Petunia Ibiza x White Ibiza Tastemakers Dinner

Dear reader… have you missed me (and my endless Taylor Swift lyric references)? Well, OBVIOUSLY I’ve missed you, and I’ve also missed sharing my musings with you too, which is why an invitation to one of the hottest opening events of the season seemed like the perfect excuse to get dressed up in something sparkly and revive my little old blog. The place? La Mirada Rooftop at stunning Cala Carbó boutique hotel Petunia Ibiza. The occasion? The inaugural Ibiza Tastemakers Dinner, co-hosted by White Ibiza along with Petunia Ibiza and its wonderful parent company, Beaumier Hotels. They didn’t have to ask me twice, that’s for sure!

First, let me set the scene. The drive to Petunia Ibiza alone is enough to make one’s jaw drop – there’s nothing quite like that very first moment you catch the view of Es Vedrá that looks almost super-imposed on the horizon. Arriving at the hotel, we were greeted by the Petunia Ibiza glam squad, aka beautiful brand ambassador Anna, amazing hotel general manager Josep Sastre, and Petunia PR darling/guru Deborah Arantes along with organisational mavens Annalli Hamilton and Annabel Adams from AA Concierge, and guided like V.VIP to the recently revamped rooftop restaurant, La Mirada, where it feels, quite simply, like you’re in a blissful triangle between the sea, the sky and Es Vedrá. Within seconds, a lavender-infused cocktail seemed to find its way into my hand, and it tasted even better than it looked (mental note: must ask Josep for that recipe!).

Cocktails and bubbles were served as guests arrived – the intimate capacity of the venue makes the perfect destination for gatherings like this, with just 30 guests swanning and schmoozing around the rooftop to the laid-back sounds of Pere Navarro serenading the sunset, before DJ Andy Baxter stepped up to spin the soundtrack for the rest of the evening. People watching has always been one of my preferred social sports (as Taylor once said, I prefer hiding in plain sight) and with each new guest, each new outfit and each new accessory ascending the staircase, I mentally took style notes and could sense a long night on Net-a-Porter ahead when I eventually got home.

The thing I love most about Ibiza – and this has never changed, not in the entire *gulp* 17 years I have lived on this incredible island – is the fascinating melting pot of people it attracts, and the Ibiza Tastemakers Dinner was no exception. I could have spent hours and hours chatting to each and every one of the wonderful guests who joined us at the communal rooftop tables at La Mirada – from fashion, philanthropy and filmmaking to architecture and entrepreneurship, the conversations flowed so thick and fast we A-L-M-O-S-T missed the magical sunset moment. I say almost of course, because it’s impossible to miss when you’ve got Es Vedrá being being swirled by kaleidoscopic colours of the sky as the sun starts to say its goodnight.

Once we were seated, our guests were the very first people in Ibiza to be treated to the all-new La Mirada Rooftop Restaurant crudo menu (new for 2023!), served sharing-style, which added to the ambience of dining with old friends and new. The meal started with decadent oysters and caviar, followed by razor clams with olive juice, and a savoury boquerón and anchovy dish that paid homage to Spanish cuisine. The mouth-watering Wagyu tataki had my vote as the star dish, though the silky Hamachi tartare, or the plump scallops and saffron escabeche were also high on many other guests’ list. The delicate calamari ‘bocata’ was an elegant surprise, as was the shrimp and quail take on surf and turf – all dishes that were at once light and luxe, exactly the kind of dinner you want on a hot summer night in Ibiza.

Very special guest, Eric Dardé – CEO of Beaumier and a first-time visitor to Ibiza – shared some words of wisdom on the company’s vision for creating beautiful, exceptional experiences (starting with our dinner!) with the group, while soaking up the heritage, authenticity and sheer beauty around him. And that was in between talking Twitter with James Blunt (and maybe, quite possibly, a little bit about music), environmental awareness with IbizaPreservation board member Frances Lopis and comms manager Kate Benyon-Tinker, not to mention fashion with stylists Renu Kashyap and Jasmine Hamed, plus eyewear designer Sunshine Bertrand.

Then there were tales of mezcal and magic from Pietro Cuevas, the real goss on the Ibiza social scene from Zeta Kearney, the ins and outs of island hotels with Dawn Hindle plus out-of-the-box ideas with creatives Barbara Bonner and Eddy Beltrame. There was talk of global travels with Victoria Durrer-Gasse of La Galeria Elefante and comparisons of Australia and Ibiza with White Ibiza directors Kristie Rogers and Danni Landa (short answer – yes, Ibiza does it better!) and so much more*.

*Please excuse me for dropping names like Alexis Rose, but how often DO you get to hobnob (do people still say hobnob?) with so many island movers and shakers (wait – do people still say that too?).

When the clock struck 12 (I think – I may have been in a Cinderella-esque lavender cocktail haze by then), our guests started to descend back to the garden, but before heading to their onward journeys (or their suites!), they were gifted a beautiful goodie bag filled with Ibiza-inspired treats. Delicious ginger and orange jam, handmade with ingredients from the Petunia Ibiza garden and quite possibly the best homemade cookies I’ve ever eaten (and yes, I ate them all for breakfast the next day). A full-size bottle of Ibiza’s vermouth du jour, Goldtooth (no I did NOT drink that for breakfast the next day – I saved it for the following sunset cocktail hour!) plus a rare-as-hens-teeth mini-bottle of cult island beauty product, SAENT skin oil.

And last, but not least, we gifted copies of our collectible White Ibiza Magazines – perfect for holiday (or Ibiza lifestyle) inspiration, as a coffee table accessory, and, in my case, as present for my driver, since (as you may have guessed) I have quite a few copies sitting here on my desk (and my coffee table, my bookshelf and erm, in the boot of my car)! I think I can safely speak for everyone at White Ibiza when I say a heartfelt thanks to everyone who joined us, and also to everyone who worked behind the scenes to create such a beautiful Balearic night. Let’s not leave it so long between blogs next time!

Ibiza and the V-word

Apologies for the click-bait headline but it’s been a while since I’ve checked in and I wanted to get your attention. The past few months have whizzed by here in Ibiza, in a haze of pre-opening prep, the return of restaurants (how I’ve missed you), bars (hello Paradise Lost!) and yoga studios (ouch), not to mention the excitement of hosting the first pre-season visitors (hola Mr Y!). And then of course, everyone is talking about the V-word – have you had it, will you have it, won’t you have it, can you have it, when can you have it, how long until you get it, which one did you have… so many questions!

Since the general population of Ibiza seem to have vax-chats covered, there’s another very important V-word I wanted to weigh in on today. A word that is perhaps one of the most important in my vocabulary and one that has been causing me great anguish of late. That word (or perhaps I should say brand), ladies and gentlemen, is VEGEMITE. The greatest source of Vitamin B known to mankind, the best thing to have ever come out of Australia (in addition to myself, Kylie Minogue, Neighbours and Ugg boots of course), and the only thing I ever want my tostadas topped with in the mornings. You see, as much as I have embraced the Spanish way of life over the years, when it comes to breakfast, you can take the girl out of Australia, but you can’t take Australia out of the girl.

