Sleep did not come easily last night. Refusing taxi service, claiming, “Cabs are for pussies,” we walked home from Pacha deep in conversation, trying to get a grasp of what had happened. “I love you, man. Seriously, we are going to have that experience for the rest of our lives,” I declare, holding my face in my palms, slowly swerving down the avenue. “That was eight years in the making, and we did it. We CRUSHED it. Axwell and Dirty South crushed it. Canadian girls crushed it. So real.” Conversation and wonderment fueled our stroll back to the hostel where we arrived promptly at 6:30 in the morning. I may have been in bed, my eyes may have been closed, but I only thought about how I would ever describe Masquerade Motel. Slumber coincided with the first signs of sunrise.
A few short hours later, Candace’s lovely voice offers, “you guys want to go to the beach?” Yes, please. That sounds perfect.
This shoreline experience proved far superior to our disgraceful endeavor the day before. Direct exposure to the sun was welcomed, not feared. The sand was soft, not sweat’s accomplice in an effort to infuriate me. Conversation incited laughs and stories, not complaints and disdainful sighs.
Once in the water it was difficult to get out. Nonexistent swells promoted handstand competitions and relatively intense water treading exercises. Fellow swimmers overheard English conversation and sought an audience. It is not difficult to make friends in Ibiza. Caleb and Jones are from Calgary (and comprised 1/6 of the Canadians staying at our hostel), and Reign, a Californian, was on vacation leave from serving in Iraq. We quickly deduce they are staying in Giramundo and plan to attend Amnesia tonight. The party gods are kind and just. Welcome, new friends.
Forces combine on the beach – the crew gains three new members, two six packs, and a bottle of vodka. Palms trees line the boardwalk, restaurant and hotel terraces overflow onto the beach, swimsuits are outnumbered only by smiles. The copious amount of bodies on the beach is evenly spread over the sand, encouraging interaction without confrontation. This photograph is a fair summation of the situation:
*Entertainment Highlight: Behind us, a scrawny man wearing a fedora transcended the beach atmosphere, entered his only world, and had the time of his life. His riotous antics and unintelligible dialect gained the attention of everyone within earshot. What language he spoke, I will never know. Whether this behavior was drug induced, I will never know. All I know is that I wanted to be on whatever level he was during this time.
At first, he sat quietly on the staircase that separated boardwalk from beach, bobbing his head to distant music, minding his own business. Gradually, he began to engage passersby in short, one-sided, incoherent conversation and unfounded laughter. Interaction seemed to enhance his excitement and before long he was pacing around, pointing and talking to no one in particular, laughing boisterously.
Then the imaginary soccer ball made an appearance. The ensuing actions went something like this: imitate sports announcer voice - kick sand back and forth with imaginary teammate - blow imaginary whistle - pick up imaginary ball - place it delicately on sand - back up - strike (with impressive form) - watch flight of imaginary ball - hesitate, hesitate - “GGOOOOOOOLLLL!” - somersault, somersault, bury head in sand – sprint, with arms open, screaming loudly towards the ocean – launch into waves. This happened multiple times to the amusement of the spectators. Absolute hilarity.
Energy and liveliness dominate Ibiza, especially when night falls. There is no denying that a preponderance of the beachgoers went hard the night before and seek to do the same tonight. Promoters peruse the towels offering wristbands at discount prices for the clubs that evening. Despite the overarching anticipation for more heavy electronic beats and nonstop dancing, the scene is composed, tranquil, and comfortable. First photo session of Ibiza ensues with a short walk around the boardwalk, taking in the sun, landscape, and environment. Peacefulness sets in. Hours pass, the evening approaches, and our group needs sustenance.
*Nominee for Best Meal: Pio Lindo. Whether it was the company, tastes, service, or prices, Pio Lindo deserves some serious praise. Recommended by a local bartender with one eye, this restaurant was perfect for our cause. Large portions of exceptional food, prepared by locals, and easy on the wallet. Oh, and they served beer. Our group of seven sat outside at the insistence of our server, Rosario. We ordered a round of Estrellas and devoured three baskets of bread. The vinegar was superb – clean, fresh, and impossible to resist. Reign and I ordered for the table, “(In Spanish) Three orders of the half chicken with french fries, one order of the beef tongue, two tortillas, one with spinach and mushroom, the other with potatoes and cheese, and a chicken friend steak. Oh, and one more round of Estrellas. And water for the table!”
