. They book me in at a hundred Euros a day for 6 days. I should have stayed there for a month and if I don’t stay in San Ant. when I go back, I'll be back at the Garbi. Glass front sliding doors open and the AC lobby hits you with a welcome blast of "we can afford to waste it here, just like America!" Right next to the entrance I notice as I go in is parking with a security gate free for occupants and midnight to 6 hours on the attached Disco. Wait a second, “Opens at Midnight?” HMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmm. (in the movies they call this a PREMISE)

Checking in was a breeze. The Amazonian Aussie (nearly a 10) in front of me flirts with me a little and I'm grateful I have at least my accent to fall back on to remain in play with the younger set. About halfway through the "so where are you from" conversation she realizes I have 0 game and the accent thing wears off and she's a young twenty something without a buzz in Ibiza talking to a 42 year old guy with the beginning of crows feet around the eyes and no hair. The conversation ends abruptly with a light bulb going off around her head with a "yeah, right, as if." Ibizian strike one! Oh the things I should have said, could have said, or would have with the old 20-20 hind site. That’s a common theme of my vacations unfortunately. I am a one woman guy without a woman this year and the longer I go, the lower the confidence gets. My next vacation will be the Philippines where they fight over my money so that should break the chain of rejection!

But I digress, life is what you make of it and pessimism is contagious. I shake it off and get ready for the next Ibizian “at bat.” O for 1 is not so bad if your get to swing a bunch more.

So, after checking in and avoiding thoughts of the first puttie dodge, it's off to what I expected to be some small European room with a bed that folds out of the wall with the sound of ****ing from next door bouncing my too small bed. For a hundred Euros a day (including two meals) I did not expect the first floor on the corner with a balcony that faces the pool and the beach. Best room in the joint for a single guy to meet new friends and annoying neighbors. Sure, they pushed two singles together without changing the sheets to one larger one but that was easily overlooked.

Unpacked in a flash and out to the balcony for the first drink in Ibiza. Ah success, ain’t life grand? I notice something I had been thinking about but not expecting to see right away…BOOBIES. Being from prudent America, we usually don’t display the tits but there they were. Nice and many, many pairs. I finished my drink quickly and avoided the girl walks out of the pool from “Fast times at Ridge Mont High.” There really weren’t any girls that pretty there but I was doubly motivated at this point to get out there in the action.

Now let me make a brief and unsolicited holiday recommendation and exclamation: I will never need to purchase another “boom box.” I bought the new portable Bose (battery powered, not the plug in one) with a spare battery and carrying case. It’s tiny. The sound, on the other hand, is perfect for Ibiza. To butcher a quote from one of your former drunken leaders…”Never has such a small thing contributed so much for being so little.” (Yeah, Churchill would be pissed). What an incredible sound. It could fill a hotel room, hall, and a couple rooms over with the AC noise on and doors closed (or about half the beach in front of the Hotel). WOW. Best $400 frivolous purchase ever! I brought some great music and some ****ty party ending stuff too but that little box brought me plenty of little boxes of a different sort! Best bird comment about the Bose: “That actually makes you cool.” It’s good to be the king.
 
Garbi, I forgive you.

I also forgot that the small but nice TV had no remote and only one channel in English: CNN international. Nice but I didn't want the bad news from the market if that was the only thing on. The internet worked great till the last two days and then worked everywhere but on my hall. They had it fixed within hours of me telling them it was broken on my wing. Nice hot water in the Bathroom 24 hours and quiet even with others playing music at night. Great hotel in my opinion and I would definitely recommend staying there.
 
The arrival and a first taste of Spanish Culture:

Back to it, I had errands to run: First to the Pharmacy to check on the heart palpitation pills. I wanted to make sure you could even get them before going to get a prescription. I go into the shop with a giant green cross next to the Garbi and the girl says, “Si, how many boxes do you need, senior.”

Uhhhhh, I will need you to type out a subscript bottle with a doctor’s name after I get a prescription or I can’t take them across the border in Dubai.”