Two slices of Vegemite on white toast has been my go-to breakfast ever since I grew teeth – probably even before. If I don’t eat it every day, I just don’t feel like myself. My day can be ruined if it doesn’t start with white bread, or a crumpet, drowned in butter and then smothered in that delicious thick black goo. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always travelled with a jar of Vegemite in my luggage for this very reason. America, France, Tokyo, Thailand, India, Bali, Mexico, Portugal, Germany, England, you name it – no matter what local culinary treats are served up for the most important meal of the day, I can always find a way to consume Vegemite. In Paris in the early aughts, Vegemite on croissants was a memorable highlight; last year, in India, I smeared it on a chapatti. And yes, it was delicious!

When I moved to Ibiza 15 years ago (where does the time go?!), I shipped about a kilo of the gooey black goodness rolled safely between t-shirts with all my belongings. I’d also always pick up a few jars whenever I went to the UK to visit friends, until I discovered Thomas Green’s in San Antonio were local stockists (and they had crumpets too!). Ah, life was so sweet – I didn’t have to horde my Vegemite anymore, I could just pop over to the west side of the island when I was running low… UNTIL NOW. Now, it seems Vegemite – just like anything/anyone from the UK – is on the no-fly list (or no lorry, as the case may be) and no one can get it into the country – qué horror!

It had never occurred to me that my local shop was ordering the black stuff from England, and not shipping it all the way from Australia (random fact: one in every 30 jars made is exported). I just presumed they went straight to the source. And then… Brexit happened. You know, that time Great Britain ever-so-politely excused itself from the European Union? It was something I never thought would affect an Aussie living on a Mediterranean island in the south of Spain. Rewind to 2016 and I do recall my English friends in Ibiza lamenting the state of their country – around the same time my American pals were forehead slapping at the thought of a certain orange man taking over the reins in the White House – for weeks on end. I remember tears over Hierbas but I wasn’t particularly concerned. Brexit wasn’t going to affect my life in the slightest. Little did I know…

Fast forward to this month and I couldn’t get my hands on the V-word to save my life. Not in Ibiza, not on the dark web, not on the black market – even if they do sound like they should be the right place to procure some black gold. Now if Meghan Markle could single-handedly execute the extrapolation of a Royal Family member during this important time in Britain’s political history – aka Megxit – then you’d think I should be able to get a Vege-mule (hello again Mr Y!) to smuggle a couple of jars into the EU for me. But no. It turns out, it’s not just Brexit to blame for the shortage. Apparently, the pandemic has led a shortage of brewer’s yeast – the major ingredient in Vegemite – which in turn led to a slower supply chain. There’s none in Tesco, Waitrose, Sainsbury’s… all my usual Vegemite haunts are dry. And before anyone even remotely thinks of suggesting I try (ergh, it hurts me just to type the word) Marmite… IT IS NOT THE SAME THING!

I’ve asked friends and family to ship me some from Australia, yet it’s classified as a liquid so cannot be posted. Clearly the Spanish customs authority have never opened a jar of Vegemite if they think it’s liquid (see above)! Fortunately, I have recently been very kindly gifted a jar from an Aussie friend in Ibiza, who could sense my withdrawal symptoms on the horizon, and more recently, another friend managed to pilfer some from another expat in Ibiza to whom I shall be grateful to until it runs out and I desperately need another hit of black magic. But seriously… what’s a girl to do? Fly to Australia? It would be an incredibly expensive shopping trip if I had to go back down under just to get some groceries – not to mention the fact I might get trapped there under the country’s current draconian travel restrictions.

Naturally, I looked to the internet for a solution because I don’t ever want to live in a world where breakfast doesn’t include Vegemite. I can live without shrimps on the barbie, I could do a winter without Uggs, I can forgo beetroot on my burger, I can stop swearing like a trooper, I’m happy to lose the accent but I cannot, and I will not, get out of bed in the mornings if there isn’t the temptation of that savoury goodness waiting for me. It turns out, I’m not the only Australian in the northern hemisphere with this problem and there are whole online stores completely dedicated to supplying expats with the foods of their homelands. (And there I was thinking I was unique!).

Two hours and about 150€ spent on aussiefoods.eu later, I’m a happy little Vegemite once again. The rose is back in my cheeks (you Aussies know what I’m talking about). Now I just have to worry about my waistline because not only can I get endless jars of the V-word couriered right to my door in Ibiza (and trust me, I panic-bought a lot of it), I can also get Chokitos, Violet Crumbles, Cherry Ripes, Tim Tams, Passiona, Twisties, Burger Rings, Cheese & Bacon Balls, Milo, Summer Rolls, Caramelo Koalas, Strawberry Freddos, Jaffas, Dairy Milk, Rocky Road, Golden Roughs, Clinkers, Fantales… ON TAP! Things I didn’t even know I was missing until now. Oh well – I guess it’s lucky those yoga studios are back open again!

PS. Dear Vegemite Powers-That-Be. If you are ever looking for an Ibiza Ambassador, I would very much like to apply for the job! I even wear Vegemite pyjamas to bed and my cat’s markings (see above) look very much like a slice of Vegemite and butter on toast. Intentional? Perhaps…

One step at a time

The sun is shining brightly here in Ibiza today – there’s barely a cloud in the sky and while there’s a light breeze, it’s akin to a warm late spring day. As always in March, the smell of fresh paint is in the air and the sounds of drills, hammers, buzzsaws and sanding machines fill the air, inviting a sense of anticipation for the season ahead. It’s also amazing to see the terraces of Ibiza’s year-round bars, cafés and restaurants finally open again – after 10 weeks spent locked up (not in!) – and filled with the smiling happy faces of island folk reconnecting with one another over long lunches (before they swiftly close at the ungodly hour of 5pm). One step at a time…

Speaking of steps, something I’ve become remarkably aware of in the past few weeks is my step counter. Something regular readers of this blog may not know about me is that I am not a big fan of walking. I like my journey from A to B to be as swift and as smooth as possible, preferably with air-conditioning or heating depending on the time of year. If it takes more than 15 minutes to walk somewhere, I am highly likely to drive or take a cab (being very responsible when I know alcohol might be involved, of course!). The idea of walking ‘because it’s a nice day’ is totally lost on me. It’s nothing new, I’ve always been this way – perhaps it stems from the fact I had to walk to school and was regularly swooped by magpies, rained or hailed on or sunburnt as a child. Later on, I loved zipping about New York, because it was totally normal to catch a cab to go only four blocks. Walking is not my favourite pastime to say the least.

Over the past year – as you’ve no doubt experienced, no matter where you live in the world – humans have become obsessed with getting their steps in, especially as gyms and yoga studios were forced to close their doors and working remotely meant your only incidental walking throughout the day was from the living room to the kitchen or bathroom and back again. I get it. None of us want to unveil those pandemic pounds when the time comes to hit the beaches again. But as someone who is not a fan of walking, I have been relishing the fact that meetings are over Zoom and that I can go two or three days without leaving the comfort of my own home… but I’m starting to feel that I am an anomaly.