The food was bomb. Plates were passed around, multiple toasts were made and we grew closer during the course of the meal. The lengua de bistec (beef tongue) was my personal favorite. The tender meat was cooked to perfection and smothered in a sauce that was spicy enough to taste the habañero but not overly fierce. Amanda was not thrilled to learn it was tongue after I insisted she try it.
Anticipating the need to get cleaned up and commence further pre-game shenanigans, we wrap up the meal with everyone fully satisfied. The bill? 63€. For seven twenty-something year old partygoers to gorge until satiated. We will be back, Pio Lindo, count on it. Tipping is not customary in European culture, but we hooked Rosario up.
Picked up drinking supplies and party favors en route to Giramundo and took a mini siesta/chill session. Another absolutely rockin’ shower and I was ready to go. This is a good time to remind everyone, Ibiza is the hottest place on earth during this time of year (not really, but roll with it). With no air conditioning in the hostel, sweating all day and night is customary. Even cold showers, with the cold water on full blast, are still lukewarm. It is madness. My best advice is to embrace the heat, celebrate the sweat, and focus on the task at hand: raging face.
With everyone spruced up to the best of their abilities, it was time to get down to business. Our destination tonight is Amnesia Ibiza. Who is playing at Amnesia tonight, Andrew? Oh, Sebastien Leger, Feed Me, Skrillex, and Eric Prydz. No big deal. For those of you unfamiliar with Eric Prydz, watch the music video for “Call On Me,” scientifically proven to be the best music video of all time.
Giramundo is small and by this point everyone in residence has crossed paths. Three rooms on the second floor share a large terrace – a party terrace, if you will. Standard procedure for pre-gaming ensues: groups converge, bring booze and food, finish getting dressed, share stories from the night before and earlier that day, get stoked for round two – you know the drill. Tonight, though, we decided to get really drunk, not like the night before. Mostly in anticipation for Skrillex and the unavoidable womps and wobbles associated with his act. I am one of few people truly looking forward to some heavy dubstep tonight. “He’s the worst excuse for a DJ ever,” exclaims Tyler, “he just puts a lot of terrible sounds in his songs and stands there.”
“Drink this,” I hand him the bottle of Jim Beam claiming, “if you drink enough you may or may not have a better attitude. Temporarily, most likely, but that beats bitching.” He accepts the invitation and raises Mr. Beam to the sky in honor of the moment. Wine bottles, shot glasses, handles, and vodka saturated Fanta bottles unite in the air for a toast to friendship, happiness, dancing shoes, and strobe lights. Laughter and conversation pass the time for a solid two hours before midnight strikes and we stumble to the cab stand. Everyone is more prepared tonight than we were for Pacha. The girls are not wearing high heels (brilliant), we have a larger crew, and we know what to expect from this wonderful island. We depart for Amnesia with our beach group plus Gemma, an Aussie staying across the hall, and Jonathon, visiting from Arizona. Solid crews recruit, become more solid, and enhance club-crushing experience.
Amnesia Nightclub - another wonder of the discotheque world. Comprised of two main rooms (at least from what I saw), there is plenty of space to move, observe, drink, and mingle. The main floor reminds me of the Fillmore Auditorium in Denver – large dance area in front of the stage, flanked by elevated bars, and a high ceiling. The lighting on the ceiling looks like the Sahara Tent from Coachella 2011 (I wasn’t there, but saw pictures). Hanging planes of LED lights looked like a three dimensional iTunes visualizer, only in a club, and on the ceiling. It was sick.
Despite arriving at the venue well past midnight, we were among the first people there. With ample time before the noteworthy acts took the stage, we allow ourselves to become acquainted with the area. Making friends with bartenders, purchasing Whip-its from wandering waitresses, noting bathroom locations, and claiming the best dance spot were of utmost priority. As previously mentioned, the price for a drink in Ibiza clubs is preposterous. A brief investigation reveals that the cheapest drinks around are beers (10€) and absinthe shots (9€). Seriously? ABSINTHE is the cheapest drink we can get? We’re going to need fourteen shots. Thanks, bartender, see you in a bit. If I was not drunk enough upon arrival, this effort helped the cause.
