PepperHill
New Member
I'm glad you are having a nice time.
Sorry to hear about your pharmacy woes and that you stepped in man-poo.
Sorry to hear about your pharmacy woes and that you stepped in man-poo.
An American in Ibiza 2008
- Thread starter letsgetdownanddirtybaby
- Start date
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
The easily impressed is unimpressed.
It’s still Thursday night the 18th of Septbiza, I have been there for a half of a day, and already my life is “enhanced.” But not really…What is there to do? The 60 Euro’s to get in Space would have been worth it for 5 minutes and I did manage to get 2.5 hours in. Quite the bargain if you really think about it. Where else can you go to listen to a bland DJ, have your drinks picked up before they’re finished, get elbowed, and get gawked at for being semi-talented with zero chance of rolling before the night is through.
Wouldn’t have missed it for the world (see the whole best in the world vs. worst in Ibiza statement from earlier).
But it’s still Thursday so I’m going for the Taxi Q. Through the hotel lobby and I’m getting what I believe are stares of approval from the females at the bar. I’m of course wearing black pirate boots with white skin tight jeans with black Goth netting up the sides. I’m going to Pasha to consort with the upper end of partying, right? I thought I should dress like a millionaire.
I mean, the reputation of Pasha is that the millionaires prefer it as their playground. I figured I would sit among the ridiculously wealthy social set and be looked down upon as some new money idiot.
MYTH #5: Pasha is Glamorous: What a dump. Nuff said.
It is open 7 days a week, all year round. They certainly can afford to make the place bigger and nicer. It looks like any Joe-Average club in the US. Is this high class for Europe? WTF? Where are the giant glass walls overlooking the port and fort? Fireworks at 3am? Where are the large outdoor balconies with food and bottled wine or even special services for the drunk or drug induced with great funds? New York has clubs with 150 dollar bottles of “rare water” that I would never buy as it’s stupid but its part of what makes the rich fun to party with. Their overwhelming stupidity!
Why is the place looking like it needs a paint job? You sit in VIP there are no warm towels distributed, no massage girls, and no private booths with curtains to pull to shut out the crowd. Obviously, it’s been there a long time and this might have been innovative or beautiful in 1965.
The place is due for a major renovation. At 50 Euros for a T-shirt just because it says Pasha on it, the place needs to be torn down and built again or perhaps a big storm can wipe it out and it can be made into a club on a giant yach parked in it's place. As long as people continue to dish out the 60 Euro’s to get in and be elbow bumped…I wouldn't change it if I were the owner either. Shame...what could have been there if a little effort was paid. More of a cash-cow than a modern club.
It’s still Thursday night the 18th of Septbiza, I have been there for a half of a day, and already my life is “enhanced.” But not really…What is there to do? The 60 Euro’s to get in Space would have been worth it for 5 minutes and I did manage to get 2.5 hours in. Quite the bargain if you really think about it. Where else can you go to listen to a bland DJ, have your drinks picked up before they’re finished, get elbowed, and get gawked at for being semi-talented with zero chance of rolling before the night is through.
Wouldn’t have missed it for the world (see the whole best in the world vs. worst in Ibiza statement from earlier).
But it’s still Thursday so I’m going for the Taxi Q. Through the hotel lobby and I’m getting what I believe are stares of approval from the females at the bar. I’m of course wearing black pirate boots with white skin tight jeans with black Goth netting up the sides. I’m going to Pasha to consort with the upper end of partying, right? I thought I should dress like a millionaire.
I mean, the reputation of Pasha is that the millionaires prefer it as their playground. I figured I would sit among the ridiculously wealthy social set and be looked down upon as some new money idiot.
MYTH #5: Pasha is Glamorous: What a dump. Nuff said.
It is open 7 days a week, all year round. They certainly can afford to make the place bigger and nicer. It looks like any Joe-Average club in the US. Is this high class for Europe? WTF? Where are the giant glass walls overlooking the port and fort? Fireworks at 3am? Where are the large outdoor balconies with food and bottled wine or even special services for the drunk or drug induced with great funds? New York has clubs with 150 dollar bottles of “rare water” that I would never buy as it’s stupid but its part of what makes the rich fun to party with. Their overwhelming stupidity!
Why is the place looking like it needs a paint job? You sit in VIP there are no warm towels distributed, no massage girls, and no private booths with curtains to pull to shut out the crowd. Obviously, it’s been there a long time and this might have been innovative or beautiful in 1965.
The place is due for a major renovation. At 50 Euros for a T-shirt just because it says Pasha on it, the place needs to be torn down and built again or perhaps a big storm can wipe it out and it can be made into a club on a giant yach parked in it's place. As long as people continue to dish out the 60 Euro’s to get in and be elbow bumped…I wouldn't change it if I were the owner either. Shame...what could have been there if a little effort was paid. More of a cash-cow than a modern club.
