by Martin, M.
“I was totally honest with Catherine and told her Ibiza is wild and crazy. But to be truthful, whomever I meet is going to have to enjoy letting loose and having a good time as much as I do. So it’s sort of an Ibiza crash course to see how she does, and I think she’ll absolutely love it. Or at least I hope she’ll love it.”
As I talk, Alejandro caresses Chrissie’s hair with a tenderness you wouldn’t expect of two people after so many years of being together. They’re the type of couple who’s constantly together and never more than a few feet apart, always close enough to grab the other’s hand or let the other know they are right there.
“So, what’s the plan, are we staying here or going out?” chirps Chrissie before I’ve even finished my glass of wine.
“You know, I’m sort of knackered. So if you don’t mind, let’s just have another glass, and then I’m probably going to call it an early night.”
Chrissie and Alejandro pause before looking at each other.
“Oh no, it’s happened. She’s ruined him already,” Chrissie sighs.
“What? What are you talking about?” I ask.
“You’ve gone all soft and squishy in love on us. Is this the David we have to look forward to in the future? You would never, ever have wanted to go to bed early on your first night in Ibiza.”
“Really? I’m just tired. Plus, I kind of just want to catch up with you guys. I haven’t seen you in almost a year.”
“Has it really been a year?” Chrissie asks.
“Well, almost; it was last September for the closing parties.”
“Ah yes, that was quite a way to shutdown the season,” Alejandro adds, alluding to the day I overslept, missing my flight back to London that had me knee-deep in trouble at the office.
“And my liver, I must say,” Chrissie laughs.
“We really are happy to hear you found someone you really like. We were starting to worry for you, man,” Alejandro says in unexpected earnestness.
“Worry? Why would you worry about me?”
“I mean, at a certain age you pretty much have seen all the women you’re going to see in life, and if you can’t make it work with one of them, you’re probably not going to make it work. You know what I mean, man?”
The clarity and simple directness of Alejandro’s words make me feel like it’s a thought he’s honed over time.
“I don’t know if I quite see it that way; I simply do what feels good, and for most of my life, that’s meant dating a lot of different people. Right now, it’s about getting to know one person, getting to know Catherine better without any distractions.”
“So you’re telling us that you’ve been totally faithful to this woman?”
Chrissie and Alejandro are the type of friends I can be completely open with; laying out every truth of the relationship without having to worry one of them will slip up with Catherine or judge me in anyway.
“Yes, well, mostly faithful,” I say.
“Now, that’s the David I feared … so you haven’t been faithful?” Chrissie asks, staring dead into my eyes with a certain disappointment.
“No, well, there was this time in LA that I came very close to messing up, but then I walked away from the situation. So yes, in essence, I’ve been faithful.”
Chrissie lingers in thought as Alejandro speaks, as if for both of them.
“Okay, okay, that’s fair. I mean, you’re talking to a man who isn’t even sure he can get hard for another woman; I’ve been with Chrissie for so long. I mean, at first, you smell every girl who goes by, and then over the years it just feels natural to be with only one woman. And I’m Spanish, man … we fuck anything.”
“But that’s also why I wanted to bring Catherine here. She needs to see the world you live in and know it’s still fun and exciting after all these years. You aren’t that boring married couple; you’re living life to its fullest every day with and for each other. I want her to see how fun life can truly be.”
“Well, I’m not sure if it’s that idyllic, but it’s a compliment all the same,” Chrissie says. “But you know, our life isn’t all party, there’s an equal amount of quiet nights at home when it’s just us making dinner and talking in front of the telly.”
“Yes,” adds Alejandro. “There are always loads and loads of talking with my baby.”
Chrissie scowls at Alejandro. “Someone once told me the best relationships are kind of boring. They simply work and life follows,” she says.
“But David, you have to lighten up on the whole work and travel thing if it’s ever going to work. Long distance just doesn’t work.”
“Then I need to change professions, Alejandro, because that’s impossible in my line of work.”
“But David, there are other options. You could do anything your heart desires, so it’s a sort of choice you’re making,” he continues.