In recent months, almost all – and seriously, I mean EVERY SINGLE ONE – of my friends has developed a keen interest in walking. FOR FUN. Not just for exercise, not to get from A to B. For pleasure. And for a sense of connection, I suppose – not just to good old Mother Nature, but to other people too. Walking has become a social activity – in fact, it’s been the only (semi) approved activity for people from different households to partake in together, safely and socially distanced, in the great outdoors. And so, people from Ibiza come together AND THEY JUST WALK. They walk and they talk, and they take spectacular photos of their journeys and then the next day, they get up and do it all over again somewhere else. They use apps that track their progress, going up and down mountains, around perilously pretty coastline, through the heart of the campo and along the soft sand of the beaches. And still, I have no desire to partake…

Is there something wrong with me that I don’t feel the urge to wear (ugh) trainers, have the sun beating down on my sensitive skin and traverse uneven terrain that’s miles away from the nearest icy cold beer? Is it rude that I’d rather catch up on the telephone than try and catch my breath to hold a conversation? Am I snobby in that I’d prefer to take a car or a boat (hello Atlantis) to my destination than get there all sweaty and messy on foot? Is my carbon footprint going to be the one that brings down civilisation just because I don’t want to spend an hour on my feet when I could sit comfortably in another form of transport for only 20 minutes? Or am I just missing the walking gene?

With this in mind, I started to pay attention to the step counter that is oh-so-conveniently built into my trusty little iPhone. I remembered reading somewhere that we should get at least 10,000 steps in per day. I consoled myself with the fact that while my steps were (considerably) lower than 10,000, I made up for it with 90 minutes of yoga practice each day. And then my yoga studio closed. And as much as I love the idea, I am not very self-disciplined when it comes to a home practice. So, I decided I would take the opportunity to jump on the walking bandwagon and try and get my step count up to 10,000 – especially when many of my friends were clocking between 20 and 50,000 per day.

Oh, if only there was a wagon I could latch onto instead of walking. I traipsed to the top of Dalt Vila at sunset – my most revered place in the world – with Taylor Swift on the headphones and (ugh) trainers on my feet. It’s a walk I’m accustomed to, as my home is in the middle of the fortress and I can’t drive directly to my front door (yes, I am aware that I’ve chosen a bizarrely located place to live for someone who doesn’t like walking). I took the long way home, meandering down the winding road through Los Molinos and back up to my house. 2,650 steps – seriously? The next day, I went downhill and made the loop around the lovely little red lighthouse in the port and back. 3,948 steps more or less. Are you kidding me? Then, on the weekend, I did three trips into town for shopping, a lap of the lighthouse, and about 30 flights of stairs to find that I’d finally clocked… only 7984 steps. The following day, my aching muscles confirmed it was the most energy I’d expended in a while. WTAF? How is a normal human being, going about their normal, everyday life supposed to reach the hallowed 10,000 steps without having to climb mountains?

I have come to the logical conclusion that to attempt this feat, I need one (or a combination of) of four things to make this happen – before my pre-pandemic clothes start to stretch at the seams. 1. Stylish new trainers that do not make me go ‘ugh’ every time I look at them. 2. A dog, who I clearly would NEVER neglect and would therefore get me out of the house. 3. A personal trainer or 4. The Ibiza clubs to reopen so I can get my steps in the good old fashioned Ibiza way! I pray for 4 although I won’t hold my breath in 2021, my budget doesn’t stretch to 3, and as much as I’d love 2, I think my cats would protest, so it looks like (UGH) I’ll be shopping for trainers this weekend. One step at a time, literally – how times have changed!

What a difference a year makes

They say time flies when you’re having fun, but I wouldn’t be surprised if future generations morph that phrase into something more like time flies when you’re in the middle of a pandemic. Whether we’re in the middle or (fingers and toes crossed) towards the end is something we won’t know until it’s over of course, but I for one, feel like the past 12 months have absolutely flown by. And I’m not one to wish my life away but I certainly hope that the next few weeks and months fly pretty quickly too, so our little island and community can start to rebuild itself in the wake of economic distaster.

On this very day last year, I was sitting in the terminal in Delhi airport writing a blog entry, after using the last of my rupees to buy incense and Krispy Kreme donuts. If I knew then what I know now, I don’t think I would have done anything differently, aside from donate those said rupees to someone in need instead of buying unnecessary tat and sugar. I’d been on the greatest adventure of my life with a huge group of friends from Ibiza (you can read a little bit about it here) and loved every minute. It’s so strange to think that was the last time I saw so many of my best friends, but the memories of that trip have certainly been helpful in getting us through the time spent apart.

So, there I was, preparing to flying back to the island, to my beloved cats and to my home sweet home castle apartment. I’ve never been sad to go home from a holiday, because I’ve created a home and a life that I’m always happy to return to here. I remember feeling filled with hope and excitement for the season ahead – it was going to be the best season ever. My Indian experience had humbled me. I’d go so far as to say it was life changing. Never had I ever felt such a profound sense of peace as in India and I’d been in awe of the way life was lived. It made me appreciate my privilege of course, and I vowed to be more grateful for everything I had in my life. Not just material things – I mean friendships, experiences and memories too.

Once I ran out of rupees, I sat in that terminal and wrote the aforementioned blog that babbled on and on and on (I was tired, overwhelmed, overexcited and quite possibly a little drunk) about how special Ibiza and our connections here are and I really meant it (and I stand by my word). I boarded the plane filled with hope and happiness, planning to spend more time with loved ones. I was planning to go out clubbing more often. I was planning to enjoy splurging in my favourite restaurants on occasion, but I was also planning to live a more conscious, healthy lifestyle. I was planning to practice more yoga, more breathwork, more meditation. Ahh, they were the best laid plans.

Well, they (good old ‘they’!) do say life is what happens when you’re busy making plans and I guess that could be said about my arrival back in Ibiza. I caught a cab home. I cuddled my cats. I ordered a pizza. I drank some wine. I slept off my jet lag. And then I woke up, and the whole world was suddenly different. People were panic buying toilet paper; you couldn’t get hand sanitiser to save your life (fortunately I had some little coloured Sephora bottles leftover from my trip). Pasta and non-perishable foods were flying off the supermarket shelves and then all of a sudden, we were in the middle of a lockdown – a term that we’d probably only ever used in jest suddenly became part of our everyday vernacular.

The lockdown started and the lockdown was extended. And extended some more. The lockdown eased and then the lockdown returned. The lockdown was lifted and then restrictions were brought in. There was a little glimmer of summer as the island opened up for a couple of months. And then the season was declared over, and more restrictions were introduced. The restrictions were loosened, and then they were tightened. There was no Halloween (well, yes of course there was but if you live in Ibiza, you’ll know what I mean) and all of a sudden it was Christmas. We saw the New Year in with friends and then more restrictions were introduced, putting us into a semi-confinement. America swore in a new president (hurrah!) and the restrictions were extended, then Daft Punk split up and now here we are again, waiting patiently for news on when our season can start.