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
Better than nothing, swing and a hit!
I’m thinking Pasha must be the “alternative” to nothing. Why else could David Guetta pull a wall-to-wall crowd at **** Me I’m Famous. The music was not special. Again, it sounded like the same thing I’ve been hearing for the past 10 years. The lighting was usual for a club of this size but nothing like what I dreamed it should be. They had some kind of display taking up most of the stage that they must drag out week after week.
I am convinced the next Myth Busters should be filmed at Pasha. Let’s see if they can break the Myth of polishing a real turd in the most appropriately shined turd I have ever visited.
The crowd was, again, punching the air and standing in one place. If you got a spot, stay with it cause if you move, someone’s going to be standing in that one spot not moving their feet for hours. The bar has no Crown Royal. AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH.
Ummmmm…Europeans…shhhhh…this is not a secret in America…JACK DANIELS IS CHEAP AND KIND OF A SUCKY FLAVOR.
I'm pretty sure I was overdressed for the club. If only the Fashion Policia had intercepted me outside the hotel and ticketed me or told me to return home. I had a great time even though I got stared at most of the night. Hey, at least it wasn’t leather.
Anyway, back to Pasha. I baited and seeded again with the glowing rings. I think getting there a little after midnight may have been a mistake…Too Early! The club actually doesn’t pick up till after 2 AM and by that time I’m out of glowing things buzzing good from a quarter of a fifth of JD. The beautiful ones are just arriving. Most of my rings have walked out of the club so I’m lost and have to fall back on my personality. Too much effort and I quit trying to meet women and relax into the grove of melancholy repetitive music with absolutely no character.
I promise myself to bring more shiny things girls like for next time and just get to dancing in one place as there is no room to move if you venture out of VIP. This is when I accidentally learned the mating call of the British Bird. After 13 hours of dancing, (with no “additional motivation” or any hope of finding any) I’m stuck in one spot on the edge of the dance floor as it’s too crowded to move back to VIP.
There is a designed lull in the music and it’s time to raise one hand in the air and yell “whoo.” I manage to muster a measly one but as I’m standing in one place too tired to do more than weekly woo and punch, the bird standing next to me elbows me and smiles…that’s all I’m going to get into but let’s just say the bird has flown.
Thank god for you British. With foreign guys is it that their different or is it that most average British guys (every country has their good looling ones) look like rejects from the land of lost toys. Average American with their suave accents must all look like 10’s as I had no trouble at all. Don’t worry Brits, it’s the same for you when you come across the pond. Our girls fall all over your twits so if your an aveage brit in the US you will get laid simply by saying cheerio. We also sport the dumbest girls (not all of them just a majority of the blondes) in the word. Such is life so don’t take it personal and I’ll be your wingman if you'll be mine.
One team, one fight, one goal: the hole! (gawd thats tacky, sorry)
I’m thinking Pasha must be the “alternative” to nothing. Why else could David Guetta pull a wall-to-wall crowd at **** Me I’m Famous. The music was not special. Again, it sounded like the same thing I’ve been hearing for the past 10 years. The lighting was usual for a club of this size but nothing like what I dreamed it should be. They had some kind of display taking up most of the stage that they must drag out week after week.
I am convinced the next Myth Busters should be filmed at Pasha. Let’s see if they can break the Myth of polishing a real turd in the most appropriately shined turd I have ever visited.
The crowd was, again, punching the air and standing in one place. If you got a spot, stay with it cause if you move, someone’s going to be standing in that one spot not moving their feet for hours. The bar has no Crown Royal. AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH.
Ummmmm…Europeans…shhhhh…this is not a secret in America…JACK DANIELS IS CHEAP AND KIND OF A SUCKY FLAVOR.
I'm pretty sure I was overdressed for the club. If only the Fashion Policia had intercepted me outside the hotel and ticketed me or told me to return home. I had a great time even though I got stared at most of the night. Hey, at least it wasn’t leather.
Anyway, back to Pasha. I baited and seeded again with the glowing rings. I think getting there a little after midnight may have been a mistake…Too Early! The club actually doesn’t pick up till after 2 AM and by that time I’m out of glowing things buzzing good from a quarter of a fifth of JD. The beautiful ones are just arriving. Most of my rings have walked out of the club so I’m lost and have to fall back on my personality. Too much effort and I quit trying to meet women and relax into the grove of melancholy repetitive music with absolutely no character.
I promise myself to bring more shiny things girls like for next time and just get to dancing in one place as there is no room to move if you venture out of VIP. This is when I accidentally learned the mating call of the British Bird. After 13 hours of dancing, (with no “additional motivation” or any hope of finding any) I’m stuck in one spot on the edge of the dance floor as it’s too crowded to move back to VIP.
