I didn’t think I’d fit in to Ibiza. I’m not young or beautiful – no, don’t argue! Oh. You’re not – and the only clubs I like are the chocolate ones that come in silver wrappers. But I was there for a week of celebrating my niece Lauren’s wedding and I’m beginning to think that maybe my preconceptions about this lovely Spanish island were a bit wide of the mark. And besides, I believe the witty songster James Blunt has chosen to make Ibiza his home so the thought of bumping into him and experiencing his amusing banter first hand was just too much to resist.
I was excited to attend Drew’s Stag Do, Drew being the groom. Well, of course he is. You’d hardly have a stag do for the second cousin twice removed would you? He had invited all the male members of the wedding party to join him and we gathered in the hotel lobby in Talamanca to await our taxis. I sized up the party and am very pleased to announce that they are a very decent bunch of lads, and although I raised the average age a bit I wasn’t the oldest one there. So, beer in hand, we clambered into various taxis and half an hour later arrived at the allegedly famous Lineker’s Bar in San Antoni – and watched a bit of golf.
Wait, what? Where was the dentist’s chair drinking game? What about the foam party? The drugs? The strippers? Turns out my idea of a Stag Do is about 30 years out of date, and I can’t say I wasn’t relieved, because I’m about 45 years past my “best before” date myself.
There I was, chatting to everyone, being amusing and engaging whilst all the time looking over people’s shoulders to see whether JB might be popping in for a pint. No sign of him after three hours, so I gave up and caught a taxi back to the hotel with the other elders of the group while the younger set took themselves to the Ocean Beach Club next door to the bar, where I suspect the Dentist’s Chair awaited. Meanwhile I watched a bit of the rugby world cup with a commentary in German. Who knew the Germans liked rugby?
Tuesday saw us all at Lauren and Drew’s wedding. The venue is perched on a headland overlooking the azure waters, which were illuminated by a setting golden sun. The bride, Lauren, entered looking absolutely beautiful and the groom wore a smile as wide as the Mediterranean. If his smile was a bridge we could have walked to the mainland on it.
After the speeches and the excellent wedding breakfast, our Joseph sang “Looks Like We Made It” and promptly brought the house down. I always pictured a rickety chair from IKEA when hearing the title of that song, but I misinterpreted it and it fitted perfectly with the mood of the day. The free bar was thrown open at 9pm but I didn’t actually take advantage of that as there was dancing to be done.
Now, those who know me well enough will find it hard to believe this but I took to the floor and danced for most of the next three hours to some “Bangin’ Tunes.” I think after having watched Strictly for the past few years, and being encouraged by various directors to do a bit more than move around like a robot whenever I’m on stage at Hexham, I have developed an enthusiasm for it that I never thought I would. I would call my dancing a reasonable success as I did’t break any bones and no one laughed openly at my attempts. Not even my two boys.
The one downside of the week happened halfway through a croissant when Rachel lost her crown. (The one on her tooth, not the headgear that she wears around the house). It happened after tucking into a particularly crusty piece of pastry. We sped away to a pharmacy, and in my halting Spanish I managed to secure a tube of dental cement. (Tip: the Spanish for dental cement is – er – cemento dental. What? I never said I was fluent). It was supposed to be used for dentures but it did the trick until we got home and she had it replaced permanently.
Towards the end of the week it was becoming obvious that James wasn’t going to come looking for me so I thought I might make a bit more of an effort to track him down. So I went off for a walk along the coast to Old Ibiza Town, past a restaurant that we had been to previously in the week where the staff put me to the test by not speaking any English. Undeterred by this, I ordered in Spanish, which I managed successfully until I spotted a corn on the cob and couldn’t remember the relevant word. My Mum always taught me that it was rude to point, so instead of indicating it with a gesture I asked the bewildered guy behind the display counter for La Cosa Amarilla, which made him laugh out loud. I can only hope that I had asked for “the yellow thing.” Either way, he got a laugh out of it and I now know the Spanish for corn on the cob is Maiz. Everyone’s a winner.
Further along my walk into Ibiza Town, I walked round the Marina where every berth seemed to be taken up by a Super Yacht. Fighting my inner Socialist, I tried to be impressed by the ostentatious display of wealth. The yachts are a thing of beauty, all sleek design and phallic aerial displays, but I couldn’t help but remember a conversation I’d had with a taxi driver the previous day. She drove a cab in the summer and was a social worker in the winter, looking after the island’s 300 homeless people. She had even stopped the taxi at one point to wind down the window and say hello to Dominica, one of the people she cared for. It’s an island of contrasts, no doubt about that.
The end of the week approached and I’d had enough of sitting around in the sunshine, so on the Friday night we all traipsed across the road to the Café Atlanta, where the locals outnumbered the tourists by about five to one. Still no sign of Mr Blunt: But halfway through a game of pool, we were stopped in our tracks when the speakers started to blast out a very familiar song. The locals got very excited. Wait a minute! I know those chords! Could it be…..??
No. It was Pink Floyd. Not even close. But it was engaging, if a little surreal, to see all the locals singing along to Another Brick in The Wall. We joined in. Good times.
Steve's Journal 