Wherever you are in the world (unless you’re a Kiwi), I imagine your experience of the past year has probably quite similar to the above, give or take a restriction or two. Our lives have been irrevocably changed; we’ve borne witness to an incredible tragedy, but we’ve also seen bravery, selflessness and triumphs. Obviously, the experience has been more challenging for some than others – and here is where I check my privilege once again. India taught me gratitude and I am sure that’s what’s kept me (partially) sane over the past 12 months. I’m more grateful to be safe, to be healthy, to be here with my beloved cats in my home sweet castle home than ever before. I’m grateful for those people who make sacrifices and take risks so that we can be safe. I’m so happy that the sun is shining, and that we can spend time outdoors and that fresh food is in abundance. I don’t take things for granted. What a difference a year makes…

In a very weird way, it feels like I’m only just waking up from my Indian jet lag. Did that year really just happen? It was the longest year of my life, and yet it also flew by in an instant. I can barely remember much from the past 12 months to be really honest – the ups, the downs, the highs, the lows, the emotional rollercoaster. It’s like my brain is blocking it out the same way it would a trauma and in a way, I’m grateful for that too. Because now as I sit here and type, I feel almost the exact same way as I did when I was getting ready to board that plane in Delhi on this exact day last year. I feel excited and filled with hope once again and I can’t wait for the summer season to begin. A­lthough this time I’m not going to make any plans! I’m just going to let life happen…

The Glad Game

Over the past few months, I’ve done my very best not to go down the slippery slope of spending hours lost on/in social media. Given the year we’ve experienced, it’s not surprising at all that people are spending more time ‘socialising’ online – for a while there, what choice did we have? – but I can’t help but notice that the type of unsolicited comments people post on public forums tend to lean towards the negative side of the spectrum. I know, I know, everyone is entitled to freedom of speech but when I realised that my own mood was being affected by what I was reading, I also knew the easiest way to avoid that was to direct my attention elsewhere.

Sure, I still scroll through my feeds a couple of times a day (I’m only human), I check in on certain groups for info and assistance (shout out to all The Real Ibiza Residents and thank you Lesley Donald for posting all the need-to-know COVID info every damn day since March – you deserve a medal!), and I select my news sources wisely. Even when limiting my time online however, it’s still hard to completely avoid everything that triggers you on social media (for me it’s pro-Trumpers, anti-vaxxers, fake-pedo-hunters, blatant racists, constant-complainers, anti-clubbing evangelists, conspiracy nut jobs, aggressive Ibiza know-it-alls among others – you can see why i find it hard to navigate!), so I came up with a trick that helps me turn my attention elsewhere when I feel myself getting sucked into the vortex…

Now, before anyone points it out – I know the obvious solution would be to unfollow those who provoke me, but sometimes (in my opinion, not all the time, but definitely sometimes) it’s worth keeping your eye on the general mood and vibe in your community, or amongst your online friends. The old saying keep your friends close and your (fr)enemies closer springs to mind. So, instead of getting all worked up by threads created by people I’ve never even met or paying too much attention to all the negative energy that dominates so many online spaces, I simply decided to look for the good in everything – a bit like Pollyanna’s ‘Glad Game’. Turn that frown upside down. Always look on the bright side of life. Make the most of what you’ve got. Gratitude is an attitude. You get my drift…

I think I was probably around seven or eight years old when I first read the 1913 novel Pollyanna, and its sequel Pollyanna Grows Up. Despite my own propensity to complain or be sarcastic, the concept of the Glad Game stuck with me throughout my entire life and has helped me through countless situations. Still, I could never have imagined I’d be referencing it a few decades later, smack bang in the middle of a global pandemic. But here we are! Obviously, at the time the books were written, perky little Pollyanna had no idea that the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic was just around the corner – I wonder what she would have made of that! Anyway, as usual… I digress.

Putting a positive spin on things isn’t always easy at the start. First of all, you (well, when I say you, I mean me) really have to wonder why you feel so triggered by certain people, or certain opinions that aren’t aligned with your (and again, I mean mine) own. It can be difficult to discover that perhaps you aren’t really as open-minded as you once thought; it can be equally as challenging to find that friends you thought you knew very well are actually operating with a fundamentally different life philosophy. I’ve learned to accept that every time I make a snap judgement about someone (‘OMG can you believe she thinks we are going to have 5G robots activated in our blood?’), that same person could be making a snap judgement about me in reverse (‘OMG can you believe she is gullible enough to believe what a doctor tells her?’). Live and let live has certainly gotten a lot trickier lately – but we should still be GLAD that we are free to have our own opinions.

Once you’re over that hurdle, it gets a lot easier. The more you start looking for the positive things in life, the more you’ll see and feel them – that’s my experience anyway. It’s a skill that gets easier with time and practice. In the words of Pollyanna: ‘There is something about everything that you can be glad about, if you keep hunting long enough to find it.’ And on that note… below are some of the things that I’ve noticed in Ibiza while looking on the bright side recently. Side note: In line with my positive perky Pollyanna attitude, I’ve intentionally left out the negative trigger element that led me to discover the good news. No point dwelling on anything bad – high vibes all round!

• Some generous local restaurants have been sending hundreds of meals to the staff at the Ibiza hospitals, as a thank you for their tireless and brave work.
• A return to empathy, as neighbours, who may never have known each other’s names just a year ago, are now regularly checking in on each other’s health and wellbeing.
• Island residents are making a big effort to support their local shops and farmers – from fresh produce and beauty products to Christmas decorations, hand-made masks and so much more.
• A barter community has been established amongst like-minded residents, who are now swapping their skills or trades for household appliances, home-made meals, fresh fruit and veggies, furniture and clothing.
• Ibiza kids are adapting and evolving – but not complaining – about the changes to their school and social lives.
• Adults are retraining and discovering a whole new set of skills or talents they didn’t realise they possessed before. For some, it’s a whole new lease on life – not to mention economic survival.
• Residents are complying with the obligatory mask-wearing, showing much respect for the elderly and at-risk communities, healthcare and frontline workers and friends and family.
• Everything is generally much cleaner and more hygienic. There can’t be anything wrong with cleaner tables and freshly washed hands!
• More people are joining gyms and yoga studios (within the socially distanced regulations of course), or are out hiking, running and biking in the great outdoors, boosting their immunity and in general improving their health and fitness levels.
• From coast to coast, the island’s sea water is the most crystal clear it’s been in years, filled with fish and turtles and still tempting enough to take a dip in December.
• Police officers are using their powers for good – taking the time to be kind to little kids in the street, being understanding to those in need, and lenient on those who accidentally (genuinely) break the rules around curfew and mask-wearing.
• There’s a renewed sense of hope among business owners, with the news of a COVID-19 vaccine stimulating anticipation for the summer 2021 season.
• Islanders are adapting to the temporary local curfews – going out earlier, eating earlier and returning home earlier – in order to support those restaurants and bars who remain open.
• The introduction of mandatory testing to enter Spain is making it so much easier for people to safely visit their loved ones over the holiday season.
• People from all walks of life are getting involved (as volunteers or through donations) with the mammoth charity efforts to help feed those who are hungry in Ibiza, and to donate gifts to children who otherwise might have missed out on a visit from Santa this year. And on that note…
• Christmas is still on! Hello blue-lit tree on Vara de Rey; hola sparkly fairy lights; welcome back market stalls and a socially distanced ho ho ho to good old Santa, who’s probably quite happy not to have to have hundreds of kids sit on his knee this festive season!

