“Ibiza? Nothing but drugs, hookers, and homosexuals”
“Don’t bother going to Ibiza now, all the clubs are closed, there’s nothing to do there.”
Aye, comments intended to discourage instead strengthen my desire to visit the place. Entonces, a 2 1/2 hour boat ride from Denia later, I find myself in Eivissa. (pictured above)
I actually think it was the perfect time to visit the place, at least when travelling solo. Upon my arrival, I grabbed a rental car (the Fiat convertible that stole my little heart) and drove at zippy, break neck speed to the other side of the island, to San Antonio.
I settled into my hotel (very cheap, as it is off-season), grabbed a quick bite, then made my way to bar street.
I wandered aimlessly for a bit, grabbing a beer here and there, looking for an appropriate place to spend my night observing the Jersey Shore-reject looking club leftovers in solitude. Fortunately for me, I spied a guy strapped with an electric ukulele and a pretty girl in a black and white polka-dotted number dancing to some funky house beats, and decided to set up camp.
A few cocktails later, we found common ground, then spent the rest of the night (and a good portion of the morning) drinking 2 euro a bottle Cava, and generally having a good time. My new friends, Jude and Trip, turned out to be quite a good discovery.
Plans were formed. We three would visit the caves in the morning, at 11 am.
As will often happen, 11 turned into noon, then noon turned into a few coffees… luckily, there were drinks to be had at the cave entrance!
Nothing like a few beers (or gin-tonics, for my British friends) to assuage the effects of a night of heavy drinking and… stuff. We spent probably an hour nursing our drinks and staring at the beautiful cove below the cave entrance.
The caves themselves were spectacular, a former refuge for smugglers and other piratey types. As such, we fit in quite well.
And there were glowing things. (Natural pools of water-color from lights installed for the effect) I like things that glow.
The important part is “bar”!
There was still some afternoon to accost, so we drove around for a bit, stopping near some fig and almond trees to relax in the sun and enjoy some more cheap Cava. (seriously, the stuff was pleasant!)
The damn place was riddled with caracoles, but never fear, loyal readers, I have recipes.
Jude is a gymnastics instructor back in her foggy homeland, so she showed off some of her sweet moves to the other children kids at the park.
Trip was decidedly less graceful than his lovely wife, but a fun photography subject nonetheless. And I’m not one to talk, with my bum knee I’m about as graceful as a Tennessee fainting goat. (But it’s a sexy limp… oh, well.)
We retired to our respective hotels for a siesta, then met up one last time for a few evening drinks.
And oh yeah, towers. They’re everywhere!
Anyway, the next day I still had some time to kill…
So I decided to drive around in the little-Fiat-that-could and see the natural splendor the island had to offer.
I was not disappointed.
“But Athena, what about the FOOD?”
Jeez, I’m getting to it, hold your damn horses!
While alcohol may be the main course of many who visit Ibiza, I did find some scrumptious ‘noms… (Beer! Oh, and bread, olives, and ali oli.)
I chose a restaurant at random for its great view of a tree-lined valley, and was impressed by the food. The gazpacho was fresh and light, a perfect entrante.
But the impeccable Dorada was what was truly memorable. Roasted whole, then deftly spoon-carved tableside.
There’s nothing that compares to fish right from the sea. The flesh was tender and juicy, the flavors light and nuanced, and the texture of the crispy skin pure perfection. Lemon, nothing more, and you’ve got an unbeatable meal.
A happy discovery for me in Catalonia was crema Catalana. After nothing but disappointments with creme brulee in its country of origin (Seriously guys, what the hell? I’ve never had a good creme brulee in France. PROVE ME WRONG DAMMIT!!) every example of crema Catalana I’ve had has been spot on, but this one had an especially spectacular crust on top. I thought the portion too large at first, but… oops.
After lunch, I spent some quiet time perched on a high ledge overlooking the Mediterranean.
Secure in the knowledge that this would be how I remembered Ibiza.
Even though I didn’t go clubbing, I really don’t feel as though I missed out on anything. Can you ask for more than great food, great views, and great people to spend your time with?
I can’t.
Jude and Trip, thank you, I’ll always remember you guys.
Ibiza, so long, and thanks for all the fish.
Adeu!
athenathickstun 