There is a designed lull in the music and it’s time to raise one hand in the air and yell “whoo.” I manage to muster a measly one but as I’m standing in one place too tired to do more than weekly woo and punch, the bird standing next to me elbows me and smiles…that’s all I’m going to get into but let’s just say the bird has flown.
Thank god for you British. With foreign guys is it that their different or is it that most average British guys (every country has their good looling ones) look like rejects from the land of lost toys. Average American with their suave accents must all look like 10’s as I had no trouble at all. Don’t worry Brits, it’s the same for you when you come across the pond. Our girls fall all over your twits so if your an aveage brit in the US you will get laid simply by saying cheerio. We also sport the dumbest girls (not all of them just a majority of the blondes) in the word. Such is life so don’t take it personal and I’ll be your wingman if you'll be mine.
One team, one fight, one goal: the hole! (gawd thats tacky, sorry)
Dr freedom
New Member
glow sticks lol
weloveliam@space
Active Member
Morbyd
Moderator
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
I hated Pasha so much I left the club early
…at 6am?
Again, haters, please reference the new Ibiza word; WIBBOW: Worst in Ibiza is Better than the Best Of the World. So I’ll just Say WIBBOW from now on after I complain. Really, I don’t stay out past 4AM in the States unless it’s Numbers in Houston on 80s night. That of course is because that is when the teenagers get drunk and easy.
The best part about Pasha was how cheap VIP is. I only drank a third of the bottle of JD but what do you want for 300 Euros? I wound up giving it away to some kids on the dance floor.
Really I just wanted to beat the 10 minute wait in the Cab Q. That’s right mother ****ing haters…10 minutes was the maximum wait time when the club even emptied at 7am. And it was full, full, full. I didn’t bother to rent a car and I’m glad I didn’t. **** the convertible and the $1500 they wanted to charge for a week of it. I spent 50 Euros
a day on cabs and I never got stopped by the police for drunk driving even once…cause I wasn’t driving haters, cause I wasn’t driving…
And, where is the bird you ask? Well, that’s another part of Ibiza I couldn't get used to. Turns out she’s not actually truly British at all but from some island that speaks “Englandish” and she’s a very light skinned black. That would also be turn on if she didn’t mention to me that for a hundred Euros…yada, yada, yada: no thanks. About an hour before close at most of the clubs I visited you will most likely be approached by a great looking girl and if you don’t even have a condom in your pocket, chances are she will. Cost of the condom...about a hundred Euro.
In other words: Ibizian strike two! (How do you get a strike if you don’t even swing the bat? Stand at the plate and let one flow through the strike zone of course.) It’s spelled out as above but it kind of sounds like this in your memory:
Shwoof! (ball sailing by)
Smack! (ball hitting the mit, you lose)
I should have swung at that one. I should start living what I believe and preach: it’s better to regret something you’ve done over something you haven’t done…or someone.
…at 6am?
Again, haters, please reference the new Ibiza word; WIBBOW: Worst in Ibiza is Better than the Best Of the World. So I’ll just Say WIBBOW from now on after I complain. Really, I don’t stay out past 4AM in the States unless it’s Numbers in Houston on 80s night. That of course is because that is when the teenagers get drunk and easy.
The best part about Pasha was how cheap VIP is. I only drank a third of the bottle of JD but what do you want for 300 Euros? I wound up giving it away to some kids on the dance floor.
Really I just wanted to beat the 10 minute wait in the Cab Q. That’s right mother ****ing haters…10 minutes was the maximum wait time when the club even emptied at 7am. And it was full, full, full. I didn’t bother to rent a car and I’m glad I didn’t. **** the convertible and the $1500 they wanted to charge for a week of it. I spent 50 Euros
a day on cabs and I never got stopped by the police for drunk driving even once…cause I wasn’t driving haters, cause I wasn’t driving…And, where is the bird you ask? Well, that’s another part of Ibiza I couldn't get used to. Turns out she’s not actually truly British at all but from some island that speaks “Englandish” and she’s a very light skinned black. That would also be turn on if she didn’t mention to me that for a hundred Euros…yada, yada, yada: no thanks. About an hour before close at most of the clubs I visited you will most likely be approached by a great looking girl and if you don’t even have a condom in your pocket, chances are she will. Cost of the condom...about a hundred Euro.
In other words: Ibizian strike two! (How do you get a strike if you don’t even swing the bat? Stand at the plate and let one flow through the strike zone of course.) It’s spelled out as above but it kind of sounds like this in your memory:
Shwoof! (ball sailing by)
Smack! (ball hitting the mit, you lose)
I should have swung at that one. I should start living what I believe and preach: it’s better to regret something you’ve done over something you haven’t done…or someone.
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
Okay, overall review of **** Me I’m Famous
No your not.
