Return to Ibiza
What time is it? You don't say. I was supposed to return from sparkling Ibiza to drizzly London (deservedly voted best city in the world) early this morning. But I returned to Ibiza instead. Why? Maybe, I wasn't ready to leave or maybe, I was destined to sit down and write this wayward zigzag of words.
I must have been reeking of inner struggle at the airport this morning (to leave or not to leave the magical island), a magical deity must have picked up on this, pointing me to the willing hands of a fellow traveller. Those hands stole my iPhone and my bank cards, I spent two hours gesticulating and pulling X-factor contestant faces to policemen and Lost & (not) Found еxecutives, missing my flight...and eventually returning to Ibiza. Now I'm sitting at a beach cafe in Figueretas, drinking my third glass of Pinot Grigio, savouring the last bony bits of my Paella Mixta, typing away. A karaoke piano version of Coldplay's "Parachutes" blends into "Be with you" by the Bangles and I have a funny feeling that "I promised myself" may be next. I don't know how this story will evolve but I feel privileged to be able to put some of it in writing. So, here. And now.
Ibiza is like a lover who stays under your skin for good. Reassuring yet unattainable, enticing you over and over again season after season, year after year. Rejuvenated and reskinned at every new encounter, yet the same in essence: beautiful, transient and pleasing to the extent of almost utmost euphoria, yet always leaving room for more. Addictive would be the vulgar term but since we are writing poetry here, let's take the time to describe and call things by their real names.
I was walking around the old town yesterday after my friends had left, feeling nostalgic and blissful at the same time. The season had definitely ended. Wrinkled Spanish ladies in sleeveless polka dot dresses would stop and listen dreamily to the agonising refrains of local pop songs seeping out of Farmacias and their sad-eyed poodles would leave one final pee on the stones that used to be awash with glee, several days ago. I, just like all of you, have laughed, cried, loved, suffered and let go, hurried and sauntered along those cobbled streets on my way to the next ultimate party, dream man, chimera. And at the end of the season, all I have is memories and circular slices of white bread with aioli. Just like all of you.
The Pinot Grigio was followed by six sangrias and I am still nowhere near leaving Ibiza. I let go of my phone and bank cards gently visualising my new, more potent and dazzling device, home to my future Instagrams, conversations, chimeras. I feel grateful to have had these extra couple of hours and injections of alcohol to let go of last season and make myself ready for a new installment of marvels. Next year, all of this would be coming back to me to an extent, through the thick delirious blur of the present moment. I am now officially getting drunk, so let's bring this wayward zigzag of words to a close. Previously, I was reeking of inner struggle, now I'm reeking of booze. "La ultima, por favor", I wave at the black-garmented waiter. He walks to my table slowly, eyeing me with a cheeky sparkle. "Nunca se dice "la última", a Spanish saying", he recites and we both laugh. Laughter seems to be the most adequate ending of this adventure. It merges with the rumble of a white boat, disappearing over the horizon and echoes away for a good couple of minutes. ¡Salud!
I must have been reeking of inner struggle at the airport this morning (to leave or not to leave the magical island), a magical deity must have picked up on this, pointing me to the willing hands of a fellow traveller. Those hands stole my iPhone and my bank cards, I spent two hours gesticulating and pulling X-factor contestant faces to policemen and Lost & (not) Found еxecutives, missing my flight...and eventually returning to Ibiza. Now I'm sitting at a beach cafe in Figueretas, drinking my third glass of Pinot Grigio, savouring the last bony bits of my Paella Mixta, typing away. A karaoke piano version of Coldplay's "Parachutes" blends into "Be with you" by the Bangles and I have a funny feeling that "I promised myself" may be next. I don't know how this story will evolve but I feel privileged to be able to put some of it in writing. So, here. And now.
Ibiza is like a lover who stays under your skin for good. Reassuring yet unattainable, enticing you over and over again season after season, year after year. Rejuvenated and reskinned at every new encounter, yet the same in essence: beautiful, transient and pleasing to the extent of almost utmost euphoria, yet always leaving room for more. Addictive would be the vulgar term but since we are writing poetry here, let's take the time to describe and call things by their real names.
I was walking around the old town yesterday after my friends had left, feeling nostalgic and blissful at the same time. The season had definitely ended. Wrinkled Spanish ladies in sleeveless polka dot dresses would stop and listen dreamily to the agonising refrains of local pop songs seeping out of Farmacias and their sad-eyed poodles would leave one final pee on the stones that used to be awash with glee, several days ago. I, just like all of you, have laughed, cried, loved, suffered and let go, hurried and sauntered along those cobbled streets on my way to the next ultimate party, dream man, chimera. And at the end of the season, all I have is memories and circular slices of white bread with aioli. Just like all of you.
The Pinot Grigio was followed by six sangrias and I am still nowhere near leaving Ibiza. I let go of my phone and bank cards gently visualising my new, more potent and dazzling device, home to my future Instagrams, conversations, chimeras. I feel grateful to have had these extra couple of hours and injections of alcohol to let go of last season and make myself ready for a new installment of marvels. Next year, all of this would be coming back to me to an extent, through the thick delirious blur of the present moment. I am now officially getting drunk, so let's bring this wayward zigzag of words to a close. Previously, I was reeking of inner struggle, now I'm reeking of booze. "La ultima, por favor", I wave at the black-garmented waiter. He walks to my table slowly, eyeing me with a cheeky sparkle. "Nunca se dice "la última", a Spanish saying", he recites and we both laugh. Laughter seems to be the most adequate ending of this adventure. It merges with the rumble of a white boat, disappearing over the horizon and echoes away for a good couple of minutes. ¡Salud!
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