Looks at me and doesn’t understand, “You want something else senior, perhaps Viagra?”

MYTH #2: You need a prescription to buy any medications in Ibiza. Now I am sure someone had the best intentions by telling me I had to go to a doctor and this wasn’t a third world country but that of course is also Horsefeathers. She would have happily sold me anything in the store I wanted at all. What a joke.

Being the law abiding citizen I am I figured this is the time to go see the doctor and renew the prescription so I don’t spend 20 years in a Dubai jail upon my return to theater. Across the street from the Garbi to the right and above the clothing store I go. Ring the buzzer, 50 Euros change hands, and after showing the diagnosis from the Dr. in the Philippines and test results from a year ago, a 3 month prescription is written with a Viagra back up for “mild dysfunction.” Nearly completely recreational as I could wait till I was sober to be more verile but it’s so much more fun, eh? The rumors of Viagra being a buzz-kill are highly exagerated.

Back across the street where she tries to sell me way more than the prescription again and I again have to demand to stay within the law. I’m not some kind of Dudly-Do-Right (as I’m not Canadian even, ay) but if you have the budget to have fun and stay within the law…why the hell not?

So, back to the hotel to stock my purchases in the safe and then it’s off to the only “nearly day” party on a Thursday. The attire is of course casual as the people I have noticed walking around are two types:
 
Italian or Italian.

Eh? That’s right boys and girls, Playa Den Bossa had a “Smattering” of German, Aussie, and one American (me). The rest were exclusively ITALIANO. Now that’s not a bad thing but it sure made me feel like the ugliest person in the world. For the love of god why was I not born an Italian male? The girls are normal to nice…nothing unusually bad or good and certainly no fat chicks any where in Ibiza. If you see one it won’t be long before the overweight police come and pick them up to be carted off to the other side of the island with the fashionable as dressing up is also not allowed in Playa.

The Italian guys all look like a bunch of ****ing models. Sure, that’s great if you’re a twenty-something girl, but if you’re a middle aged guy with average looks your ****ed if you think one of the Italiano youngers are going to hit on you or pay you any attention. There were no WOMEN in Playa Den Bossa. That’s right, I said it. Not even one…just a bunch of giggly “Italian girls gone wild with a few Aussies and couple of Germs.” This was the standard constant for two weeks. Thank god for the English Bird at the clubs visiting from San Antonio. More gaming stories later but first back to our show…
 
this is a ****ing amazing review so far with a lot of interesting points ...
... had to :lol: :lol: :lol: a lot when reading it ... MORE please !



ps:
letsgetdownanddirtybaby said:
... the Promised Land ...
Click to expand...
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Put a smile on my face too, but in the same way WaynUk (or whatever his nick was) did. This fella knows how to do parodies. Keep it coming yankee:)
 
Bore? Ah! Bore! Ah?

I just had to do it. I had to pull the trigger on Bora Bora. It’s such a legend on the boards that I choose to stay in Playa and not at a rented villa. Wake up, roll out of bed, and go to the party.

Now sports fans don’t think I didn’t have a good time. Don’t think I didn’t dance for a couple of hours and happily pay the bitch of a bartender who got my drink wrong three times before throwing it on the counter, some got on me, and then calling another bartender to help me. How difficult is, “NO ICE, No CUBAS, NO ICE CUBES…No seniora, no ice cubes,,, scuza, I show you, AHHHHH…that got on me! What the hell are you doing? What the **** lady? Pause…Yeah, I just said no ice, I don’t want to drink the water here…what? What? Your girl threw a drink at me cause I asked for no ice! What? What No, put your hand down, you don’t need to call security.., here’s a ridiculous 10 Euro tip when no one else here is even giving one Euro. That’s’ right, I’m from America and feel guilty. Have a great day mother ****er.”

That little fiasco is easily overlooked as the Italians seemed to never tip a damn thing and she must have been already pissed to no end. Being bitchy and still looking like someone had just grabbed her tit when I tried to order another drink from her after tipping the equivalent of a days salary in the Philippines: priceless.