That is why your spinning on a Tuesday Night (WIBBOW) in the smallest, oldest, ugliest, but somehow perceived as the highest class club in Ibiza. The music (WIBBOW) was as much in need of renovation as the club so overall.
It was a perfect match of Cheesiness that could only pack the house in Ibiza.
It isn’t easy being famously cheesy but FMI’MF pulls it off dreamily.
And yes, I still loved it.
Of course I would do it again but give me a year to recover so as not to damage my pores with an over-abundance of dairy product.
No your not.
That is why your spinning on a Tuesday Night (WIBBOW) in the smallest, oldest, ugliest, but somehow perceived as the highest class club in Ibiza. The music (WIBBOW) was as much in need of renovation as the club so overall.
It was a perfect match of Cheesiness that could only pack the house in Ibiza.
It isn’t easy being famously cheesy but FMI’MF pulls it off dreamily.
And yes, I still loved it.
Of course I would do it again but give me a year to recover so as not to damage my pores with an over-abundance of dairy product.
Last edited by a moderator:
I
icebaer69
Guest
a lot of these birds have their nest within walking distance from pacha,
in these appartment-buildings around pacha´s el hotel .
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
DAY 2: Saturday the 13th of September, 2008
The cab ride home is relatively uneventful. When you’re walking home on a Friday morning in the U.S. with your club clothes at 7 am, there are people going to work and usually a frown or two. Most of the time there is at least one person giving you a tisk-tisk. I find it ironic they can look down on you with their suit clad ideals clinging to the ceramic-dick caffeine cup they suck on. But, such is being an American is simply ironic on its own and another slice of life best eaten with a Spork.
The streets of Playa Den Bossa are deserted and I am beginning to wonder who actually works in this town. The Garbi lobby is empty at 7am but there are a few scattered sprinkles of Italians who have been hanging in front of the Garbi’s disco for an hour. No one is chewing hard so I don’t bother to stop and try to hold a late night session of, “Chow are you? You suave and debonair rolling italaino. So you have another?” Jet lag has officially set in and the initial Ibiza-buzz has worn off. I was expecting the full after-party swing but when every balcony is empty and the beach looks like Jaws just attacked its 5th victim in as many days… I am truly disappointed that the place isn’t kicking hard.
Myth # 6: You’ll need ear plugs to sleep in Playa Den Bossa. I slept to no noise, no jets, nothing.
Just CNN World prattling its liberal BS since I fell asleep with it on. The news of the banking problems was just starting to hit at that time and the markets hadn’t quite had time to react but Monday loomed. Just before my trip I converted everything I had to 12 month CD’s and spread it among a dozen FDIC banks in case everything went to crap. If you didn’t loose 20 percent of your value, does that mean you actually made money?
I get up at 4PM and it’s too late to see any of the sights I had planned for the day. That seemed to happen a lot. Stay out till 6 am, sleep till 4PM…common theme. It cut off such a large part of the trip and I’m actually sorry I went out so much as the closest thing I met to “Ibiza Culture” was the lady who washed my clothing (more later).
So it’s into the shower and time to pick what to wear for the big Manumission closing. The Garbi has hot water 24 hours a day and lots of pressure on the 1st floor in case you’re wondering. The internet was working fine so I decided to download some much needed porn. There is no “legal” porn in Iraq so spanking can get a bit boring. After the first 90 days its back to living in the 50’s with extra time spent in the bathroom when the National Geographic arrives. Like anything fun in the dessert, it’s not worth losing your job over the risk so I don’t take those kinds of chances. Some do but like all criminal activity, you are eventually caught and this is just too much money to do something stupid like that.
I’m thinking I’ll go tour the Fort downtown and have some dinner. Seems like a good evening to get some walking in and see the big entrance to D’alt Villa. It’s Friday night in Ibiza and I don’t want to burn out on too much activity before the big Manumission closing at Amnesia. Uhhhhh. ****ing bastards…I don’t know what happened but when I mention where I am going to one of the barkers on the street trying to sell me tickets, he says they closed last week. Again, ****ing bastards… So that’s out. Tear up one pre-paid ticket from Club Tickets and learn never to buy in advance again. I’m doing the VIP thing anyway but bought the balcony option. More wasted money.
Myth #7: Buy your tickets in Advance. Why? The barkers sell them in the street for cheaper than you can get them on-line. Plus, you go where the activity is and the DJ’s change at the last minute. Why tie yourself down to one place? What if you meet the perfect set and they’re going elsewhere? There were some classic parties that I could not miss for the world but could have saved loads just buying off the street. They didn’t sell out for any of the parties I went to; even the monster closings. Plus, they give out free tickets if you’re in the right place and don’t mind going to the club early.