“You make it sound so easy, living for the day and just doing exactly what your heart’s desire,” I contend.
“I love this woman, man; I would rather be homeless with her than the king of any castle without her,” Alejandro says, placing a kiss on Chrissie’s lips that leaves me missing Catherine even more.
On the drive back to the hotel, their words linger in my mind, but I also feel that Catherine and I are more evolved, and we can handle the demands of a long-distance relationship.
The hotel feels better on my second approach, like a welcoming home that I’m more emotionally ready for after the evening’s conversation. Candlelit lanterns line the path to my room even at this late hour that makes me feel as if there’s someone out there watching, thinking, and looking out for me. The room door opens to a familiar space. My clothes I had tossed on the floor perfectly folded on the chair, the bed turned down, and pillows tucked with a lavender sprig that I hold to my nose. Without brushing my teeth or even going to the bathroom, I tug off my clothes and dive into the cold linen sheets still stiff and aromatic.
The night is longer than I hoped, awaking throughout the night, but appreciative to take in the sounds of the country and smells of the room, fragrant from the blossoming rosemary in full bloom. At 8:00 a.m., I do what I’ve never done in Ibiza. I pull on my running shoes and hit the roads for a long run that I hope will fill the time ahead of Catherine’s arrival in two hours.
Ibiza is the kind of place where locals sometime stop and ask you if you need a ride if they see you running along the side of the road, so with no shirt and a mind for a sprint, I take to the road for a sweaty, exhaustive jaunt.
Normally in Ibiza, people are going to sleep at this hour, not waking up to take advantage of the early day. There is no one on the roads at 8:00 a.m., and you want to be wary of those who are, as they are most likely returning from Pacha or Space, fully loaded.
The area is teeming with new farms, more obvious on foot than in a car. Families are growing their own vegetables and raising their own livestock in a human experiment that’s intoxicating to dream about. Young, glamorous women are out hanging laundry while guys younger and more in shape than even I am, work on fences and houses, chores that seem to never be done.
I round back to the hotel by 9:00 a.m. I notice my terrace has come to life with one of the most spectacular breakfast settings I’ve ever seen. Not one to indulge in food, I can’t help but sit and pour coffee from a silver-plated carafe and nibble on hand-formed scones with marmalades made from fruit trees that line the property. There’s also a small note from the owner’s cousin who operates a new farm up the road about the selection of meats and cheeses. Birds chirp, lavender lingers on the wind and best of all, Catherine arrives in less than an hour.
I’m dressier than I’d normally be for Ibiza, making my way to the airport a full hour early not wanting to be late and corrupt her first moments here, this place I’ve beckoned her nearly halfway across the world for a mere few days. It takes less than twenty minutes t
o get to the airport, a clear blue sky with a temperature that’s already hot for our first day at the beach. Radio on Ibiza is a nonstop mix of techno that in recent years has gone away from the hard-core, all-electronic sounds to a more a pop scene with djs like David Guetta and Bob Sinclair who have exploded across the globe. These days, it’s not only the nightclubs that lure the top djs, but also the new day clubs at hotels like Ushuaia that host weekly summer parties by Swedish House Mafia and Luciano, along with David and his wife Cathy, who are currently the hottest Ibiza music export on the scene.
And with a hum that drops in from the sea, I see a reflection of steel wings on an approaching plane, and I imagine somewhere inside Catherine sitting, looking out the window, and not knowing what to expect. She might be nervous; I hope she’s excited, or maybe she’s sleeping, but shortly she will be in my arms again. The British Airways planes are never the new ones of the budget competition—no fancy winglets or jetted noses. The old carcass thumps to a landing and then vanishes from my sight behind the terminal. It is quiet at the airport; only a handful of taxis pull in queue as sliding doors stay shut, almost appearing locked with their mirrored coating.