From that point on it just got worse.

First there is no one on the beach at 4:15 PM on a warm Thursday. I have never done it so I wanted to dance on the beach at Bora Bora with a jet landing and foolishly scream welcomes with a loaded crowd of ner-do-rights. I wanted to get on a table with a drink in my hand as well but they now stack chairs on the tables as soon as the music starts. So I’m doing a little liquid pop-lock in the sand (my terrible version, not the great stuff you see on the internet) and here comes the blue curtain. I have to dash into the bar or walk around the end but now the party atmosphere is contained. Not a party atmosphere at all. Just a bunch of lifeless air punchers on their drinks and one occasional Italian that has forgotten where he is due to too much drinking.

They get a little drunk and think it’s the olden days when looking at a group of fellow partiers and touching your tongue nearly gets tabs thrown at you rather than the Fat Gaurdia putting you in a Full-Nelson and leading you on the walk of shame through the middle of the dance floor. It happened like a show at least once an hour so maybe it was for the benefit of the undercover Policia that were there the entire time it was open.
 
Europeans cant dance!

MYTH #3: People outside of America can dance. BULL****. Two weeks, all air punchers. No one except the models on stage at the shows even has a move to bust. What the hell happened to you people? Does speaking a foreign language guarantee you will be standing in one spot punching the air for hours on end or is it something else? Perhaps crossing the Atlantic gives you a gene that lets you actually move your feet when you dance. Please, for the love of God, European people, watch a video of a rave in the US and learn something. Watching you people dance is the equivalent of watching cows chew cud. It was so boring I made it a running joke. When I wanted to meet someone I just stood in one place next to them and punched the air repeatedly whilst screaming “Whoo” at the musical break. It’s apparently the equivalent to the European Mating Call and it works. I think when I go to a club in the US that I am the least talented person making any kind of shapes in the air. Better than some but not as good as the people that put me to shame which is most of them. I can confidently say that I had the best moves in all of Ibiza while I was there. That was the most disappointing thing on my entire trip. I traveled all the way around the world hoping to get schooled by Europe’s hardest partiers and wound up dropping jaws. (not break dancing or jazz, but if your European, you obviously dont know the difference. Then again, you dont have to sit through Breaking 2, Electric Boogaloo. And if you saw someone out actually doing that kind of break dancing, it's more work than it's worth and most likely they're going to be under 18).
 
As Pink Floyd said: "Knock, Knock, Knock...time to go."

Two hours of Boring Boring and it’s 6PM…Gee, where did the time go? It’s the one bar I remember all of the entire time mostly because when I was there I was almost completely sober. No chance of anything extra due to security and the air punchers are out in full force. There was one idiot standing outside in a banana hammock as well but since he didn’t have a vest with any wires we were all safe. I just figured it was just one more piece of iconic/ironic Bora Bora Scenery.

The music at Bora: Not too bad. There is nothing to write about as the DJ on Thursday the18th of Sept at 4PM to 6PM wasn’t most likely a head liner and the music sounded like the same thing I’ve been hearing unchanged for 10 years now. But again, not too bad… The worst in Ibiza is certainly the best any where else in the world but England.

Overall, the Bora Bora experience has truly been ruined if you’re expecting it to be like the stories of old.

I had been warned.

I had been staved off.

But, I still went hoping, praying, and expecting it to be something wonderful.

If only I had been Italian or 20 years younger. Or, perhaps, if there was at least one woman in the crowd to buy a drink for or dance with…

Nope, it was the first of many “Italian girls gone wild” evenings. By 6:30 I was walking around the blue fence and trekking up the street for an early evening snack. I grabbed a Burger, my first meat in 4 months as well, and popped in to the Garbi for a quick change of clothes.
 
David Bowie: Bob, Bob, Bob ,Bop: Fashion(turn to the left)

Clothes in Ibiza can be confusing to the IV (Ibiza Virgin, last prompt). In some places, fashion is okay. In others it apparently doesn’t matter what you wear and in some places it’s certainly acceptable not to wear any at all. We’ll get to that in the future but for now, let’s stick to Playa Den Bossa.

