Operation: Ibiza

Operation: Ibiza

DISCLAIMER: Ibiza is often considered the party capital of the world. The following recap involves drinking, dancing, staying up past bedtime, and a general disregard for physical health. If you would not like to hear about the party habits of a 23 year-old boy with dancing shoes trapped on the White Island, please stop reading now. If interested in these antics, feel free to continue. HINT: This place is pretty awesome.

We are here. Our cab driver is a grumpy road rage champion. He refuses to buckle his seatbelt despite the incessant warning beeps and he flashes the brights at other vehicles so he can pass. We are driving down a two lane highway with no streetlights, guardrails or sidewalks, in the middle of nowhere, at least two miles from the airport.

Me: Archie, were you seriously going to walk this?
Archie: I've done it before.

Our first day in Ibiza is best broken down chronologically.

1:20 am: Land in Ibiza. Get through customs and grab a taxi.

2:00 am: I see it in the distance. As we pass bars and clubs teeming with high heels, short dresses, sleeveless t-shirts, and hair gel, we approach that royal insignia I have sought for so long... Space. Across the street? Ushuaia. We are scheduled to attend parties at both these venues on Wednesday.

Archie, like the veteran he is, walks straight into Space to begin his adventure. Unfortunately, this is the last we see of our Oxford friend. 'Tis a shame, he was a good man and would have been a terrific teammate at the parties. Farewell, Arch.

2:25 am: Arrive at our hostel (Barely. That maniacal cab driver instigated confrontation with every other car on the road). Hotel Giramundo's bar/restaurant is still open but the front desk is closed. Surprising, considering the time of day. Once the inkeeper wakes up and meets us at the desk (sorry, Martín) we understand we have made the first significant planning blunder of the trip. Giramundo is at full capacity, check-in begins at 1:00 pm. Eleven hours to kill. We can manage that, right? Martín gives us some suggestions for cheap drinks in the area. We store our bags at the "desk" - some makeshift shelves near the kitchen and off we go. Let it begin.

3:15 am: Ibiza Town is small and easy to get around. My extraordinary map reading skills plus illuminated street signs facilitate our walk to the bars. The recommended location is a street next to the harbor. The bars themselves are small, hole-in-the-wall spots with all the seating on the avenue. Place is bustling with mostly Spanish speakers. I found out early in our stay that my Spanish speaking abilities surpassed expectations. Retrieving verb tenses and certain vocabulary came easier than anticipated. I love speaking and conversing in Spanish - through Ibiza and Barcelona, successful conversation with native speakers enhanced the overall experience significantly. In the midst of this madness we found a "happy hour" special - two drinks and a shot for 12€. A steal considering drinks in the club can cost up to 18€ for a single glass.

4:00 am: This street closes down so we walk north to check the free entry club. En route, some dude overhears our conversation and pounces on the opportunity to speak English. He and his buddy were in town after attending a wedding in Italy and decide to roll with us. These thirty-something year old bros are idiots. The locations and happenings of our time with them:

- Hotel lobby casino - Tyler and I stand back and watch these guys struggle to get the video poker machine to even accept their money. Once it does, they each lose 10€ in a single play.

- Shady, silent building entrance with eight scantily clad women in front -

Bro1: Dude, they're hot.
Me: I think that's a whorehouse, man.
Bro1: Sweet! (instantly approaches).

Both bros allow these ladies of the night to take them sensually by the arm and lead them into the brothel. I stand outside with my arms crossed talking bullshit with one of the "workers" telling her how next door sounds better and I don't pay for sex. Once she realized I was serious, she stopped carressing my arm, sat on a bench and grumpily lit a cigarette.

On cue: both bros exit the establishment, sans prostitutes, and Bro2 exclaims, "20€ for a drink? That's ridiculous!" I retort, "Just think, if you had won that hand of video poker, you two could have shared a drink AND gotten down. Too bad."

- Bar next to brothel - Only Spanish people, only Spanish music. They complain about their inability to pull foreign tail and insist we go chat to four ladies at a table. Italians, I delve into Spanish small-talk with one, the bros and Tyler find the other ones can speak English. Girls were cool enough but NOT feeling the bros' agendas. Time to move along. The bros return to their place after what seems like an unsuccessful night in their eyes. Thanks for the comedy, fellas.

6:50 am: Burger King.

7:30 am: Day glow. Sunrise on the horizon. Our attitudes remain optimistic at this juncture. Sunrises are beautiful, why not welcome the first rise on this island from the beach? Vivid patterns of orange, yellow and red flood the sky and reflect off the ocean calm as we absorb the serenity of the new day. The image of the sun and beach that morning will remain with me forever. What we underestimated, however, was the heat associated with such scenarios.