So now what? I decide I’m overdressed for D’alt with mere blue jeans and white zipper-front, short-sleved, skin-tight shirt. But, what the hell, it’s Ibiza, right? Again, the Fashion Policia really need to have more than just the one guy on the scooter screaming whoo-whoo and pulling over anyone in a tie. I’m clueless and it got me into trouble again
The cab ride home is relatively uneventful. When you’re walking home on a Friday morning in the U.S. with your club clothes at 7 am, there are people going to work and usually a frown or two. Most of the time there is at least one person giving you a tisk-tisk. I find it ironic they can look down on you with their suit clad ideals clinging to the ceramic-dick caffeine cup they suck on. But, such is being an American is simply ironic on its own and another slice of life best eaten with a Spork.
The streets of Playa Den Bossa are deserted and I am beginning to wonder who actually works in this town. The Garbi lobby is empty at 7am but there are a few scattered sprinkles of Italians who have been hanging in front of the Garbi’s disco for an hour. No one is chewing hard so I don’t bother to stop and try to hold a late night session of, “Chow are you? You suave and debonair rolling italaino. So you have another?” Jet lag has officially set in and the initial Ibiza-buzz has worn off. I was expecting the full after-party swing but when every balcony is empty and the beach looks like Jaws just attacked its 5th victim in as many days… I am truly disappointed that the place isn’t kicking hard.
Myth # 6: You’ll need ear plugs to sleep in Playa Den Bossa. I slept to no noise, no jets, nothing.
Just CNN World prattling its liberal BS since I fell asleep with it on. The news of the banking problems was just starting to hit at that time and the markets hadn’t quite had time to react but Monday loomed. Just before my trip I converted everything I had to 12 month CD’s and spread it among a dozen FDIC banks in case everything went to crap. If you didn’t loose 20 percent of your value, does that mean you actually made money?
I get up at 4PM and it’s too late to see any of the sights I had planned for the day. That seemed to happen a lot. Stay out till 6 am, sleep till 4PM…common theme. It cut off such a large part of the trip and I’m actually sorry I went out so much as the closest thing I met to “Ibiza Culture” was the lady who washed my clothing (more later).
So it’s into the shower and time to pick what to wear for the big Manumission closing. The Garbi has hot water 24 hours a day and lots of pressure on the 1st floor in case you’re wondering. The internet was working fine so I decided to download some much needed porn. There is no “legal” porn in Iraq so spanking can get a bit boring. After the first 90 days its back to living in the 50’s with extra time spent in the bathroom when the National Geographic arrives. Like anything fun in the dessert, it’s not worth losing your job over the risk so I don’t take those kinds of chances. Some do but like all criminal activity, you are eventually caught and this is just too much money to do something stupid like that.
I’m thinking I’ll go tour the Fort downtown and have some dinner. Seems like a good evening to get some walking in and see the big entrance to D’alt Villa. It’s Friday night in Ibiza and I don’t want to burn out on too much activity before the big Manumission closing at Amnesia. Uhhhhh. ****ing bastards…I don’t know what happened but when I mention where I am going to one of the barkers on the street trying to sell me tickets, he says they closed last week. Again, ****ing bastards… So that’s out. Tear up one pre-paid ticket from Club Tickets and learn never to buy in advance again. I’m doing the VIP thing anyway but bought the balcony option. More wasted money.
Myth #7: Buy your tickets in Advance. Why? The barkers sell them in the street for cheaper than you can get them on-line. Plus, you go where the activity is and the DJ’s change at the last minute. Why tie yourself down to one place? What if you meet the perfect set and they’re going elsewhere? There were some classic parties that I could not miss for the world but could have saved loads just buying off the street. They didn’t sell out for any of the parties I went to; even the monster closings. Plus, they give out free tickets if you’re in the right place and don’t mind going to the club early.
So now what? I decide I’m overdressed for D’alt with mere blue jeans and white zipper-front, short-sleved, skin-tight shirt. But, what the hell, it’s Ibiza, right? Again, the Fashion Policia really need to have more than just the one guy on the scooter screaming whoo-whoo and pulling over anyone in a tie. I’m clueless and it got me into trouble again
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
D’alt Villa, Beware the Cannon Fire! (and dont drop the soap)
At the Taxi stand, my hopeful driver is waiting but is second in line. He gives me a two hands perpendicular to the ground “slow down” signal but I choose to not wait until someone else arrives to get started. I can see him though the back window hitting the hood of his taxi and cursing god as my new driver takes a while to make a U-turn and head downtown on the speed bump and traffic route.
One of the things that makes getting there from Playa Den Bossa fun: The route the taxi takes. Neat trick if you’re trying to save 2 Euros. The route from PDB to downtown is 2 Euros less but takes 5 minutes longer if you stick to the road along the ocean. You get there 5 minutes faster but the distance is longer if your driver takes the tunnel/interstate system in the middle of the island. Your choice penny pinchers!