Shorts: Expectable and expected! Any length including the old high waters on a guy is OK and I had never seen anything like this before. The reason: there are laws in the US against men wearing Capri pants. Not so in Spain apparently. Either that or someone’s hand-me-downs are just one gene outside the family norm. One might be forced to assume mom might have been with the milkman at the point of conception.
T-Shirts…Expectable: Any style but preferably one that has the number 7 on it, says, “****ing Ibiza Island,” any DJ, or just a plain flat color or white.
Collared shirts: Nearly unacceptable.
Long Pants: What? Are you not Italian or something?
Shoes: Sneakers, open toed whatever. Boots strictly not allowed on guys. The girls wear these slightly higher than the ankle poufy things that make the short-shorts look even shorter. Damn there were some pretty hot women running around in the equivalent of the Colorado Hairy Foot Warmer.

There really needs to be some kind of card you fill out and a counselor that comes to your hotel door to stop you before you go out in Ibiza. Dress is certainly confusing. Come as you are is fine but depending on the club you go to; it can mean all the difference in the world. I swear I got it wrong almost every time. That we will go over in the future of course.
 
The “Almost” Danny Tanaglia Experience Round 1

Thursday early evening the 18th of Sepbiza: You’re in Playa Den Bossa with a belly full of hamburger and a good scotch buzz. Pop Quiz: What do you do?

Well, being a little jet lagged and buzzed and excited about going to my first party, this IV got his game on. This means of course getting dressed in full combat party gear. Imagine this train wreck if you will. I look like the guy from the American Six Flags commercials about 20 years younger with blue and white high top tennis shoes (Sans glasses and bow tie of course). Abercrombie and Fitch Combat Camouflage cut offs and a royal blue collared un-tucked Velour shirt. How do you spell “Disaster?” Still, this mother ****er can dance! I figured I’ve got that going for me so what the hell; let’s give this whole “Space on a Thursday night” a try.

Bouncing on air, spring in the step, and buzz in the head…I’m out the door of the room and passing by the pool on my way to the Hotel Bar. They’re hosing down the pool as they must do every night when it gets dark and there are still a couple of Germans who think 65 degrees is warm enough to swim. Hope that’s your wife and not your date…shrinkage mine frauline, shrinkage!

One look at the scarcity of the bar attractions and I’m passing the “Feed the Internet a Euro for access machines” in the lobby and walking across the street to the Taxi Q. Who’s first in line of the 5 waiting Taxi’s at 8PM? My airport driver of course! The one Euro tip has surely driven him mad for a lust of money. He’s smiling and waving for me to get in his taxi. I tell him Space and the attitude changes instantly as he’s now imagining a tip smaller than the Euro and disappointment has set in. We drive the tiny short distance to Space and I tell him to keep the change from the 5 Euro and it’s like a scene from “Euro Trip” and I’m expecting him to let the cab ride into the sea as he buys his own fleet from the 2 Euros tip. I've purchased my first friend in Ibiza, it was cheaper than the Bora Bitch, and it feels good that he didn't throw a drink on me either.

Now, being from a little town in the US we call New Orleans, (pronounced “New-ah-lins”) no party is complete without giving something to the crowds. You will just have to experience Mardi Gras from on top of a float someday to truly understand. There is something to be said of the experience of throwing beads or glowing things to a monster gathering of people (10 to 20 rows deep for miles) nearly killing children to get their hands on a 10 cent trinket of some kind. Since it’s what I’m used to, try to remember at no time when I am out in a crowd am I carrying any less than 50 un-popped glow sticks in my back pocket. Again, a great conversation starter and at any time you can grab a girl, have her hold your drink, and push a glowing bracelet around her wrist to the tune of at least a thank you. The big secret: I only gave them to the best looking girls so I could find them later. So, if you had a free glow stick on your wrist on any night other than Amnesia Closing, you were being hunted and you had been tagged. Funny thing though, no one of them ever said no to the glow stick. I thought the tagging was obvious when I would tell average looking chicks “NO.” The really cute ones that seemed even more interested in me received a lariat of chasing LEDs. You can’t miss those in a crowd even when you’re very drunk and the place is extremely crowded. The later it got, the more I would look for the illuminated girl. Cheesy you say? Perhaps, but damn effective and we all had fun any way.
 