My one qualm of the evening, of the entire three and half days actually, was music related. The amateur, warm-up DJ played the same exact beat for, literally, an hour and thirteen minutes. Of course we were dancing our faces off, but the monotony was incessant. At one point, I was bored enough to go spend 15€ on a vodka-tonic to spice things up. While at the bar, there was a glimmer of hope for a musical transition. The lights and lasers intensified, the beat picked up; signs of a potential drop. Standing at the bar, waiting my turn, I faced the crowd with one hand in the air, anticipating a new beat. Wait for it… wait for it… WWWOOOOO!
Massive letdown. A moment of such promise – squandered and sacrificed to the same track that has rattled my brain for the past hour. Arm comes down, eyes drop; my disappointment is evident. I immediately lean over the bar and demand attention. Time to check out the other room, this is pissing me off and that is not allowed. V&T in hand, I find the group similarly annoyed and en route to the second stage. Perfect timing – What up, Feed Me, let us wobble with you. Those of you unfamiliar with Feed Me, he has a couple EPs under the mau5trap label and crushes live shows. Ian Nunley first introduced me to him via a Facebook post in January 2011 and I have been a fan ever since. According to Daniel Goldstein, “Talk To Me” is an appropriate song to play during the birth of one’s firstborn child.
For those of you keeping count of the number of drinks imbibed up to this point, you will understand that I was quite drunk. Quite drunk, in relation to dubstep concerts = optimum condition, firing on all cylinders. There is no question I enjoyed Feed Me’s set more than anyone in our group and, arguably, more than anyone in the venue. With a preeminent idea of what to expect, his tracks Cloudburn and Blood Red did not catch me off-guard. My fellow spectators, I am pleased to report, seemed pleasantly surprised by the triumph of such tracks. Looking around, many expressions combined confusion with excitement to devise some of the best “nasty-bass” faces I have seen in a minute. As Feed Me finished his set, he was not three steps off the stage before Skrillex was two steps on. A seamless transition into further madness. After one track, Gemma made an astute observation, “Skrillex is more wasted than I am.” I shake off the tunnel vision and scope the stage. Sure enough, Sonny was stumbling around and jabbering incoherently into the microphone. Perhaps it was just typical Skrillex being Skrillex, but I did not care. Despite his apparent inebriation, he rocked the socks off Amnesia. My favorite moment of the night was singing along with his remix of Promises. “AND YOU KEEP TELLING ME – TELLING ME THAT YOU’D BE SWEET – AND YOU NEVER WANT TO LEAVE MY SIDE – AS LONG AS I DON’T BREAK THESE – PROMISES – AND THEY STILL FEEL OH SO WASTED ON MYSELF”
WAAAAAHHHH.WAWAWAWA.WOMPWOMPWOMP.WIZOMP.BEEPBEEP.OHOHOH.SELFSELFSELFSELF.
Coincidentally, that moment was my last clear memory of the show. But so it went. For his entire set. I wobbled and womped myself into an oblivion. Loved every second of it. Our crew seemed to enjoy themselves as well. Tyler will refuse to admit it, but he loved it too.
While specific details of Eric Prydz’ set escape me, my authoritativeness as a professional rager qualifies me to dub his performance a success. His stage lighting was domineering; lasers were on point, and the iTunes visualizer ceiling set the mood nicely. A few times during his set, the whole crowd crouched to the floor together, and jump in unison as the beat hit. This was brilliant in theory, but not always execution. I have seen better coordination in mosh-pits at Taking Back Sunday concerts. Of the five or six times this was attempted, MAYBE two times were executed on cue. Good effort though, Amnesia. We did it right.
Hopes of sleep are futile after these experiences, so once back at Giramundo, we sought the beach and potentially the sunrise. Sober enough by this point, and too tired to make it all the way to the beach, we settled on what would become our “private terrace.” Which meant we hopped the fence onto some fancy restaurants patio and listened to the waves crash as the moon reflected off the water. Similar to the moment of introspection in Howth on the “Sit A While” bench, I felt completely content in that moment. No matter the circumstances one may be facing at any given moment in space and time, one is supposed to be there at that moment, in that place, with the people you are with. It is the actions and responses to any given situation that determine personal wellbeing. Never will I forget that moment on the “private terrace” - the inner serenity, the paralyzing gratefulness for the life I lead, the recognition of amazing family and friends. It was a nice moment.
We were too early for sunrise, so it was off to bed. Hotter inside our hostel than out, sleep was fitful but embraced. Nothing could have prepared us for the glory that awaited us on our final day on the White Island.