Now, I’m not saying life as we know it right now is easy. I’m not saying looking for the good, or expressing some gratitude, is the failsafe solution to the problems society is facing on a global scale. BUT IT HELPS. After all, it can be hard enough to live life, to act normal, to do your job (if you have one), to parent your children (if you have them!), to be a loving partner, a good friend, a good pet owner, to socialise safely and to shine your light towards the proverbial end of the tunnel while there’s an overarching air of sadness around us. It’s even harder if you’re also losing sleep while worrying about what other people think or say on the internet. But if this year (and Glennon Doyle) has taught us anything, it’s that we can do hard things, so why not do them while channelling a little Pollyanna?

‘Be glad. Be good. Be brave.’ Eleanor H. Porter, Pollyanna, 1913.

Clappy hour

The last time I wrote a blog, our island and country (in addition to much of the world) was teetering on the brink of a lockdown. Will they, won’t they? Is it real, or is it overreaction? Like many people out there, I took it kind of seriously a few days before the isolation period was due to begin – I bought an extra packet of loo roll (just one!), a couple of extra jars of pasta sauce and packets of pasta, plus stocked up on a few weeks’ worth of kitty litter and cat food… just in case. It wasn’t exactly panic buying, and you use all that stuff anyway eventually. That was my way of thinking. That same day, I wrote a blog about spending the last night of potential ‘freedom’ with my friends… but I honestly don’t think I had any idea about the real ramifications about what was to come. The very next day, Spain – which was the third highest country affected by the Coronavirus at the time – declared a state of emergency and put the entire nation into lockdown, excluding any essential services. I’m sure you’re now all too familiar with what these are, so I don’t need to list them for you. Since then, I’ve been confined to my home with my beloved cats, which anyone who knows me will tell sounds like my dream come true, but it just goes to show you should be careful what you wish for. Because wanting something, and being told you HAVE to do something, are two very different things.. As I type, I’ve been home for 21 days straight, aside from two trips to the store and one visit to the pharmacy. And I read in the local newspaper (online obvs) today that the Spanish government are deliberating on extending our lockdown for another 15 days. Does that bother me? Es lo que hay. It is what it is.

I started writing ‘quarantine diaries’ on the first day, thinking that when we got out of lockdown in two weeks it may be a funny way of reflecting on the experience, after it was over. You know, deep and meaningful thoughts like: ‘will I ever wear a bra again’ or ‘do I need to ration my mascara for FaceTime calls now?’ and ‘what happens when you binge drink a week’s worth of wine in two days?’. After we were told the lockdown would be extended for another 15 days, this gave way to some more existential thoughts that I won’t bore you with (surely we’ve all thought the same by now) and by about Day 17 (which I later found out was only Day 16!), I gave up. The situation no longer felt amusing. It didn’t seem like something appropriate to blog about. Blogs in the time of Corona… as catchy as the headline sounded, it just didn’t feel right make light of the lockdown – no matter how many memes I’d LOLed at on Instagram privately. Why then, you might be wondering, have I experienced an about face and decided to write a blog today, on (what I think might be) Day 22? Well, I’m glad I pretended you asked. Because after three weeks of reading about doom and gloom, of feeling the stress and strains of the pressure of working on an island that relies purely on tourism, and from riding on an emotional rollercoaster, I realised that writing blogs simply makes me happy. And while I’m certainly not qualified to report on COVID-19 stats, or comment on the current state of political affairs, what I can do is offer some real life, human commentary from Ibiza. And right now, amongst all this sadness, suffering, sickness and stress, there are still things happening on this island that make me happy. I figured, if they make me happy, maybe they’ll make someone else out there too. Perhaps that’s an ethos that stems from my love of the book Pollyanna as a child… As usual, I digress.

The first thing I wanted to write about is what I like to call ‘clappy hour’. You may have seen it on the news or on Instagram already – at 8pm every night, everyone in every town and village on the island comes out onto their balconies, terraces or stands at their front doors to applaud our heroic healthcare workers. At the same time, police cars and ambulances do laps of the local hospitals with their sirens on, and all the boats in the port blast their horns. Someone is even projecting a giant ‘gracias’ light show onto the walls of Dalt Vila. I like to think that this nightly standing ovation also extends to the police, supermarket workers, public transport operators, garbage disposal people and more – to everyone who is contributing to keeping our island functioning. It started during the first week of lockdown, and has become a nightly ritual… even when it was pouring rain a few days ago, everyone in my square still popped their heads (and hands!) outside to keep it going. What is so beautiful about this experience is that after more than a decade of living in this neighbourhood, I have finally met all of my neighbours. I’m not going to lie – the first night I joined in was a little emotional for me. I felt so shy as everyone was shouting rapid-fire Spanish to one another across the square after the clapping stopped, and I saw that everyone else in our plaza was part of a couple or a family. It seemed I was the only person who was alone (as a human, I mean, my cats are of course the best company). Afterwards, I ran inside and burst into tears, but I wasn’t crying because I felt lonely – far from it. I was crying because it made me feel so connected, and that the kindness of strangers who I had been living in such close proximity too for so many years was almost overwhelming. Each and every person had straight away asked my name, asked if I was doing OK, told me to let them know if I needed anything.

Over the last week, more and more elderly people have started to come out on their terraces, and I realise they must also be living alone. I wonder if they had also felt too shy to come outside in the early days of clappy hour, and I wish I could invite them over for a cup of tea or glass of wine and get to know them better. But instead, we all clap and wave from a safe distance, asking the same questions – are you ok, can we get you anything – along with chit chat about the state of the island, and making funny faces at babies, dogs and cats. I hope when this is over that we can actually connect in person. This week, two of my vecinas have had birthdays, and on both days, when the regular clapping and commotion was over, someone brought their Bluetooth speaker outside and blasted ‘cumpleaños feliz’ (the Spanish version of ‘happy birthday’) over the square and we all sang along (I mumbled the middle bit – it’s different to the English version and I never quite learned the words!). Once again I got totes emosh and cried (in a good way) when I went inside. It was a really moving experience. It may not be as glamorous as Italians singing opera to one another across their plazas, but to me, clappy hour is a reminder that (most) human beings are inherently good. It also makes me ensure my hair is brushed and I don’t stay in my pyjamas all day (well… most days anyway)!  From where we are, in the elevated plaza of the old town, we can hear the echoes of clapping all over Ibiza town and even coming across the port from the Marina – we see and connect with our immediate community, but we all know we are part of something much bigger. It’s a small gesture of gratitude, considering what those on the frontline are going through, but at the same time, it seems to be igniting the face-to-face human connection our society had so desperately been missing.

As I go inside after clappy hour every night, I’m always reminded of a song that Aussie crooner Barry Crocker sang for the legendary 80s TV show that launched the career of my favourite ever pop star (you know who!): Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours. With a little understanding, you can find the perfect blend. Neighbours should be there for one another. That’s when good neighbours become good friends. Maybe one day I’ll get my Bluetooth speaker out there and play that for them too. Who knows – when this is all over, maybe we can even binge watch it together (with Spanish subtitles, of course). NB: Photos not taken during happy hour because you know, I’m too busy clapping!