SPACE, the Vinyl Frontier...These are the voyages...

So I’m standing on the left front side of Space. It’s an odd shaped building if anything. You can’t see too much of it and it’s a monster building but don’t expect any “private” area’s inside. It’s the one place where VIP is a waste as there is was always room to move around except for one party we’ll get to on a Sunday in the future. There are two entrances and a bunch of metal bars for the Q lined up perpendicular to the two entrances. The odd shaped front looks like an entrance to a roller coaster rather than a bar and that is most likely the appropriate description mixed with the various types of bland topiary. Someone should fire the landscaper and plant some things that bloom year round or perhaps pant some aluminum foil Christmas trees. I believe the name is SPACE…Hello, hello, is there anyone with a budget for decor in there?

So it’s pretty easy to figure out which way is the entrance for the non-ticket holder and the Q is only a short 10 minutes to get in.

Myth Numer 4: You will be searched at every club. By the way, sports fans, there is no search for the middle aged dressed inappropriately so if your looking to bring in a camera or some odd party favors, that’s your least searched mule. They pulled a couple of guys with headbands and fast chewing gum mouths to pat down but me they let through with so much as a wink and a nod. Not sure if that’s a “good luck geezer” or a “ignore him, I’m not wasting energy patting him down” glance from the door bouncer but at least I don’t have to slip him a tenner to bring in my large canister of glow sticks.

Geez, I could have been carrying a WWII German hand grenade-on-a-stick and no one would have even known till it was flying above the crowd toward the DJ booth. It might have been welcome with the lack of energy felt in the main room when I popped open the door. Apparently, the early evening draw of Wally Lopez and Elio Riso aren’t such a fantastic crowd pleaser as when I walk in the place seems empty…My mistake. Wrong room…

I am in the outdoor chill area where there is no DJ although this will change on a Sunday. A nice right turn and I’m through the large but uneccesary double glass doors to the smaller of the two indoor venues at Space. For those who have not been, there are two large main rooms. One’s pretty big and the headliners play there with sparsely to packed crowds. The smaller main venue room is about the size of a Walmart so you can imagine the size of the bigger one. The smaller sized room is wall to wall and the music seems a bit dreary. Not popping and bouncing as you would expect for high energy trance but sort of a dead trance that the crowd is following out of memory of something better. Of course I’m excited and bopping all over the place. Drink in one hand, other in the air, feet constantly moving…I’m trying to find a home in the crowd.

Front of the DJ Booth…All elbow bumping Italinos. I move to the left…the crowd thins. Remember, I’m selectively passing out glow stick the entire time so that’s something to do.

Funny thing too; It’s Ibiza and with the reputation and everything I am expecting to see a bunch of teeth grinding, hard rolling professional partying mother ****ers. I cant see it. I’m looking through jet-lagged bleary scotch infested eyes to see anyone stomping on their Jame Gumbs but I can’t find it. It's so scarce I don't even bother to ask. Now that is a scary moment. The phone is out and I’m texting the companions in the US that perhaps coming to Ibiza is a waste of their time and I’ll let them know later…I get no reply due to the time zone change and keep bopping around the place looking for a spot.

Middle left…elbow zone…
Middle back…elbow zone…
Middle right…you guessed it…elbow zone.

I’ve been through two drinks at this point since I’ve been at the club. 15 to 21 Euros Scotches as Canadian Whiskey, (my favorite), is unavailable except for the cheep stuff. Jim Beam is rot-gut and I would have killed my best friend for a shot of Crown Royal after 14 days of Famous Grouse. Most of it is in my belly but a significant portion has been flayed down by the elbow bounce for the safe traction of the crowd. My small sacrifice to the public while in Ibiza.