I get the scenic route and pass this girl wearing red strappy high healed shoes with full C’s in what must be a red bikini top and Daisy Dukes. The black Goth bobbed short hair is the clicker and it’s the first time I’ve had an instant erection without some form of stimulation since my twenties. What an incredible sight she was at maybe 19 years old. I only wish she would have been walking a Great Dane and I most likely would have been cleaning myself off. In ****ing credible!
We get to a large open square and the driver stops and points right and says the villa entrance is up there. The jerk could have easily snaked in a few streets and dropped me off at the front gate but instead put me a few blocks away. I tip him a Euro and he’s too shocked to even talk. I can see him biting the coin to make sure it’s authentic as I get out of the cab. He drives away and almost side swipes a cop on his left turn and they pull him over so Karma is delivered.
The square is really a large rectangle with two one way roads and a grassy median. I can make out a large white tent at the end and it’s about a hundred yards long. Perfect place for a football field but not quite wide enough. I’m walking parallel to the fort which is on my right side and figure that must be where the main entrance is. Not so, but after an hour of walking into dead ends and around various forms of street entertainment, I find a way into the place but it’s not the main entrance I’m looking for. A street with a cop box and a one way drive tunnel is not the way I’ve read about to get in to the place. I’m wearing some Cartier and a Breitling watch and decide I would rather keep them and the bundle of Euros in my pocket and go back the way I came.
More wandering… I finally round a corner and there is the entrance I have been looking for. It’s a majestic entrance but if you ignore how old it is vs. the big pyramid in Vegas, there is something to be said for the look. It’s a very steep embankment about 80 yards long with tan brick but no actual draw bridge or moat. I’m guessing the grade is steep enough to prevent any heavy door-breaking equipment from the middle ages from approaching at this entrance. They’ve got the thing lit up with modern lighting and I’m struggling not to let the leather bottom Gucci’s slip out from under me.
Ooops! Down goes Frasier, down goes Frasier! At least not face first. Two German guys come over and help me up, ask if I’m all right and start a walking conversation on the rest of the way in.
The place is quaint and gorgeous all at the same time. Various plaques pointing out where the guards stood are littered on the side of the rode and there is some sort of Spanish version of the Rasta selling various drug induced homemade trinkets. I stop to support the art with a little 10 Euros donation and the Germs for some reason are hanging with me. What the hell I thinks. You must have a wingman to succeed, why not two? A restaurant is recommended after hunger is mentioned and we walk into what can only be described as the French Quarter on a mountain. Little stores everywhere, restaurants line the street.
At the Taxi stand, my hopeful driver is waiting but is second in line. He gives me a two hands perpendicular to the ground “slow down” signal but I choose to not wait until someone else arrives to get started. I can see him though the back window hitting the hood of his taxi and cursing god as my new driver takes a while to make a U-turn and head downtown on the speed bump and traffic route.
One of the things that makes getting there from Playa Den Bossa fun: The route the taxi takes. Neat trick if you’re trying to save 2 Euros. The route from PDB to downtown is 2 Euros less but takes 5 minutes longer if you stick to the road along the ocean. You get there 5 minutes faster but the distance is longer if your driver takes the tunnel/interstate system in the middle of the island. Your choice penny pinchers!
I get the scenic route and pass this girl wearing red strappy high healed shoes with full C’s in what must be a red bikini top and Daisy Dukes. The black Goth bobbed short hair is the clicker and it’s the first time I’ve had an instant erection without some form of stimulation since my twenties. What an incredible sight she was at maybe 19 years old. I only wish she would have been walking a Great Dane and I most likely would have been cleaning myself off. In ****ing credible!
We get to a large open square and the driver stops and points right and says the villa entrance is up there. The jerk could have easily snaked in a few streets and dropped me off at the front gate but instead put me a few blocks away. I tip him a Euro and he’s too shocked to even talk. I can see him biting the coin to make sure it’s authentic as I get out of the cab. He drives away and almost side swipes a cop on his left turn and they pull him over so Karma is delivered.
The square is really a large rectangle with two one way roads and a grassy median. I can make out a large white tent at the end and it’s about a hundred yards long. Perfect place for a football field but not quite wide enough. I’m walking parallel to the fort which is on my right side and figure that must be where the main entrance is. Not so, but after an hour of walking into dead ends and around various forms of street entertainment, I find a way into the place but it’s not the main entrance I’m looking for. A street with a cop box and a one way drive tunnel is not the way I’ve read about to get in to the place. I’m wearing some Cartier and a Breitling watch and decide I would rather keep them and the bundle of Euros in my pocket and go back the way I came.
More wandering… I finally round a corner and there is the entrance I have been looking for. It’s a majestic entrance but if you ignore how old it is vs. the big pyramid in Vegas, there is something to be said for the look. It’s a very steep embankment about 80 yards long with tan brick but no actual draw bridge or moat. I’m guessing the grade is steep enough to prevent any heavy door-breaking equipment from the middle ages from approaching at this entrance. They’ve got the thing lit up with modern lighting and I’m struggling not to let the leather bottom Gucci’s slip out from under me.
