EtiennesJournal

Ibiza. The Balearic Island known for its white sandy beaches, seas as crystal clear as the shots of Vodka downed in the neon comfort of a world-famous club, and the David Guetta slogan cleverly strung together to ask for sex on the basis of his fame. But I knew the island before the days of Kevin and Perry. I have collectively spent 8 years of my life lounging said beaches in a hand-made sarong and stuffing my pre-pubescent face with the island’s traditional Paella. However, upon turning the age of 12, my semi-present tan and my young grasp on the Spanish language unfortunately faded away in to many years of drizzly English summers. I’ll never forget when the cloudy Christmas morning of 2012 suddenly beamed brighter than the Ibicencan sun, upon discovering a ticket back to my old childhood stomping ground. I stepped off the plane, which may as well have been fuelled on alcohol judging by the amounts my fellow passengers drank, in to the warm air of the island that never sleeps. The stained white taxi became my horse and carriage, transporting me over to my kingdom of Talamanca. But, stuck to the black leather seat by what I could only hope was my own sweat, I watched the island I love transform in front of my eyes. Where there used to be only a dirt road, littered with broken bottles and various single high heels, there was now a perfectly constructed dual carriageway. Where the island was only lit by houses surrounded by trees on the top of mountains and the stars, artificial white lights lined the gravel carpet right to my hotel. I re-visited the magical sight of Benares, to find it had changed, becoming a relic of the archaic hippie culture that still makes me dress like I’m colour-blind. Menus were in English, and there were a few too many ‘Pizza and Chips on the Go’ shops for my liking. I was considering myself the only native left on the island, especially upon arriving on Sunset Beach. The strip of rock pools and semi-nudists that used to be home to small beach cafes and locals dancing with bells tied around their waists, had turned in to March of the English, with too-expensive cocktail bars and too-sunburnt old men blocking the view. But as I sat on the rocks, watching the sky turn in to a magnificent array of pinks, oranges and yellows, I forgot it all. Whilst it could have been due to the drink I had downed before, I felt home again. I boarded the plane, positively wailing at Ibiza down below me, winking at me with tiny orange-light eyes.