Finally, a place that is not crowded and I know it’s my home since I can see a plethora of glowing birds surrounding it: The Stairs! Stair dancing is my specialty when drinking or "other" and there are convenient glass holders on both sides if you keep an eye out for the ever vigilant half-drink-picking-up bastard staffing they have there.
 
Dancing in Space! The opposite of having Space!

And they’re off. Glow stick in each hand and it’s my cheesy version of the Liquid Pop-Lock going down. People actually stop what they are doing in the immediate area and stare at me like I’m from Planet “what the **** is that.” I realize I better tone it down a bit and loose the glow sticks to the nearest untagged female.

Have you ever seen the movie “Invasion of the Body Snatchers?” There is a moment where one of the aliens realizes that the person in the crowd nearest them is still human and they stop, point, and shriek at the top of their lungs with some air piercing alien scream. Well, that’s my big Ibiza moment; The moment when the people in the crowd realize they’re standing near an alien. I fully expected to hear someone yell “Freak” and I reply with “I’m not a monster, I just like to dance. Leave me alone.” Sob, Sob, Run away……

Okay, that might be just a bit of paranoid writer embellishment but every freak has a place and mine is occupying the left side of the stairs allowing no one to pass with big arm movements. Again, this perhaps scares the European and I hadn’t yet realized this was the case. More on that later…

I’m about 2 hours into my preparation for a late night run at a mating ritual known as, “So, it’s not Tiffany because we just met and I have to save that for second dates, but you’re glowing nicely.” I am interrupted by an unmistakable sensation. It’s known universally and completely unique and unwelcome. If it were totally quiet you would hear the noise I can only describe as, “Glitch.”
 
This cant be happening...not here...not now...

I look down and sure enough, someone has left a human turd on the stairs at Space and I have managed to step in it. No one else has noticed, thank god, but it’s messy and on the sides of my shoe as well.

Later, I was trying to imagine how the hell a turd gets on the floor at Space on the stairs. Was some girl in a mini skirt unable to make it to the bathroom? Perhaps someone with shorter trousers was squatting on the stairs and no one noticed. Was it rolled down a pants leg on the balcony above and perhaps kicked onto the stairs? Worse, was it placed there as ****-Landmine?

Luckily, I was alone or if with a group I am sure they would have said, “Expectable losses,” and moved out without me.

Aside from the guy in the Banana Hammock at Boring, this is the second moment of freakish irony I can handle after being at war for 3 years. It’s like a day in the park and I don’t miss a beat somehow.

Just laugh it off and head for the front making the noise in time with the beat step, squish, step, squish, step squish.

Out the front door goes the unhappily done dancing freak and cant say I shed a tear for space but my date seeding has been in vain and since it’s now only around 11pm, my hopes of Tanaglia moments are dashed for the evening. I pop into a cab…Wait time 0, that’s right, I said 0 Minutes. The taxi driver comments in Spanish something about me needing to go change. I thank him without cursing somehow and once inside the Garbi, I throw the new Tennis in the toilet and then fill the tube with and inch of water with the shoe culprit soaking.

Change the shoes, change the pants I always say…not really but I had to break the embarrassing moment and get among my class. Space felt like the bottom of the barrel. Not the cheapest place to party in Ibiza as it was much better than Bora Bora since it was pretty Boring Boring. Space was a giant step up but little did I know, no where near what was to come.

Remember from earlier, the worst of Ibiza is better than the best in the world (except England). Try to remember when I’m bitching about things, that I am still having the time of my life: so haters also remember I hate you too and leave it alone. The game is better than you anyway so go screw your self or stab yourself in the face if it helps.

The night was still pretty young, before midnight, in the hotel room, cranking some 80’s Freestyle (Actually Noel’s “Fire to Ice” on the Bose). Having another drink and deciding, enough of Space…I’ll catch Tanaglia next week. I need excitement and a chance to see if people even roll around here… It’s Thursday and what is there to do on a Thursday night in Septbiza any way?
 
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