Where everybody knows your name

‘Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got; taking a break from all your worries sure would help a lot. Wouldn’t you like to get away? Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name… and they’re always glad you came. You want to be where you can see our troubles are all the same – you want to be where everybody knows your name.’ So said one of the greatest television theme songs of all time (and if you’re not already singing along in your heads – Millennials I’m talking to you here – please Google ‘Cheers’ immediately) and in these uncertain times, I’m sure many of us are feeling this way. We don’t know what’s going to happen in a week, in a month, or beyond that into the future, but one thing I do know right now is that tomorrow night there’s a place in Ibiza that’s going to be ready to welcome islanders to take a break from all their worries: the island’s very favourite drinking den of iniquity, Paradise Lost – aka, the place where everybody knows our names (seriously – see the photo below as proof).

Paradise Lost was very quickly adopted by islanders in the know as THE place to drop in, hang out and get lost (and yes, get into trouble while they were at it) from the very first day it opened in May 2016. Since then, it’s kept us all entertained and watered with the finest quality cocktails, drinks and banter all year round, aside from an annual short sojourn so the team can take a very well-deserved break at the end of the season like most island residents do, and then another in February, to give their hardcore winter customer base a chance to dry out and detox before the real season begins. Tomorrow night, that’s all about to change as the Paradise posse – aka Captain Jim and V-Dawg – officially reopen the bar for retox, rambling and refreshments, served up (if you’re one of the lucky ones like me!) in your very own pewter tankard. Yes! That’s my name (well, my pen name) up there on the wall, keeping company with some of the most awesome people in Ibiza if I do say so myself. And in case you were wondering (and even if you weren’t), Jim and Vanessa do indeed know my real name though they’ll never tell you – you’d have to be a pretty good spy to hang around the bar, wait for me to arrive and spot me unlocking the tankard from its place of safekeeping to work out who I am, dear readers. Having a Paradise Lost tankard is like a badge of honour on this island – they’re rewarded to loyal patrons and friends of Paradise, and if you take a look around at all the plaques around the top of the bar, you’ll probably recognise quite a lot of the names. I’m always chuffed to see mine hanging there proudly at the top right corner opposite the bar and I keep my precious tiny padlock key on my keyring at all times, because you just never know when you might ‘accidentally’ find yourself in the neighbourhood (conveniently for me, it’s also a five-minute walk from my home).

For many of us who live in Ibiza all year round, having our very own version of Cheers is so important. It’s like a port in the storm of summer, when everywhere else is super busy and packed with holidaymakers – it’s a place where you can walk in alone and know you’ll find friends, and quite possibly make some new ones. It’s a place where you don’t need to look at the menu because Jim and Vanessa already know what you’re going to order (mine’s a Rosita Mala and a tequila shot) and started mixing it the moment you walk in the door. And then in winter, when so many other venues up and close for the off-season, when seasonal workers fly the coop for warmer climes, and when there’s not always a whole lot to do but you just don’t want to order takeout and watch Netflix again, it’s like a cosy oasis in the back streets of the boarded-up gypsy quarter of the old town – a place where you can catch up with those same friends and not lose touch with what’s going on around the island. It’s a place that still retains the essence of ‘old’ Ibiza – where billionaires are sitting next to bus drivers, where who you are and what you do doesn’t matter, where you feel truly at home away from home and always walk away feeling like part of the family. It sounds like a cliché, or something I’ve been paid to write (it’s not!), but I promise you from the bottom of my heart and swear on my cat’s life, this is the truth. Whether you’re looking for a place to find new friends, a place to catch up with old ones, a place to celebrate an occasion, even a place to commiserate something, or just a place to hide from the outside world, (I can attest I have done all of the above here), Paradise Lost provides the perfect platform.

It’s been quite scary and eye-opening watching the news unfold over the last few weeks, and especially the last few days, as so many of us (and when I say us, I mean we who live in Ibiza) have been travelling, have close friends who are quarantined in other countries or are affected by the global lockdowns in some way, or are already feeling the angst and unease of what could happen to the island and our businesses if the spread of the virus affects the tourist season as we know it. Now, that’s definitely a conversation, or a blog, for another day, or a certain local group on Facebook if you really want to get involved, but the way I see it is, if ever we’ve needed our port in the storm, now is the time and Paradise Lost is the place. There are already plenty of people on the island who are already self-isolating or keeping themselves at a two-metre distance from other people in public. I don’t want to make light of the situation in any way and respect those who’ve chosen to make decisions or take precautions like this. But I, for one, want to be surrounded by my friends, as we take a break from all our worries by getting into some trouble of our own. As I type, there’s no indication that Ibiza will go into lockdown, or that we are at any major risk of contagion, but as we’ve witnessed in other countries, that can change overnight. We’d be fools to ignore that it’s a possibility. Alternatively, life could just go on as usual (albeit with a whole lot of extra hand washing and toilet paper purchasing) – there’s just no way of knowing. If you’re brave enough to come and get in close quarters with me and the rest of my fellow tankard holders, I’ll see you tomorrow night at Paradise Lost. Who knows, by the end of the night I might even tell you my real name. Come as you are, come dressed in full hazmat suits, come wearing rubber gloves and a face mask, or just come packing extra hand sanitiser – no matter how you choose to turn up, our troubles are all the same. Cheers! Bad iPhone photography by myself and blondewearingblack – just another day in Paradise!

Ibiza goes on tour

Ibiza people are a special breed. And when I say ‘Ibiza people’, I mean those who’ve adopted the island as their homeland, those who were born and bred here, and those who live elsewhere but have a love for the island that is so profound, they visit as often as they possibly can. They’re the people who feel Ibiza running through their veins; who feel its undeniable energy the second they step off a plane; and who cannot live without being a part of the culture here. If you’re reading this blog, there’s a fairly high chance you probably identify as an Ibiza person yourself.

Some refer to us as a tribe, others call us family and we’re also a bit of a cultural phenomenon in my humble opinion. Where else in the world do so many people from other countries and cultures flock together, and bond so strongly, based purely on the love of a destination and its lifestyle – in this case, a little island in the Mediterranean – despite their differing backgrounds, varying interests, wide range of ages and unique personalities? New York City springs to mind as somewhere that perhaps has a similar vibe – it’s a place that makes you or breaks you, just like our own little island has a reputation for swallowing you or spitting you out – but the population is just so much larger, forming an intimate community like we have here isn’t an option. There are lots of micro-communities in NYC of course, but New Yorkers can’t possibly get to know everyone on their island. You get my drift, right?

So what do you get when you take a huge group of Ibiza people and plonk them on the other side of the planet together? Without Ibiza as a common ground, do our bonds remain as strong? Are we really as close and open minded and (even if it is a little self indulgent as we think) as special as we think? I got the chance to find out last week, as I joined a large group of Ibiza people from over ten countries (plus some who were born and bred islanders) in a place where 99% of the population have not even heard of Ibiza (a fact which blew my mind, but more on that later).