8:30 am - Noon: Misery. Physically and mentally exhausted, hours become minutes as the island returns to daily form - a natural sauna. With no where to go, we pass the time on benches and chairs overlooking the beach. Sleep wants me more than I want it - which is a lot. Several times I slip into unconsciousness and have to catch myself from falling from my seat to the concrete. The sun is merciless. I'm wearing long pants, a black Tough Mudder athletic shirt, and a Burton snowboards Fidel Castro-esque hat. I begin to sweat. Profusely. I will remain this sweaty for, literally, the next three days. I perspired the fluid equivalent of my body weight on that island.

We transfer to the beach itself to find a shady spot to lie down. Best location? On the sand, NEXT to two chaise lounges, stealing the shade of their umbrella. Why not sleep in the chairs, guys? I'm not paying 5€ to crash on a beach chair for three hours. Spite is a powerful emotion. Hat over my face, I exist. Just exist on the beach for an hour and a half, rotating occasionally to retain the shade as the sun periodically peaks around our umbrella haven. The sand combines forces with the sweat to launch me into a dimension of discomfort and frustration I didn't know was possible. Truly awful.

Noon - 13:00: Sit on the porch of Giramundo's restaurant in silence. This lasts an eternity.

13:00: The finish line. Welcome to your room, "Marruecos" (Morocco, the names are named after countries). There are four bunks, a small shower, a sink, a window, lockers, and a ceiling fan in our room. I take one of the best showers of my life.

13:00 - 21:00: Sleep. Straight up. It's probably 90• in our room. I don't care. I sleep through the heat and the sweat and the noise. It was incredible.

21:00: Wake up. Swedish House Mafia called, they said it's time to go to Pacha. Shave the beard, brush teeth, change clothes; the game face goes on easily. We post up in the common area to determine a plan. Not more than two minutes after we sit down, a troupe of English speaking party-goers enter the room. Apparently the pre-game gods were looking down upon us. This pride of Canadians are ready to rage Pacha, as well. Absolut, orange juice, Jim Beam, and Coca Cola were brought in to advise the situation.

Needless to say, we get along with our new friends. Mitch, Ali, and Colin boast similar concert-going repertoires to mine own. After Ibiza they were off to Creamfields in Manchester - one of the biggest electronic festivals in the world. Diego, originally from Argentina, was a snowboard instructor in Vail last season - we got along. Candace and Amanda hail from Toronto and would quickly become MVS's (Most Valuable Sidekicks) and great friends by the end of Operation: Ibiza.

23:59: Pacha's doors open. You can feel it in the air. My buzz is sufficient and the dancing shoes are laced up. With the fellas in a fervor, they race away to get a taxi. The girls are wearing heels though and it would be unchivalrous to let them navigate the treacherous cobbles alone. The four of us find the taxi stand and Pacha within minutes.

"SWEDISH HOUSE MAFIA: MASQUERADE MOTEL" reads the entrance. A quiet chuckle of disbelief plasters a silly grin on my face - a grin that will not cease for days to come. Architecturally, Pacha is a discotheque marvel. The first room is a small, circular dance floor with an elevated bar/lounge area on the left and a larger, rectangular dance spot on the right. The restrooms are around the corner - upstairs for women, down two small flights for men. We regain composure and enter the main hall together.

Third Party is performing and it's already crowded. Nothing is uniform. Ramps and staircases of varying heights and direction intervene with stripper poles, dancing platforms, and randomly placed VIP sections. The crowd looks like a rolling wave funneling towards the main dance area and, shockingly, the stage. We found a great spot next to a bar overlooking an empty VIP area with plenty of room to dance and observe.

Sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 am: A familiar voice echoes through the speakers, "Pacha (crowd goes wild). My name is Axwell, next to me is Dirty South. We are here to party with you."

It starts in darkness. There is little room to move to the front, back, or side, but the ceilings are high - room to jump. The hi-hats, cymbals, and bass of the basic beat speed up. The lights start to flash - red, blue, yellow, white, green - in every direction. Gradually, hundreds of hands reach for the sky, the bodies of their owners anticipate the drop, their heads bob to the beat until they can't keep up. The music reaches that ominous, almost static tone that precedes so many rhythmic, bass-filled dance beats. Strobe lights are so intense even a non-epileptic may be susceptible to malfunction. The volume of the sound system is rivaled only by the scream of the audience. An instant of darkness, a deep breath... let that beat DROP.

Chaos ensues. Enormous chandeliers erupt in sparks, the iron-cast letters adorning them read, "Swedish House Mafia." The crowd jumps in unison as Axwell and Dirty South conduct from the stage. The ceiling hisses as CO2 tanks flood the room with a translucent fog that intensifies some lights, distorts others. Scantily clad performers emerge from behind curtains and sensually saunter to their designated positions - two to a pole, one keeps to the stage as the other ascends the metal for a more acrobatic approach; intricate costumes couple with stolid looks to express the professionalism and calculated tact of their performance art. Cultural and language barriers are transcended by dance, identity doesn't matter in this moment. Everyone under that roof will have this experience for the rest of their lives. All four of us are screaming for joy, perhaps unintentionally.

And for the rest of the night, "you can try to stop my dancing feet but I just cannot stand still."