The soundtrack for this chapter should be a little number from the VengaBoys (think Ace of Base on happy pills):
"We're going to Ibiza, back to the island.
We're gonna have a party, in the Mediterranean Sea."Ibiza is one of the Balleric Islands off the southern coast of Spain. Formerly strategically important to Spain as a barrier against seaborne attacks, these islands have become a vacation destination for Europeans. Mallorca has been hosting these vacations for generations now, but Ibiza has recently gotten most of the press. This is where you go to party.
Fortieth birthdays are rather significant events, and one of our group was celebrating. So the rest of us pulled together to get him what he wanted, what he really, really wanted, for his birthday: a trip to Ibiza and a visit from some family members. And of course, we couldn't let him go by himself, so we all went to Spain for the weekend.
What we didn't know was that the season for parties had ended with September. We arrived in Mallorca, ready to catch the ferry to Ibiza, and when we asked the locals about the scene and what was best, they gave us looks like we were all crazy Americans. |
And along our entire block, we were the only people there. This dog was one of our next door neighbors. He was never very happy to see us and tended to broadcast his displeasure to anyone who would listen. The entire street was like this: large Mediterranean houses surrounded by fences and guarded by at least one dog, sometimes three or four. The half mile walk to the corner store to call a taxi and get a ride into Palma was lined with dogs of all shapes and sizes, all equally vocal in their defense of property. The fences seemed sturdy, but since there was no traffic to speak of, we usually walked down the middle of the street. |
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Ian Gilman / Germany Journal DolciDeleria / Germany Journal |
Copyright 1998-2013, Ian Gilman & Christina Willott |