Ooops! Down goes Frasier, down goes Frasier! At least not face first. Two German guys come over and help me up, ask if I’m all right and start a walking conversation on the rest of the way in.
The place is quaint and gorgeous all at the same time. Various plaques pointing out where the guards stood are littered on the side of the rode and there is some sort of Spanish version of the Rasta selling various drug induced homemade trinkets. I stop to support the art with a little 10 Euros donation and the Germs for some reason are hanging with me. What the hell I thinks. You must have a wingman to succeed, why not two? A restaurant is recommended after hunger is mentioned and we walk into what can only be described as the French Quarter on a mountain. Little stores everywhere, restaurants line the street.
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
“Quack, Quack baby! Do I make you honky?”
We go to some place that translates in English as what I believe is the “Promiscuous Duck.” Okay, my Spanish is not so good but I still believe that is what the name was.
Myth #8: There is world class cuisine in Ibiza. Nope, there is not. At least any restaurant I tried had intesting food but nothing that can rival a night out in New Orleans. Sorry Ibiza, but you get 2 stars out of 5. You can pay a lot more for trendy or sheik, but you can’t substitute expensive for the work of a real chef. Try Emeril’s, Antoine’s, Brennan’s, Galatoire’ or Commanders Palace in the Big Easy. Those are even places you CAN get a table on a Friday night at the last second. Make reservations at the Windsor Court Grill Room and then you’ll be home. Even going Cajun at K-Paul’s, Mulate’s, or Patout’s brings back memories of …damn, now I’m hungry for the best again.
My trip to the Philippines in 112 and a wake up is now kind of a let down to think about. Why can’t I get it all in one country? Wine, Women, Sex, Dance, Rock-n-Roll, Romance, Extra curricular, Food…It’s like pick 1 or 2 per trip…Any recommendations out there for the country with the “all inclusive” experience? If so, I’ll retire there!
The food in Ibiza is interesting but not world class unless you think of it as being somewhere in the world of class. Here is where my expertise is complete. Argue if you must, but once you’ve had incredible flavor…there is no ambiance that can substitute for a satiated pallet. Happy atmosphere with cute smaller entrees you can share with the table is great but didn’t the Chinese invent that? (Is Susan a Spanish name as in, “lazy Susan”?)
Okay, maybe I missed some of the better places with all the partying, but I had a tour guide for my second week that was supposed to take care of all that. With all the distractions, my concierge committed culinary failure. Perhaps I underpaid him or maybe I again expected too much out of Europe
. Either way, it is what it is: Opportunity lost.
What I remember about food in Ibiza is: Cute, but not great.
(Worst food in New Orleans is better than the best of the world.)
We go to some place that translates in English as what I believe is the “Promiscuous Duck.” Okay, my Spanish is not so good but I still believe that is what the name was.
Myth #8: There is world class cuisine in Ibiza. Nope, there is not. At least any restaurant I tried had intesting food but nothing that can rival a night out in New Orleans. Sorry Ibiza, but you get 2 stars out of 5. You can pay a lot more for trendy or sheik, but you can’t substitute expensive for the work of a real chef. Try Emeril’s, Antoine’s, Brennan’s, Galatoire’ or Commanders Palace in the Big Easy. Those are even places you CAN get a table on a Friday night at the last second. Make reservations at the Windsor Court Grill Room and then you’ll be home. Even going Cajun at K-Paul’s, Mulate’s, or Patout’s brings back memories of …damn, now I’m hungry for the best again.
My trip to the Philippines in 112 and a wake up is now kind of a let down to think about. Why can’t I get it all in one country? Wine, Women, Sex, Dance, Rock-n-Roll, Romance, Extra curricular, Food…It’s like pick 1 or 2 per trip…Any recommendations out there for the country with the “all inclusive” experience? If so, I’ll retire there!
The food in Ibiza is interesting but not world class unless you think of it as being somewhere in the world of class. Here is where my expertise is complete. Argue if you must, but once you’ve had incredible flavor…there is no ambiance that can substitute for a satiated pallet. Happy atmosphere with cute smaller entrees you can share with the table is great but didn’t the Chinese invent that? (Is Susan a Spanish name as in, “lazy Susan”?)
Okay, maybe I missed some of the better places with all the partying, but I had a tour guide for my second week that was supposed to take care of all that. With all the distractions, my concierge committed culinary failure. Perhaps I underpaid him or maybe I again expected too much out of Europe
. Either way, it is what it is: Opportunity lost.What I remember about food in Ibiza is: Cute, but not great.
(Worst food in New Orleans is better than the best of the world.)
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
It was… Zee Germans!
