The Grand Finale.
Day three started just like
any other – sweating profusely after few hours of sleep, ears ringing, head
hurting, stomach empty… and completely stoked.
First things first, let’s get
in the ocean. We gather the troops
and assume our position next to the lifeguard stand. No drinks will be had this morning - we have a pool party to
prepare for. Tyler and I also need
to figure out how the hell we are going to get off this magical, flamboyant,
tremendous island. A ferry from
Ibiza to Barcelona takes approximately seven hours – what better way to rest
than on a slow moving barge.
Balearia (the ferry company – named after the Balearic Islands) only has
first class tickets available for tomorrow’s departure. First class it is. Tomorrow at 1300 hours we will turn our
back on:
- Heat.
Relentless, vigorous heat emanating, in a fashion I have
infrequently experienced, from that ruthless ball of gas at the center of
our solar system. Please do
not consider this description as an antagonistic, derogatory attitude
towards our sun. I love our
sun. I’ve been known to
praise the laws of thermodynamics, motion, electromagnetism, gravitation,
astrophysics, and luck – for, so kindly, situating our beloved planet
Earth in this exact position relative to the sun. We are so lucky to live on a planet with water (flashback:
SpringBreakOhEight, Cabo) and fire.
Despite my unconditional, perverse appreciation for the laws of
nature that spawned the sun, our planet, and the life maintained by both,
it was really fucking hot on that spit of land for our entire stay. The heat will not be missed.
- Beaches.
Yes, there are plenty of beaches to visit over the next two months,
including our next stop.
However, a unique atmosphere dominates Ibiza beaches – one cannot
escape the conflicting auras of tranquility and excitement, calm and
passion. Never has it felt so
natural to go crazy. Ibiza,
for our purposes (sorry historical Ibiza, I will check you out next time),
was defined by melding music with people to create joy. That effort was successful, and it
felt so right, no matter the bonkers behavior that complemented such
endeavors. The beaches of
Ibiza captured this balance of serenity and irrationality that embodied
our experience there.
- Food.
Again, more food will be ingested. The meal at Pio Lindo will go down as one of the best
of the trip, regardless.
Lengua de bistec and half chickens with french fries ALL DAY.
- Blurry Nights. Let’s be real, probably not the end of these either.
- Friends.
“Turning our back” on these friends is not the proper term. As I sit here in Aspen, Colorado
on November 15, almost three months after leaving Ibiza, I am happy to
report that the people we spent time with on the island were ultimately
much more than single serving friends. Not only did we rendezvous with a number of them in
other European destinations, but we will be eternally connected through
the cyber world and the almighty Facebook (where we share comments, likes,
wall-posts, and messages).
- Brain Rattling Beats. We have a knack for finding loud electronic music
basically anywhere we go.
It’s a gift and a curse.
Mostly a gift, because these concerts are awesome. The shows we saw in Ibiza will,
from this day on, quickly be brought up in the frequent discussion of
“best live concerts you’ve seen.”
Anticipation of these experiences, coupled with their inability to
disappoint launches the illustrious reputation of Ibiza concerts to an
even higher magnitude than initially anticipated.
Before we set sail for
Barcelona, however, we have TWO more shows to attend. The Swedish
House Mafia plays at Ushuaia, a fancy, new hotel right before Armin van Buuren
(“Ze Greatest DJ in Ze Vorld”) takes the stage at Space. This could be a good day.
5:00 signals game time and
the commencement of possibly the greatest live music performance I have ever
witnessed. Though exaggeration for
the sake of description is acceptable, I dislike the use of hyperbole. This must be clarified at this moment
because my previous statement – the one about “greatest performance ever” –
conveys my legitimate feelings on the situation.
We proceed with the pre-game
tradition on the new party balcony outside of the ladies’ room. Jim Beam and Absolut flow as snails,
tidal waves, scuba dives, and other high-five fake-outs incite boisterous laughter. Tie in a solid buzz and mix some
Fanta-vodkas to go. Clad in
bikinis, boardshorts, sandals, and cutoffs, things already look promising. Six people deep necessitates two cabs
so I hop in with the girls and meet Tyler, Reign, and Jonathon at the
entrance. Reunited at the party,
we swagger to the security check with Alex Metric spinning wax in the
background. The energy can be felt
even outside the white stucco walls and thick wooden doors separating us from
the raucous crowd inside.
Minor setback: Security does not like my Peruvian
soccer jersey. “No deportes,” says
the beefhead security guard, “no puedes llevar esta camisa.” This makes sense – sports gangs are
intense in Spain. The solution was
right around the corner. For 8.95€
I purchase a black shirt with:
I Y
IBIZA
Time to rage. Two steps inside the Ushuaia gates and
I knew this was going to be special.
