Amp and Deck
Active Member
At the time of writing, my girlfriend is desperately trying to persuade me to return to Ibiza for a certain closing party. Unfortunately, unless someone can teleport me from France to Ibiza and then back to my office in the space of 24 hours I can’t see it happening. As the Russian barman said to the woman in Casablanca:
“I love you…..
…..but they pay me”
It is of course the same feeling I always get leaving that island. The temporary suspension of reality when wild plans are hatched to drop out, to let out our Barcelona flat, to start afresh, to carve out a lucrative career selling silk scarves on a beach and live in a remote finca forever. There is something that always lures us back and interestingly no two visits are ever quite the same.
It all started with a bang. The turbulence on the flight was extreme. People were scared. “Ay Antonio, tengo miedo” I heard my petrified neighbour scream. There was one person with her head under her jacket, shaking violently although that might have a reaction to the Diana doc she had on her ipad.
The flight was mercifully short. There were immediate clues as to where we were when I saw an English kid in nothing but a pair of shorts gurning furiously outside departures.
We picked up our hire car from a firm called Click & Rent (via doyouspain). A tiny Ford Ka which I sensed had been much (ab)used over the summer.
The road from the airport to Portinatx is a long one. Possibly the longest route on the entire island.
As you leave the carreterra, the roads start to wind a lot and the driving becomes more challenging. Spanish drivers have this unnerving ability to drive at breakneck speed in any situation regardless of what they can (or cannot…) see ahead. The key is not to be intimidated.
Portinatx is a curious mix of old Ibiza and classic Spanish tourist resorts. The kind of all inclusive, aerobics to EDM by the pool (by day), Elvis impersonators or bingo (by night) package that could be anywhere. The Apartamentos El Rey are a reminder of an old-fashioned kind of holiday, with rooms largely untouched since their construction probably at some point in 1968, kitchens concealed in cupboards and discarded John Grisham paperbacks providing the sole indoor entertainment. The building itself is a veritable labyrinth. In order to access room 26, you have to get a lift up to Floor 4A before walking up two further flights, down a secret outdoor path and then ensuring you are in the right block. The views of the sea are fantastic however. And you are only a short walk away from the (excellent) El Puerto restaurant and the nearby chiringuito.
Whereupon we met up with none other than Spotlight’s very own Jimmiz. An absolute pleasure to knock back the hierbas with this man. A very funny and knowledgeable guy and honorary Ibicenco to his core. The sunset from that chiringuito was a sight to behold. I would have happily stayed there all week but we had a pressing engagement elsewhere.
Which would have to remain pressing until we could work out how to engage the reverse gear in the hire car. After 15 minutes struggling, I decided we would have to manually push the car out of its parking slot. Tempers started to fray and I shouted at my girlfriend
“GET OUT OF THE F**KING CAR AND PUSH”
“I may laugh about this one day…” she muttered
“…but not right now”.
We eventually collected our friend the Balearic High Priestess who was flying in from Southend and then headed into Ibiza town, where my first act was to run over a cyclist who went into the car at breakneck speed.
“Oh my God” one of the girls shrieked.
I got out to see what had happened. He wasn’t moving and it briefly looked like he was dead. But after a few seconds he got up looking very groggy. He declined my repeated offers to call emergencias but he did ask for cash. This time, I declined. He reeked of weed and looked completely banjaxed. He got up and walked away. With the remnants of his bicycle.
What a night.
We had a meal at El Patio just opposite Dalt Villa. It was cold and pissing down. Or maybe that was me? It was hard to tell. I was still in shock.
The BHP showed us how to reverse gear. It was pretty straightforward.
Rain never lasts long in Spain, especially Ibiza.
It was time for the beach. We opted for Aiguas Blancas. A foolish choice as the beach below the steep cliff is narrow and sunlight is limited to the lucky few. We erred with our next sunset too. Someone had recommended Cala Xuclar but it was deserted as we arrived and the sun was almost totally concealed behind a rock. It also occurred to me that the drive back up to the top might prove too steep for some bullshit hire car with all the horsepower of a gnat. Around me I could see abandoned cars gathering dust that had presumably never made it back to the top. As we – somehow - made it back to the top, I began to wonder how many lives I had already used up on this trip.
I have a soft spot for Las Dalias, our next port of call. We arrived quite late for Acid Sundays and they tried to charge 15 euros on the door. As a rule, I don’t pay to enter parties, so we went to the bar next door and ate a meal instead. Some locals were absorbed in the US Open on the tv. Local hero Rafa Nadal is still big news in the baleares. The waiters as everywhere else were incredibly friendly and helpful. The music in there (an old Nuphonic CD) sounded more to my tastes than anything we could make out next door. From there it was on to St Gertrudis where we came across a beautiful boutique (with an indoor fountain) selling gemstones, run by an old wrinkly malagueño who was impressed by my Spanish. He had lived in my Barcelona barrio a few years previously and had quite a story. The man was as balearic as the hills. We got on to politics – he sounded totally baffled by the Catalan independence referendum. (He’s not the only one)
“I love you…..
