Ibiza Nights: Starring Han Solo

Context is everything in life.

If I tell you that I killed a woman at point blank range and it felt terrific, your innate reaction should be: me + the guillotine = first thing tomorrow. But if I tell you that the woman I murdered was an alien named Kathy Griffin who was on the verge of eradicating human life from the planet, then you’re Tweeting superlatives in my honor and buying every “You Da Man” T-shirt the BP station has in stock.

Such is the case with my trip to Ibiza this summer. I heard some of the best music in my life; did so while partying with long-legged Russian vixens; and left the island with a great tan and committed to a return trip ASAFP (as soon as fucking possible). But that doesn’t tell the whole story.

You need the context.

The reality is this: I was supposed to be in Ibiza with Sofia (probably the most beautiful woman I have ever met), but unfortunately circumstance and a personal emergency precluded that from happening. She had to forgo our trip for time in Madrid.

Unfortunately, I had already paid for our flights and hotel on Ibiza (for three nights), leaving me with a difficult proposition: go solo, and missing Sofia, or not at all.

The word “screwed” comes to mind.

Ibiza isn’t a go-it-alone destination. The island is a caravan of all-night parties, sun-drenched days in yacht-infested coves, and every imaginable form of European indulgence. The White Isle, as Ibiza is known, screams: “take five of your best friends; contemplate never coming back.”

But that’s not to say that Ibiza is all hush-hush debauchery. In truth it might be the antithesis of Vegas in that “what happens on Ibiza, shouldn’t stay on Ibiza.” The vibe, and the music, and the people are not meant for the isolation of memory.

I’d been to Ibiza once before, with five of my best friends. This trip wouldn’t be comparable to my maiden voyage. I didn’t need it to be.

I needed it to be okay without Sofia. For it not to be lonely, or confusing, or depressing. And thankfully Ibiza -- ever the game partner in crime -- delivered.

My hotel was in a prime location approximately ½ mile from the legendary night club Pacha. As soon as I arrived I immediately went for a run (note to fellow cliff-dwellers: exercise is a bridge to firm ground).

Post-run, reality set in. I had two options. I could stay around the hotel and relax in solitude, or I could venture out alone.

It wasn’t that tough of a choice.

I left the hotel and meandered towards the beach where a hut reminiscent of Daniel Caffrey’s bar in Cocktail awaited me. If ever there was need for a beverage with fellow travelers and a few of Coughlin’s Laws, this was the time.

I found a stool at the bar and began talking with a woman from Israel on vacation with her nineteen year-old daughter. They had been living in London for the better of a decade. The daughter introduced herself as a left-handed drummer born in the wrong era, upset that she missed out on the rock n’ roll of the 70s.

Our conversation was energetic and candid; together, we were introduced to the best mojitos on the island. This eclectic mother-daughter duo turned out to be an oasis for my blues. Luck, the ever-present partner of randomness, was on my side.

In actuality, luck is a requirement if you’re going to travel alone. You have to believe in the possibility, and the beauty, of randomness. It is the first and only Commandment.

Thankfully, my luck was just beginning.

After diffusing my loneliness in good company and a barrage of mojitos, it was time to turn the evening up a notch. I had no idea what Pacha was offering that Sunday night, but it was close to my hotel and my only real consideration.

But before we go there, a little background on Ibiza...

The White Isle is where the best DJs in the world, take over the best night clubs in the world, for all night sessions of electronic music. Names like DJ Tiesto, Armin Van Buuren, Sasha, and Paul Van Dyk all have a weekly gig on Ibiza during the summer. And sun-drenched clubbers ante 50 Euros a head to dance the night away in Ibiza’s sea of madness --- pure madness – from June to September.

But when I arrived at Pacha the bouncer didn’t mention any of the aforementioned DJs. Rather, on that night Pacha was hosting a fashion show by a designer I had never heard of, complimented by a DJ I had never heard of.

Not exactly the Ibiza I had in mind, which turned out to be another stroke of luck.

The best times, the most memorable occasions, emerge from the most unexpected of circumstances. For example, I met Sofia in a lounge on the next-to-last night of a trip to Madrid over New Year’s. I stared at her all night across the dance floor; she had me in a trance. Eventually I stopped Sofia en route to the bathroom with an attempt at flirtation in very broken Spanish. It elicited a huge smile from her and a response that I will never forget:

“Why don’t we speak in English.”

Eight months later -- with the help of Facebook, Instant Messenger, and a lot of international calling cards – Sofia and I had formed an unexpected and exceptional bond. Our energy was unchartable.

A random place in Madrid, leads to a stare-down, leads to an overseas connection, leads to international flights being purchased.

That qualifies as the most unexpected of circumstances.

Unfortunately, on that Ibiza night, I was walking into Pacha without Sofia’s energy by my side. The good news: within ten minutes I was talking with a girl named Marie and her four, long-legged Russian friends.

They do not make women like this in the States.

These Russians were born wearing four-inch heels and sporting legs that hurdle tables. And when you are missing an incredibly beautiful woman –- one that might be slipping from your grasp -- talking to another incredibly beautiful woman is as fine a thing you’ll find this side of Eden.

My trip had only begun and my spirits had risen by 8,000%.

Marie and I danced and threw back shot of vodkas. The night was building on itself one moment at a time. And I will never forget the death-stare Marie gave the bartender who poured her vodka, which she ordered straight up, over ice.

Before long another round of vodka, this time in a large shot glass, was quickly en route. Repeating Marie’s own words: “Russian girls are crazy.”

Which I translated to mean: “don’t dilute, or fuck with, our vodka.”

As the night progressed and the crowd started to fill in, something unforeseen and terrific happened: the night got even better.

It was as if I had been invited to a party that only locals knew about. It wasn’t your standard Ibiza fare, which is typically ordered “over-the-top with a side of meadheat.”

This night was all class. A great ambiance and a considerate crowd. Beautiful women decked to the nines paired with ridiculously good music.

And then there was the fashion show.

Envision six European runway models marching out in the middle of a legendary club in negligee, with boas wrapped around their necks. The models leave and come back, this time wearing bikinis and bug-eyed sunglasses. The music is a constant crescendo in preparation for their final parade: this time all six are wearing black latex, straddling each other on one Harley motorcycle. Two are topless.

You can’t make this stuff up.

And then at the end of the show, as the models dismount the Harley and strut out into the crowd....as the crowd erupts in relentless applause....as the best house music I’ve heard in a year starts to fade out and jubilant chaos takes over...as I shake my head in a state of delight and total bewilderment....another song emerges:

“I Gotta Feeling...”

And then: pandemonium.

In the history of the world there has never been a more perfect song, for a more perfect moment, than when the Black Eyed Peas entered the fray at Pacha that night.

All this, from a night which began dreary and alone.

That’s the beauty of flying solo: being alone forces you into the fray. It forces you to make decisions you wouldn’t otherwise consider. It forces you to meet new people, to walk into new places, to discover what the unknowable night will bring.

I met Marie on the first night, and then I met two sisters from Valencia the next day, and then I met an illegal cab driver named Josef who became my tour guide to the island, and then I met the wonderful Emily who “looks after” Carl Cox when she’s home in England.

I have new friends on three different continents as a result of going to Ibiza alone. If I could turn back the clock, I would still choose Sofia’s company any day of the week, but the end result far exceeded my expectations.

Which leads me back to the same reminder: the best times, the most memorable occasions, emerge from the most unexpected of circumstances.

Don’t be afraid of circumstances which begin alone.