So we're in Barcelona now. Yes, I'm aware I didn't blog throughout our entire stay in Ibiza. Ibiza's not a very bloggy place. So I suppose I must reach back into the bowels of my memory and talk about our last moments in Rome.
The next day after the last post, Jessie and I wanted to experience another quintessentially Roman day, so we wandered/ate/caffeinated. That night, we went to the Spanish Steps to meet Robbie and his friend Clyde. We saw a free opera and then went on a third walking tour of Rome. What can we say, we like to walk.
We wound up in Trastevere and stopped at a bar for birre. Also, Jessie and I took Clyde to get chocolate shots. The three of us decided we wanted to head over to La Maison and see what was what. So I took everyone on a little Tevere adventure and we eventually wound up at La Maison. Or some sort of old person convention, masquerading as La Maison. People were, no joke, waltzing in this club. The club looked exactly the same. Same lighting, same couches, same dance floor. But with waltzing. We marched in there and decided, "you know what? We're going to talk to the DJ about switching this up". If only I could post a picture of this DJ so you could experience the same realization that we had when we turned and looked at her and realized... she was an old woman. Looking very classy in her string of pearls. Looking less than willing to play anything other than Italian waltzy music. Okaaaaay, so we waltzed.
After the waltz, we decided to head to Mood to see if ALL of the clubs in Rome had simultaneously gone pazzo. Nope, Mood looked poppin. Alright, va bene, we entered. There wasn't anything really wrong with Mood that night, but there wasn't anything really right about it either. I began dancing with my eyes closed, which I've found does a pretty effective job of keeping the boys away. Until I realized that Jessie and Clyde had ditched me in my dancing stupor. Also, upon opening my eyes, I realized there was a random Italian dude dancing in front of me but not touching me so that everyone in the club knew we were together. Except me. Not creepy at all. But they were upstairs getting fresh air, so crisis averted. We walked Clyde home, might have planted some ideas in front desk guy's head and boom, we were out.
The next day we checked out and flew to Ibiza. Romans are pretty serious about Ibiza, fyi. Especially the flight there. The party does not start in Ibiza. It starts as soon as the plane takes off. Don't make the same mistakes we did.
The title of this post is a profound statement uttered when we were unable to locate our hotel in Ibiza without the aid of a taxi. But I'm inclined to believe it's applicable to other areas of life. Even those not involving taxis. Also, I think it's profound that in spite of the fact that we hired a taxi, we still managed to get lost on the way to our hostel. Apparently there are two "Monterrey Apartments" in Ibiza. Naturally, our driver thought it appropriate to drop us off at the non-hostel, private living establishments. Joke was on him, because we are huge fans of wandering through the desert looking for hostels.
When we finally made it to the hostel, we headed straight to the hotel bar. Obvi. We started drinking, laying out by the pool, drinking, making friends, drinking, etc. A few of these friends were Italians who were interested in purchasing chupitos (shots) for us and taking a taxi to San Antonio. Nothing wrong with that. After a whirlwind of Italian and chupitos and gin, somehow we found ourselves in San Antonio. We wandered a bit, danced a bit, sometimes simultaneously, and ended up with glow-in-the-dark paint on our faces. At one point, we hit the mother lode at a kebab stand. Soooo good. Idk whether to credit actual deliciousness or drunkenness, but we were definitely not sorry about the kebabs. In the process of spilling our kebabs all over ourselves, we managed to attract a group of men. Because, trust me, Jessie and I are never more attractive than when our feet are strewn with kebab.
The men turned out to be American Berkeley law school grads. We hung out with them and somehow wound up at a beach and just generally had a grand old time until the sun came up. Then the guys went to sleep and Jessie and I sat on the beach drinking liters of sangria. Yes, plural. No, I'm not comfortable quantifying just how plural. We gazed out at the water and took in both G and R rated sights, sometimes both.
Eventually we decided to make something of ourselves and go out to Amnesia that night. We got all dolled up and went out to grab a taxi. Somehow we got distracted by some french guys...? Idk. Jessie wanted me to make sure that everyone knows we FORGOT to go to Amnesia. That joke was alllll JK.
The next day we rented a vespa so that we could explore the island. Yes, I can drive a vespa. Or, at least, I can now. Anyway, we vespa-ed over to Cala Tarida which is a beach on the west side of the island so that we could watch the sunset. We wound up at an incredible restaurant with a view of the beach and the coldest beers I've had in recent memory. Jessie drank fancy island drinks. You gotta understand, she is a very fancy girl.
After the sun had set, we drove back to the hotel to get ready to actually go out to a club. We had plans to go to Pacha because David Guetta was spinning. Muy bien, we were excited. We got dolled up again and went to pregame with Roberto (the bartender) and muchos chupitos. We ended up meeting Cedricle at the bar and and making plans to roll out to Pacha with him. Ummm, yeah. We ditched him. Whoops.
So anyway, we get to Pacha and have to pay mucho dinero to get in. The club was a very fun club, but after paying so much to get in, we found the price:fun ratio to be a bit on the painful side. Whatevsies, we saw DG and he looked old/confident. Above all else, he wasn't sorry about it.
The next day, we went out on the town and got henna tattoos. I ended up getting a huge tribal on my back to be ironic. Jessie got something very cute and dainty on her leg which suits her perfectly. Then the henna guy wanted to give me a free butterfly on my hip. Which was all well and good, except now I'm not so sure that the butterfly might be so ironic as to have brought me into a realm where I look like I actually would choose such a tattoo. I'm hoping that the tribal balances it all out and brings it home.
We drove around for a bit on the vespa, gassed up and wound up at a Scottish bar/pub/restaurant thing with a live entertainment. A very large, excited, Scottish man named Ray Moss. Dinner was tasty and we ordered a Punky (penguin full of ice cream) for dessert. Not as good as our french/persian dessert, but I make it a rule to never pass up an opportunity to eat from a penguin.
After dinner we went back to our hotel and Cedricle came over with rum and we had mas chupitos. Then we sent him away and fell asleep, some more awkwardly than others.
The next day (today) we had a flight to catch so we returned the vespa. I'm leaving out the fact that it poured rain last night and so the vespa didn't start. So I had the pleasure of walking the vespa about a mile back to the rental place. A very effective early morning workout, highly recommended. We flagged down a taxi and managed to arrive at the airport. We felt way too cool because we were actually able to CHECK our bags for free and so we drank cava in the airport bar to celebrate. Don't even pretend you're surprised.
We arrived in Barcelona, psychically found our way to the hostel and attempted to book a boat tour. But that was a no-go because the kitchen burnt down. Uh? But it was actually fortuitous arson because it led us to booking a snorkeling/kayaking adventure instead. Which is much more our style and we're pretty excited about the whole endeavor.
Ahora, tapas. Despues, todo lo demás.
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