Welcome to Tuesday..home of nothing in the world.
Nothing happens on a Tuesday in Ibiza in late September. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. You can have a great time at Pasha if you bring a group, have a great attitude, and don’t expect too much. It’s not going to be crowded and there might be a dozen girls traveling in packs. That being said, it was Tuesday the 23rd of September in 2008 and I didn’t know it’s an official day of rest. To this day I have no idea how to slow down so I’m just expecting the party to keep rolling.
It’s Noon and I’ve had about 5 hours of sleep. My body is still reacting from the hearty party at Space on Sunday. Ten years is a big gap and I’m grateful I crashed as soon as I hit the Garbi. I have a buddy showing up from the US tomorrow at midday and I’ve got to pack at some point for the big change to the party hotel down the street. My stubble is cleared and I’ve got a day of exploration planned on the last day of the rented scooter. I want to drive around the D’alt Villa’s cliffs and check out the beach I’ve seen from the taxis. A quick shower and I’m out the door to the parking lot. The Garbi’s parking lot has a camera overlooking it and a metal gate that can only be opened with a card. I’m not sure if it is the safest place to park in Playa but if you were traveling with a Porsche, Lambo, or BMW…the ruffians wont me messing with it there.
I decide to visit the front desk of JET Apartments to make sure I can upgrade the two bedroom apartment to at least a beach-front view. The lady behind the counter is easily swayed with a tenner and I’ve made an instant friend as well as an upgrade to the beach view. The clientele in the hotel seem to be a preponderance of adolescents but that is why I wanted to stay there.
MYTH #11: THERE IS NO LAUNDRY SERVICE IN PLAYA D’EN BOSSA: Bull feathers again! After being told by the Garbi staff that the only service available is sent into town, I find a lady in the basement of JET that charges 7 Euros a load to wash clothes. She’s got 6 washers and as many dryers. As long as you don’t have dry cleaning, you’re good to go.
So I’m happy to find a place to take my cleaning as well as the beach view I’ve been promised. I’m about to get back on the scooter when I notice a convertible that has no top and is outfitted a lot like a Prowler. I walk into the place and ask the guy behind the counter the rate. He tells me its 100 Euro’s a day. I ask him how much for a week and the rate drops to 50 daily. Since I still have the scooter and it’s reasonably warm outside, I give him my name and tell him I’ll be back in the morning.
The scooter ride to downtown is basically uneventful except for the damn speed bumps that seem to be every 100 feet. If you’re going faster than 5 MPH you’ll bust your nuts on the seat. After the first half dozen, it becomes like a horse ride or like turning fast on a Sea Doo – all calve muscles like standing in the saddle. This is great fun till I hit one wrong and the front tire scoots out a little. I’m doing the 5MPH after that for each one and screw the traffic behind me.
I’m searching for a bank to convert the rest of my USD to Euros but they are all closed in the middle of the afternoon for the stupid siesta time. I’ve got my Bose portable with me as I want to test out how powerful it really is and create an artistic “moment” on the beach. I stop at the Beach called “Figuertes.”
The scooter is parked and locked with the helmet loop locked onto the handle bars and I’ve got the Bose in tow as it fits under the seat nicely. It’s pretty early in the afternoon and there are about a hundred people on a beach that is 50 yards to the water and on a half-moon bay about 200 yards long. The beach is surrounded by C grade and lower hotels that wouldn’t be bad to stay in if you’re on a budget or a teenager with friends. There are restaurants that take up every available inch of non-pedestrian boardwalk and if you walk in either direction the restaurants decorate the first 50 yards of any street leading to the beach. It’s an early lunch time but I figure if I’m going to do some art I’ll need to have a full stomach. I’m not sure if I’m going to be arrested for what’s next.
I select the outdoor café and bar on the far right side of the beach opening facing the Ocean. It’s a little overcast but otherwise beautiful and perfect day. I’m feeling like Banksy holding a can of paint and waiting for no one to be looking. Of course I’m not that glamorous as I don’t even have a web site with a weekly changing manifesto. I order a scotch as it’s the only thing recognizable behind the bar. There is a table of Spaniards happily eating lunch and they get their wine glasses refilled several times by the staff. I look at the menu and decide on lasagna as it’s been a while since I had pasta. There weren’t a whole lot of quality menu items but the order seemed to fit my mood perfectly.
I’m scoping out the beach for the law and there doesn’t seem to be more of an authority figure than the life guard present. He’s perched in the middle of the beach on a steel and plastic stand that’s a full 10 feet above the sand. Two 2.5 shot drinks in the lasagna arrives. I kid you not; it’s a brown onion soup bowl with a can of Chef-Boy-Are-Dee Ravioli topped by a slice of Swiss cheese that’s been almost heated in the microwave. I am not able to stop laughing as I choose to point out to the bartender that the bread is missing instead of sending it back as inedible. He brings me a Wonder-bread shaped slice of generic white, a shaker of garlic, and a pat of margarine.