There are hundreds of people surrounding the gigantic pool, facing a
massive stage, dancing their faces off to the undeniable skills of Alex
Metric. Paths of stones dash
across the water surface like lily pads; they boast professional dancers don
their unmistakable attire and lead the attendants in the art of motion. Palm trees provide shade and wading
pools cool water to all the beautiful bodies dancing wildly. For some reason, drinks are way cheaper
here than other clubs, so guess what, we order a few. Waiting to order, I hear the familiar sound of jet engines –
only it’s louder than usual. Eyes
to the sky to find the source – it is difficult to miss. A commercial airliner, a big one, comes
screaming over the crowd at the tail end of its final descent, clearing the top
of the stage by (maybe) 600 feet.
The crowd loves it. Ushuaia
is four kilometers from the Ibiza airport. I don’t know if this was designed on purpose but a couple
dozen jumbo and private jets flying directly above the stage added some serious
points to the showmanship and aesthetics of the performance. It was an incredible sight.
Our group finds a perfect,
spacious dance location right next to the pool with a great view of the stage
(and planes). Just as we get
settled I hear, once again, a familiar Swedish voice; unlike at Pacha, however,
three men grace the stage this evening.
“Ushuaia… (crowd goes crazy)
Ibiza… (more people go crazy) Make some fucking NOISE (everyone goes crazy). My name is Steve Angello, this is Axwell, and Sebastian
Ingrosso. We are the Swedish House
Mafia. Are you ready to party?”
Yes, Steve, yes I am.
The next three hours were
indescribable. The Swedes lived up
to their reputation – crisp production, technical precision, crowd control,
jaw-dropping pyrotechnics, unparalleled stage presence, and a fundamental love
for dance music confirmed these men as the most professional trio in the
business. At one point, they mixed
Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” vocals with the classic “Sweet Dreams” beat to an
encouraging result; as they dropped the main line in this banger remix, their trademark fireworks flung sparks into the sky just as an easyJet flight came in for
landing directly overhead. The FAA
would have thrown a shitfit if these antics were attempted in the United
States. I wondered if the
passengers in the planes could see us, I hoped they could. What a memorable welcome into
Ibiza. I will never forget
Ushuaia, the Swedes, the fireworks, the planes, the pool. An inherent smile plasters my face
every time I recount the experience.
At 11:40 pm we catch a cab
back to Giramundo – the night has just begun. We have to see Armin van Buuren. Live. At
Space. In Ibiza. I have to convince myself that this is
real life.
The hostel is bumpin when we arrive.
All rooms on both floors apparently took to the halls to party as one –
it looked like Braun Hall the first week of college, except way more intense
and a little more legal. People
are pouring mix drinks, taking shots of absinthe, slamming beers, and dabbling
in other goodies as we walk in the door.
We find familiar friends and meet new ones, and eventually have to stop
talking about what just occurred at Ushuaia because everyone was so
jealous. Bite to eat, couple more
drinks, new clothes, and we are ready for liftoff to Space. We arrived at the cabstand with
eighteen people from our hostel.
EIGHTEEN! That’s the majority
of the available beds in the hostel.
That’s also how we ran things at Giramundo.
Space is smaller than I
imagined. Once inside, one can go
to the lounge/bar/restroom area on the left or the main stage on the
right. Our timing was impeccable;
caught the last few tracks of Gareth Emery’s set (should have seen it all, but
fear not – the Ministry of Sound in London hosted Mr. Emery on our second to
last night in Europe) before the screen on stage read, straight up, “Armin van
Buuren.” Immediately I yell, “ZE
BEST DJ IN ZE VORLD” as he took the stage (fans have actually voted van Buuren
DJMag’s Number One DJ in the world for the past four years). Once again, the hype is met with
incredible performance. The dance
floor was compact but everyone was wary of other’s personal space. The lights and music were synced
wonderfully. Savoy lasers were
utilized to their full extent; unlike in America, where groups using said
lasers do not shoot them on the audience.
In Space, safety comes second to sick light shows, eyesight is at risk –
just don’t look straight at them.
With an older crowd, which I assumed consisted of long-time van Buuren
followers was hooked and involved without being overly active. This was perfect for my last showon the
island and allowed me to take in the whole experience, with a beautiful girl
and close friends, instead of dancing like a madman with minimal regard to
those in the vicinity. Mr. van
Buuren has the best job in the world, and he knows it. He jumped around and fist-pumped more
on stage than half the people in the crowd – entertaining antics behind the 1s
and 2s.
We left Space completely
exhausted but happy. Back at the
hostel we all reconvened in our room and chatted over McDonalds (clutch move,
Reign). Around five in the morning
everyone dispersed and I welcomed sleep knowing it would be my last time
(hopefully) I would sweat through the night. A few hours later it was time to check out and catch the
boat to Barcelona. I bid adieu to
our new, worthy, amazing friends and ventured on to the next adventure.
A heartfelt thank you to the friends that made Operation: Ibiza the
legendary experience I so wished it would be.
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