We all took planes, trains and automobiles over 8,344 kilometres to India, to celebrate our dear friends Mr S and now Mrs SS’s wedding. Some of us travelled in convoy, some trekked alone, some tacked it onto a huge trip, some breezed in and breezed out for the wedding alone and others made a vacation of it – but we all did whatever we could to be there for our Ibiza girl and her groom (who is obviously now also an Ibiza person!). You may remember a few months ago I wrote about organising a hen party for the former Miss S (that’s our girl!) aboard the good ship Saga – turns out that feeling of togetherness was just a mere taster of the main event that was to come. Once again, I won’t spill the details of the event or share photos because A. I would not be able to fit all of the amazingness that we experienced over the course of those few days into a single blog (it’s much more like a novel!); B. privacy laws and all that; and finally C. I have vowed to respect the time-honoured tradition of ‘what goes on tour stays on tour’.

India and Ibiza couldn’t be more opposite in so many ways, yet both share a certain sense of openness, warmth, hospitality and harmony, and we were welcomed like family not only by the bride’s actual family, but by every single person we met, from strangers on a plane (if only I could share some stories about our adopted Daddy India – but WGOTSOT), and drivers (I’d love to tell you about the king of tailgating, Mr B, but WGOTSOT) to tailors (if only you could see all the incredible custom-made Indian outfits we all wore! But WGOTSOT) and safari drivers (I’m holding back from telling you about the time our jeep was charged by a mama elephant protecting her bubba – WGOTSOT) plus legendary Bollywood DJs (oh, I wish I could tell you about some of the b2b action from the final night, but WGOTSOT).

I’m the first to admit that being in a country like India with a group of people (Ibiza people!) such as ourselves made me incredibly aware of my own privilege, and that of everyone around me, but it was also beautiful to see our friends all be humbled by the experience too. You never know what kind of a travel companion someone will make until you physically go on tour with them – a bit like a housemate in that sense – and our team totally nailed it. Being able to spend quality one on one time with friends of friends, or with people you may only see a few times of year in social situations, or actually getting to party somewhere new with your friends who are too busy working all summer to go out in Ibiza, and getting to really know people you’ve only ever worked with before – it was all so special.

As I type all of this, I am very aware it sounds a little cliché. Because to many of our readers, this is probably the exact same feeling YOU experience when you travel to Ibiza. You gather a collective of your Ibiza-loving buddies, you organise a villa, boat trips, club nights, beach club days, amazing meals in restaurants – I know the drill. You meet other Ibiza lovers when you’re here on the island and they become part of your future Ibiza crew too, then you all make memories together and have life-changing experiences. I guess I never really had that experience before – I just came to Ibiza with just one friend (shout out to Miss G for getting me here) and never left (it seems to have turned into a voluntary lifetime tour of duty!) and so my trip to India with our gang really drove home that feeling of camaraderie, friendship, and more so than ever before, family.

What I learned over this past week is that while we all love Ibiza, and Ibiza was the place that brought us all together, the island doesn’t define us. Our collective connection to this island will never waver, but our connections to each other have become much more personal (WGOTSOT) and much stronger. For someone like me – who makes a huge fuss about not ever wanting to leave Ibiza – it was an eye-opening and cliché as it may sound, totally life changing experience (but don’t worry dear readers – I’m not going anywhere else any time soon – the season is almost upon us!). What I will take with me to my grave is this: You can take the people out of Ibiza, but you can’t take Ibiza out of the people. And I’ll leave it at that because what goes on tour stays on tour!

Congrats (and THANK YOU!) to Mr & Mrs SS and happy honeymoon! See you back in Ibiza for the after party, obvs…

The obligatory V-Day love waffle

Doesn’t time just fly when we’re having fun here in Ibiza? Another year has flown by and Valentine’s Day is upon us once again. Love Day, V.Day, Saint Val’s Day, Singles Awareness Day, Singles Appreciation Day, The Hallmark Holiday – whatever you call it (personally I have always thought of it as my mother’s birthday!), the day is approaching when couples all over the world feel compelled (or perhaps pressured) into publicly displaying their love for one another, through flowers, gifts, dinners, trips, proposals – you know the drill. And so, today, like many other bloggers around the world, I find myself in the position of needing to write some obligatory V-Day waffle… Mmmm, waffles.

Have I ever told you how much I love waffles? They weren’t really a breakfast staple where I grew up, so when I first travelled to the USA, I became a HUGE fan of waffles, especially when they were part of a high-end hotel’s breakfast buffet. You could say it was love at first bite (sorry!). That crispy-on-the-outside, fluffy-on-the-inside batter, those perfectly shaped hollow squares just waiting to soak up gloops of silky sweet maple syrup (interestingly, another condiment I had never tried in my home country – thank you good ole US of A for that one too!). Sure, you can put some strawberries on top to make them look beautiful, maybe a dollop of cream or some powdered sugar, but waffles in their most basic form are indeed a beautiful thing.

Perhaps a heart-shaped waffle would make the ideal Valentine’s Day breakfast? In the absence of The Giri Café (whose wonderful waffles are pictured above, but don’t open until March, I wonder if I put a special request in to my dear friend Lana Love (I mean really – LOVE is in her name, how can she say no?), the creator of Ibiza’s legendary Passion Cafes, for a heart shaped brunch waffle, if she could have her chefs whip it up for me? Now that – that would be love. After all, people can show love to those who aren’t their significant other. In fact, we do it all the time – it’s just not given a name or a special date to celebrate it on. Whether it’s kindness to another human being, showing compassion when someone else needs it, paying attention to how your friends are REALLY feeling (not just how they appear on social media), taking a homeless pooch for a walk, helping someone out when they need it – in my humble opinion, these things also fall under the love umbrella.

So today, as V-Day approaches, I think we should all focus more on the everyday kinds of love that takes place in our lives. Not the kind that involves dating, or diamond rings, or decadent dinners, or even a partner. But the kind that happens just while life is passing you by. It could be the love you feel when you get out of your car and realise you park in one of the most beautiful UNESCO World Heritage Listed Sites every day (OK, maybe that’s just me and a handful of others, but I’m trying to paint a picture here). Or the love you feel when a stray cat lets you stop and stroke it (is that one just me too?). Maybe’s it’s the love you feel when you take that first bite of Vegemite toast in the morning (you can replace it with Marmite if you’re one of THOSE people) and feel like you are eating a slice of heaven.

I feel love all around me in Ibiza, no matter where I might be. Sometimes it’s in the local SPAR (supermarket) when the lovely ladies always greet me with ‘hola nena’ or ‘hola cariño’ (basically babe and darling, but not in a condescending way); other times it’s how certain bartenders in certain bars (you know who you are!) always fill your wine glass up when you’re not looking, but never charge you for another glass. It can be the way the lady who waxes my eyebrow apologises SO profusely and sweetly for making my face red (it’s not her fault, I asked for it, paid for it, and I just have sensitive skin, which she knows after ten years but continues to apologise for) every time she shapes them. It might be how my corner shop owner always asks how my cats are, because he’s my go-to-guy for kitty litter.