I wind up getting a shot of something that taste like banana that I thought was a liquor and I’m ready for doing some art. As I’m closing the tab, two gentlemen show up with vertically striped pajama pants and bozo looking hair cuts. They know everyone and as circus-ish as the beach is, I am unsurprised that the bartender says it’s some high up public official (possibly the mayor).
Heading down to the middle of the sidewalk area where the stairs meet the sand, I pull the Bose out and set the IPod to Jean Michael Jarre’s “Zoolook” from 1988. Cranked as loud as it will go, I begin a 20 foot drawing of downtown Houston. As I am only able to draw stick figures, the giant drawing only keeps the curious occupied for a brief second as they are unsure weather to laugh at the chalk colored laser beams heading into a giant cloud with the letters H O U S T O N on top. The stick-figure drawing is done and the song is nearly half over so I just sit by the Bose as it is so loud, people from the ENTIRE beach are turning around and some are getting up to look. The general result is that they either laugh their asses off at how bad it is, hate America enough to get pissed it’s Houston, or in one persons case, spit on the drawing and give me the Evil Eye.
No one gets it that the largest concert ever preformed in the history of electronic music was a laser show put on by the European artist Jarre over Houston in the 80’s. Apparently, you Europeans are not actually hip to the whole “performance art” scene as with under a minute left in the song, the Lifeguard is pointing at me and talking on his cell phone. As the song ends I scoop up the Bose, leave the chalk, and run to the scooter. I am sure there are laws against loud music during the day but I’ve made my impression on Spain, even if no one gets it or says thanks. I beat the arrival of the Po-Po by a few seconds as I can see them in the rear view stopping at the beach as I drive away.
I was expecting some cheers, perhaps a bottle of champagne, or even an article in the local paper but instead get nothing. I decide to resign my anti-art until I visit France as I drive the serpentine pathways up the roadway toward the D’Alt Villa.
There are roads all the way around the place and I want some pictures of the cliff drop-off in front as well as the embattlements. Winding around several dead ends I finally make it to the cliff area in front of the castle. There are many private villas on the edge of the embattlement walls and I can only imagine what these may cost. The view is incredible and the wind seems to be picking up a bit. I park the scooter and am a little concerned as it drizzled briefly yesterday. The rental car agent warned me that once it rains, summer is over and he won’t be able to rent the permanent convertible any more. I didn’t take him seriously as I walk around the cliffs and the sky gets a little darker. There are a couple of nude sunbathers that turn out to be guys so I head back toward the scooter. The rain starts to come down hard and fast with almost no warning so I duck in a cliff overhang.
An hour later my legs are extremely sore as I’ve been squatting under an overhang. It’s raining its but off and I’m cant sit down because the ants are fighting for every inch I occupy. The rain finally slows down and I realize it’s going to take a long time to get back to the bike as the ground is very wet now and I’m mountain climbing on a cliff. The two guys below me aren’t even bothering to try and move as I cant see how they are even going to get back to the top. I slip a couple of times and worry about being so close to death in such a strange place. I can imagine the Spaniards in the fort only had to pour water down the cliffs to repel attackers.
It’s raining hard again as I get back to the scooter but that doesn’t discourage me from trying to get back. It’s no where near as bad as it was and I throw the passport in with the Bose to keep it dry. I’m driving 5 miles an hour on what could easily pass for the curviest road in San Francisco and the sky just lets loose. I wind up hiding under a tree as a school one intersection from the square lets out and I’m drenched while children go screeching happily by. There is no organization as the traffic stops and children under umbrellas try to find the parent waiting in the middle of the street. It’s definitely a surreal moment I wouldn’t have stopped to view. In the end I am thankful for the rain as it lets me soak in a piece of Ibiza I wouldn’t have otherwise pursued.
The ride back to the scooter rental office is uneventful except that the self-fulfilling prophecy has set upon me. The rental car agent’s warning has come to fruition. The summer has actually ended and the weather is marking the colder beginning of fall in Ibiza. I’m a little chilled by the wetness but I still appreciated the feeling of what it is like to get older in Spain. Seasons change and if your too busy chasing the American Dream, you will miss what actually matters most: The peaceful ambiance of just being there.
I stopped to fill the scooter up and discover that 5 Euros is about 1 too many to fill up a nearly empty scooter tank. The agent takes the cycle back with no expression as it’s the end of the day and it looks like all the fight has left him. He also must know nothing happens on a Tuesday. I’m across the street and into the Garbi to pack so I won’t have to in the morning. I stop and talk to the bartender who confirms, nothing is happening. As it’s my last evening in the Garbi, I have another pre-paid dinner with a better bottle of 30 Euro wine. No one is in a party mood and there is nothing happening by the pool. I decide to call it a night early since a buddy is arriving at the Airport in the morning for the second week. We haven’t hung out since before he moved to Denver 5 years ago so this should be a pretty good catch-up trip.
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