…..but they pay me”
It is of course the same feeling I always get leaving that island. The temporary suspension of reality when wild plans are hatched to drop out, to let out our Barcelona flat, to start afresh, to carve out a lucrative career selling silk scarves on a beach and live in a remote finca forever. There is something that always lures us back and interestingly no two visits are ever quite the same.
It all started with a bang. The turbulence on the flight was extreme. People were scared. “Ay Antonio, tengo miedo” I heard my petrified neighbour scream. There was one person with her head under her jacket, shaking violently although that might have a reaction to the Diana doc she had on her ipad.
The flight was mercifully short. There were immediate clues as to where we were when I saw an English kid in nothing but a pair of shorts gurning furiously outside departures.
We picked up our hire car from a firm called Click & Rent (via doyouspain). A tiny Ford Ka which I sensed had been much (ab)used over the summer.
The road from the airport to Portinatx is a long one. Possibly the longest route on the entire island.
As you leave the carreterra, the roads start to wind a lot and the driving becomes more challenging. Spanish drivers have this unnerving ability to drive at breakneck speed in any situation regardless of what they can (or cannot…) see ahead. The key is not to be intimidated.
Portinatx is a curious mix of old Ibiza and classic Spanish tourist resorts. The kind of all inclusive, aerobics to EDM by the pool (by day), Elvis impersonators or bingo (by night) package that could be anywhere. The Apartamentos El Rey are a reminder of an old-fashioned kind of holiday, with rooms largely untouched since their construction probably at some point in 1968, kitchens concealed in cupboards and discarded John Grisham paperbacks providing the sole indoor entertainment. The building itself is a veritable labyrinth. In order to access room 26, you have to get a lift up to Floor 4A before walking up two further flights, down a secret outdoor path and then ensuring you are in the right block. The views of the sea are fantastic however. And you are only a short walk away from the (excellent) El Puerto restaurant and the nearby chiringuito.
Whereupon we met up with none other than Spotlight’s very own Jimmiz. An absolute pleasure to knock back the hierbas with this man. A very funny and knowledgeable guy and honorary Ibicenco to his core. The sunset from that chiringuito was a sight to behold. I would have happily stayed there all week but we had a pressing engagement elsewhere.
Which would have to remain pressing until we could work out how to engage the reverse gear in the hire car. After 15 minutes struggling, I decided we would have to manually push the car out of its parking slot. Tempers started to fray and I shouted at my girlfriend
“GET OUT OF THE F**KING CAR AND PUSH”
“I may laugh about this one day…” she muttered
“…but not right now”.
We eventually collected our friend the Balearic High Priestess who was flying in from Southend and then headed into Ibiza town, where my first act was to run over a cyclist who went into the car at breakneck speed.
“Oh my God” one of the girls shrieked.
I got out to see what had happened. He wasn’t moving and it briefly looked like he was dead. But after a few seconds he got up looking very groggy. He declined my repeated offers to call emergencias but he did ask for cash. This time, I declined. He reeked of weed and looked completely banjaxed. He got up and walked away. With the remnants of his bicycle.
What a night.
We had a meal at El Patio just opposite Dalt Villa. It was cold and pissing down. Or maybe that was me? It was hard to tell. I was still in shock.
The BHP showed us how to reverse gear. It was pretty straightforward.
Rain never lasts long in Spain, especially Ibiza.
It was time for the beach. We opted for Aiguas Blancas. A foolish choice as the beach below the steep cliff is narrow and sunlight is limited to the lucky few. We erred with our next sunset too. Someone had recommended Cala Xuclar but it was deserted as we arrived and the sun was almost totally concealed behind a rock. It also occurred to me that the drive back up to the top might prove too steep for some bullshit hire car with all the horsepower of a gnat. Around me I could see abandoned cars gathering dust that had presumably never made it back to the top. As we – somehow - made it back to the top, I began to wonder how many lives I had already used up on this trip.
I have a soft spot for Las Dalias, our next port of call. We arrived quite late for Acid Sundays and they tried to charge 15 euros on the door. As a rule, I don’t pay to enter parties, so we went to the bar next door and ate a meal instead. Some locals were absorbed in the US Open on the tv. Local hero Rafa Nadal is still big news in the baleares. The waiters as everywhere else were incredibly friendly and helpful. The music in there (an old Nuphonic CD) sounded more to my tastes than anything we could make out next door. From there it was on to St Gertrudis where we came across a beautiful boutique (with an indoor fountain) selling gemstones, run by an old wrinkly malagueño who was impressed by my Spanish. He had lived in my Barcelona barrio a few years previously and had quite a story. The man was as balearic as the hills. We got on to politics – he sounded totally baffled by the Catalan independence referendum. (He’s not the only one)