I feel it when I listen to my friend Miss S’s 12-minute WhatsApp voice messages (I call them her podcasts) because she KNOWS I don’t like talking on the phone, but she likes to talk, so she invented the perfect compromise. LOVE! I feel it in nature too. I feel absolutely filled with love when I see the almond blossoms in full bloom (now people! Get out there!), and I feel almost overflowing with love every time I see the blazing sunset skies over Dalt Vila. Music too, fills me with love and it could be anything from a random Bon Jovi song from the 80s coming on the Rock FM airwaves, to streaming Taylor Swift’s Lover on repeat for six hours, to singing along with Disney songs while watching movies (I generally alternate between The Little Mermaid, Beauty & The Beast and Frozen) to getting lost in the plinky plonky dreamy soundscapes of Ricardo Villalobos on Instastories (watch this space for a full report on that in the future). My love for music knows no bounds (well, except Michael Jackson – was never a fan) and so as long as there’s music on, I’m feeling love.

That cheesy Wet Wet Wet song (that you now won’t be able to get out of your head after reading this) really had it right: Love is all around us. We don’t NEED Valentine’s Day, Love Day, V.Day, Saint Val’s Day, Singles Awareness Day, Singles Appreciation Day or The Hallmark Holiday to know this. We just have to be a little more aware in our day to day lives to FEEL it. We don’t need to hold onto this overblown idea of finding an epic, all-consuming love. Perhaps, all the little tiny daily doses of love we receive add up to be more than enough love to last more than a lifetime anyway. So to wrap up my love waffle for 2020, I’d just like to send everyone who has read this far lots and lots of love, today, tomorrow and beyond…

Procrastinating what I preach

When it comes to Ibiza, I am, I suppose, what newspapers, magazines and travel agents refer to as a destination expert. I live and breathe (and constantly write about) this island, and if you want to know what to do, where to go, who to see or what to buy on any given day – and I mean 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year – I’m your girl. I love planning an Ibiza itinerary for friends – of all ages, with kids, on romantic holidays, party holidays, the lot. I can give you the lowdown on what you might need to book well in advance, where it’s ok to just walk-in, what you should pay for and what you can hold out for guest list for, and sometimes, even when somewhere popular is booked out, I can probably still help you get in. Not that I’m bragging or anything. But when it comes to organising a holiday anywhere else… I am THE WORST!

Regular readers of this blog may remember that I’m not a big fan of travelling. Leaving the island is hard for me – like, it hurts my heart to get on that plane, not to mention creates all kinds of inner emotional turmoil for me. But that’s another story. And one that makes me feel good about my own carbon footprint, if nothing else! Today’s story – well, the one on my mind anyway – is about the process of travel planning. Clearly, some people excel at it (literally, like Excel spreadsheets detailing every minute of every day of their travel plans – yes, I am looking at you Mrs B), thriving on getting to know their destination prior to arrival – reading all the books, from the Lonely Planets to the historical books and the novels alike. And then, there are people like me, who leave absolutely everything to the last minute, ignorantly arrive at their destination with very little idea of local custom (in my teensy tiny defence, I always do learn how to say please and thank you on the plane), and hope to god (or Buddha or Garuda or Ganesh or Itzamna) that someone else knows the way to all the good stuff.

I wasn’t always like this. I remember when I was planning my first ever trip to Ibiza… I was all over the internet, every minute of every day (and for this I apologise to my former employees). I had ALL the books, I knew all the myths and legends, I had a list of must-visit places, should-visit places, probably-visit places, and places to visit if there was any time left on the itinerary. I knew all about the climate. I knew how the public transport system (or lack thereof) functions, I knew how to get myself on a guest list, I knew who was who in the clubbing hierarchy. I guess you could say that even back then, well before I’d even stepped foot on island soil, I was almost a destination expert. So what has changed?

Is it that Ibiza just takes up so much space in my brain – not a bad thing, by the way – that there’s no room for any other destinations? Is it that the thought of leaving the island (even for a FUN holiday and celebration with friends) terrifies me so much that I just try to block the fact there ARE other cool places in the world out of my mind? Or have I just become 100% useless at organising holiday plans? I often blame my intense procrastination on getting my travel plans in order on the intensity of my work. I do often work up to 12 hours a day… but I’m also able to manage sneaking in a few episodes of Gwyneth’s goop lab on Netflix at the end of the day (don’t judge me) so, err, am I really using my own time wisely?

Take today for example. I got up early – like, really really early – so I could do all things necessary to get my visa and book my flights to go to my friend Ms SS’s wedding next month (the date is scarily close). I washed my hair, I put on make-up, I played around with Photobooth trying to find my best angle for the visa picture, then I decided that the lighting wasn’t flattering enough so I would need to go to a photo lab to have proper passport style portraits taken. I started to search for the flights – I KNOW exactly which flights I want to take already – and then I started to wonder about the connecting flights to BCN and whether I had the resident’s travel certificate that allows us 75% of the cost of flights to the mainland or other islands, and then realised it was expired so I had to go to the town hall for another one.

By that time, I needed to get to work and so both tasks have again been relegated to tonight. On top of that, I know I need to go to the doctor (do I need vaccinations? Or don’t I need vaccinations? Also, I need some sleep-friendly meds for the flights, antibiotics just in case, and so on, and so all – but when I try to make an appointment via the clinic website, it says my password isn’t valid, when I ask to resent password nothing happens, I figure, the hospital is just a ten-minute walk from my house so I’ll go sort it out in person… later. But later, after I’ve finished work, the hospital is closed for the day. This is the kind of way my brain works – it just does not have the capacity for prioritising travel. And so, I end up being penalised. The cost of flights go up. Or the flights sell out. I find out there’s a three-week wait for tickets to the theatre shows I want to see. I kick myself every time I travel for being this way, but I just can’t seem to shake it.

While I do find my whole lack of planning very frustrating and stressful as the days nearing my vacation approach, I have to admit – the adrenalin of leaving it all to the last minute and letting it throw my life into disarray is kind of thrilling. And that getting on a plane, with little to no clue about what you’re about to arrive to is also intriguing. Sometimes it’s awesome – you learn so much, meet so many cool people, and discover so many new facts that you feel childlike again. Other times… it’s a disaster. You can’t speak the language, you don’t know your Ubers from your Lyfts or a Grab and a taxi, you visit monuments at the worst possible time of day for crowds and visibility, you pack the wrong wardrobe for the climate or customs, and you’re a sucker for someone looking to rip off a dumb tourist. But at this stage of the holiday planning game, I’m going to take my chances yet again.

Fortunately, in this case, I have some VERY organised friends on the ground who are like my guardian travel angels (the trio of Mrs S, Miss S and Ms SS), and who I am most grateful for. But when I’m planning my return route back to Ibiza, you can rest assured I have every step of the way meticulously handled. I choose connecting flights at a certain time of day to get the best light and views from the plane windows. I know which window seats to choose so I can watch the wing dip over Dalt Vila and take a classic Insta-snap as we fly high over Es Vedra. I know how to navigate that luggage carousel like a master, and am one of the first people (touch wood) out of the arrivals hall and into a taxi, having already added (or removed, depending on the season) layers to my outfit to acclimatise to the temps. And obviously I’m a know-all who always tells the taxi driver what the fastest route to my house is. I usually know exactly what I’m going to have for lunch/dinner (after reuniting with my cats of course) and calculate the exact right amount of time between my homecoming and my first work meeting so as not to have jet lag. So why, oh why, can I not do this the other way round? Answers on a postcard please…