A short but nevertheless scenic taxi ride (€21) brought us to the throbbing metropolis and having a few minutes to spare before our table at La Plaza was given to someone else I snapped a few scenes of the ambience in Dalt Vila's Plaza de Vila.
We'd calculated that it was 20 years since we last dined in La Plaza, drawn in by the elegant wine glasses and place settings and we'd often noted that it was one of the few rezzies in the square that hadn't succumbed to packing punters in cheek by jowl to maximise profit during the short season. I can't think of anything worse – other than being serenaded by an unwanted accordionist – during dinner than having to hold your elbows in and listen to a total stranger's conversation.
Our meal was superb, scallops, duck breast and duck liver, sea bream, beef Bourguignon, two fab desserts, a couple of aperitifs and a bottle of Marques de Riscal from the Rueda region came to €106 and was worth every mouthful. Nice unobtrusive but efficient service and a pleasure to spend time there.
OK, so when in Ibiza town, you have to comply with the laws of tourism by gawping at the posh yachts in the harbour, oohing and aaahing about what the owners are watching on their giant screen tellies (like you do when you're a billionaire on holiday in Ibiza, watch the frigging telly.)
So here's the obligatory photo of a mega yacht with a humorous name.
Then we walked up to the port to see the trendy bars that every dance music mag says you must go in. Obviously not many folk read Mixmag these days as trend monkey fave Base Bar had not a soul in it. And then doubled back along 'Mother of God Street,' (Ibiza Gay HQ) where, they'd obviously forgotten they were glad to be gay judging by some of the miserable faces perched on bar stools.
Still, the upside of gayness, unlimited sex whenever and wherever you want it, is more than matched by having to listen to Hazell Dean records, sing songs from the shows and take your mam out shopping.
So, two down and up comes number three – people watching. This means that your terrace table is surrounded by a stream of awkward looking tourists scared shitless of being ripped off and wondering where to go. It's about as interesting as watching Escape to the Country.
A quick headcount at our Mar y Sol table in the time it took to quaff a G&T and Cuba Libre (€12) revealed that no less than 5,876 tufty haired skinny youths wearing vests and penguin style shorts (waist round the crotch, crotch round the knees) passed by. Either that or the same gang of 5 did the circular route about a 1000 times. Ditto, the 342 skinny, brown, high-heeled, saggy French women.
Anyroad there was some light relief when a gaggle of geishas gathered to promote a Brazilian night at an Ibiza disco (like you do) who were wearing very little under their kimonos!
Even better was the promotion for Pure Platinum our local (non gay) gentlemen's club – here's a video. For some reason girl number 3 seemed to attract my attention.
Penultimate one on the list is getting absolutely shafted in a place you'll never ever visit again in your whole life. Fortunately for the Teatro Pereyra, there's more than just me in the world and millions of mugs just waiting to hand over their hard earned readies.
Tom Worrall was on keyboards and voice, and we got about 15 minutes of him for our €21 (yes TWENTY ONE FREAKING EUROS) beer and Martini. It's amazing how quickly you can sober up innit?
Last law of tourism in Ibiza is waiting for a taxi. We were quite quick on this and sped home through the hot night air (€23) and got back just in time to go to the toilet before bedtime!
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