For the past six weeks, I had a date and a note that said thisistheday.
I’m leaving tomorrow.
For the next five weeks, I’ll be staying in Ibiza.
Ibiza (noun): Mediterranean island, home for the past 40-odd years to an assortment of burnouts, hippies, acid casualties, club fiends, weekend scenesters, aimless people, directionless people. And supposedly James Blunt.
I’m looking forward to all that.
Reasons to try it on: out-of-season vacation spots always had a powerful hold on me; obvious semi-historic appeal, check; the only people living there in Nov./Dec. must be truly committed to the island, capable of dealing with a semi-regular job aside from summery delights, very keen on the peace-and-quiet element, or insane.
Prep work: Italian HMO card should work fine for emergencies (thanks to the T.E.A.M – Tessera Europea Assicurazione Malattia); medical checkups confirmed I’m good to go; Euro-valid ATM card was obtained in five minutes, tops.
Morale-boosting pre-move move: finally got around to replacing broken eyeglasses; the haircut is down to what it was supposed to be in the first place; this morning I caught a look in the mirror and went all “goodness, I’m a passable hot boy. Only my gender gives me away”.
Oh, and my landlord is a trumpet player. Figure that out, you lucky so-and-so.