So the meal goes okay, nothing to write home about. The Germs are a kick but a little touchy. I just figure it’s the culture and write it off as something European. Two bottles of slightly-better-than-average red and we’re having a grand old time. I’m kicking in early as I want to be well rested for Sunday and get an invite to a club they are going to here in D’alt Villa. Sure, says I. I’ll hound around for a while, feign effort, and duck out after providing the wingman required, “Haaaaaave you met Schmidt?”
Now, I am not naive. Being from New Orleans one of my most cultural shocking moments was back in 89 having to take a Sorority girl from Alabama back to the hotel during a Mardi gras. We had wandered a block off Bourbon Street looking for a cab and she got sick from seeing two guys kiss. Lucky we didn’t venture toward the really gay end. I can only imagine we would have been calling an ambulance had she seen the Naked Ass ****ing Contest they seem to hold every block.
I might have got out of that one by saying, “Oh no sweetie, they’re just having a naked push up contest and the one guys trying to hold the other one down from winning. That’s why all the grunting.” But, kissing is kissing and defying any further explanation she vomited and then cried for an hour. Such a wonderful, sweet girl with that Alabama accent, 26 inch waist, and natural Ds. Mmmmm, Mmmmm.
The line of that evening was with vomit in her hair, a tear down her cheek, and a slow southern droll claiming, “That’s the saddest think I have ever seen.”
Yes, I did slay that dragon during Greek Week the following month. Got to love chicks on Beer! She needed me as much as I needed her and she went on to marry some engineer in 92. She kept sending me letters for a couple of years but you apparently do forget you’re first in some cases.
Oh yeah, the Germans... We go around some stairs and go to this lovely place with such wonderful decorations outside. Oh look, a rainbow…how nice. I realize with one well placed multi colored flag of retreat to “all ye who don’t enter here (look down and back),” that these are German Fagolas.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, no wonder they were being so damned touchy/friendly.
Sneaky sons of bitches didn’t even hint they were gay. There was no part of fem in them. These are obviously the kind of guys that would have no trouble taking us to a farm to **** chickens and then getting mad at me because I’m the straight guy who couldn’t get it up for a hen. I’m glad it wasn’t a party at someone’s house or I might have been tied up trying to figure out the German safe word I can’t pronounce.
But, since some of the best (non sexual) EVA’s I’ve had were at a mixed club called OZ in New Orleans, I figured I’ll go once as long as no one tries to kiss me.
So the meal goes okay, nothing to write home about. The Germs are a kick but a little touchy. I just figure it’s the culture and write it off as something European. Two bottles of slightly-better-than-average red and we’re having a grand old time. I’m kicking in early as I want to be well rested for Sunday and get an invite to a club they are going to here in D’alt Villa. Sure, says I. I’ll hound around for a while, feign effort, and duck out after providing the wingman required, “Haaaaaave you met Schmidt?”
Now, I am not naive. Being from New Orleans one of my most cultural shocking moments was back in 89 having to take a Sorority girl from Alabama back to the hotel during a Mardi gras. We had wandered a block off Bourbon Street looking for a cab and she got sick from seeing two guys kiss. Lucky we didn’t venture toward the really gay end. I can only imagine we would have been calling an ambulance had she seen the Naked Ass ****ing Contest they seem to hold every block.
I might have got out of that one by saying, “Oh no sweetie, they’re just having a naked push up contest and the one guys trying to hold the other one down from winning. That’s why all the grunting.” But, kissing is kissing and defying any further explanation she vomited and then cried for an hour. Such a wonderful, sweet girl with that Alabama accent, 26 inch waist, and natural Ds. Mmmmm, Mmmmm.
The line of that evening was with vomit in her hair, a tear down her cheek, and a slow southern droll claiming, “That’s the saddest think I have ever seen.”
Yes, I did slay that dragon during Greek Week the following month. Got to love chicks on Beer! She needed me as much as I needed her and she went on to marry some engineer in 92. She kept sending me letters for a couple of years but you apparently do forget you’re first in some cases.
Oh yeah, the Germans... We go around some stairs and go to this lovely place with such wonderful decorations outside. Oh look, a rainbow…how nice. I realize with one well placed multi colored flag of retreat to “all ye who don’t enter here (look down and back),” that these are German Fagolas.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, no wonder they were being so damned touchy/friendly.
Sneaky sons of bitches didn’t even hint they were gay. There was no part of fem in them. These are obviously the kind of guys that would have no trouble taking us to a farm to **** chickens and then getting mad at me because I’m the straight guy who couldn’t get it up for a hen. I’m glad it wasn’t a party at someone’s house or I might have been tied up trying to figure out the German safe word I can’t pronounce.
But, since some of the best (non sexual) EVA’s I’ve had were at a mixed club called OZ in New Orleans, I figured I’ll go once as long as no one tries to kiss me.