A solo traveler emerges with a rolling bag trailing, followed by a uniformed pilot or cabin crew with an even bulkier bag. Next, are the London kids ready for their Ibiza party, who were likely rowdy on the plane the entire way here, followed by a woman in a virginal white linen dress, familiar oversize black sunglasses, and hair blowing in the perfect amount of wind. She turns and our eyes meet again. She looks different from before and far different from the woman I met in Rio. She’s thinner and has a look that takes my breath away. Despite my loading zone parking place, I jump out of the car and swoop in to grab her. Our lips meet, a more familiar feeling than the last time, and then she grabs my face and stares into my eyes before kissing me again and then again. This is as perfect as love has ever been in my life.
“My David, my David. You are a sight for sore, tired eyes.”
She grabs my arm with familiarity, I take her luggage, and we rush back to the car.
“How was your flight? Did you get into London all right?”
“Yes, it was a very short layover, luckily,” she says, grabbing my hand and holding it with her own.
“I don’t like that you were in my city without me,” I scoff.
“Just like you to skip town right when I’m coming through.”
“Too bad you can’t come home with me after this trip,” I say, hoping she’d surprise me with a different answer.
“I know, things are so busy, and I’ve been traveling so much as it is, you know.”
“I get it. Work first. But we must really try to make that work sometime soon.”
I try to rush those first moments between long-distance lovers when we talk like strangers, the touch feels unfamiliar, and all the intimate moments we’ve had before seem so long ago. However, I look in her eyes and see all my emotions rekindled; just holding her in the flesh allows all the feelings to come over me once more and connect to where we are today. I sometimes worry that we are a relationship of vacations, of interconnected summer romances, never really getting a sense of one or the other in real life. However, she’s here now, and that’s all I want to think about and enjoy.
“So, let me tell you. My friends are a bit of a handful, but I think you’ll totally love them as much as I do,” I say, tempering her expectations a bit in advance of the scene I’m sure is yet to unfold this day.
“It’s Alex and Chrissie, right?”
“Alejandro and Chrissie, and they are very excited to meet you today. I’m thinking we’ll run by the hotel and freshen up first, and then we’ll meet them for lunch at the beach. That’s as long as you’re not too tired.”
“No, I feel great. But how are you? How are you feeling after Berlin? I’ve never heard you so glum.”
“Actually, it feels like a lifetime ago, now that you are here,” I say, realizing she’s one of the few people ever to remember what I tell them about my work life.
“And thank you for the flight, Mr. Summers,” she perks. “British Airways First is ridiculous, and I slept like a baby and should be fine after a quick shower.”
“Terrific.”
“Oh, how do you like the hotel? Was Barbara nice to you on check-in?”
“No, it was great; a little different than what I was expecting, but very charming and totally up your alley.”
“What? No, now, tell me what you really thought?” she counters with curiosity.
“Well, the location is spectacular, but it’s a little old for me,” I say, without sounding unappreciative of her work booking the hotel.
“You mean the room is old? I thought they just renovated.”
“No, the room is beautiful, and so is the rest of it. It’s just the crowd is older than you’d expect on Ibiza.”
“Oh, was the pool not stocked with bathing beauties like David Summers likes?” she says with a note of agitation.
“Forget it, I was just saying Ibiza is very young, and the crowd at this hotel is not. As a travel writer, I thought you would want to know that,” I say as kindly as I could possibly express.
“Well, I’m not all that young either, David, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Okay, the hotel is lovely, and you are lovelier, so let’s not turn this very happy day into something it’s not meant to be.”
“I’m sorry. I just want you to like it. I want it to be as perfect as you are.”
“That’s more like it. You know I appreciate anything you do,” I say.
As we round back to the hotel, Catherine insists on going straight to the room versus through the lobby or taking a quick look at the spa or pool. She’s hesitant with her affection with no more than a kiss before going into the bathroom fully clothed with her bathing suit in hand. She emerges ready to go to the beach without any flirtation, lingering touch, or caressing. She’s incorrigibly sensitive, and I soon realize things are sometimes best left unsaid.
Icy or not, she looks like a knockout in a lacy cover-up and heels that look as if they’re made out of some sort of arty straw, and legs that are far more slender than the day I met her. Maybe it’s a new diet or workout, but there’s a definite transformation. I dare not ask as I quickly swap shorts, throw on a white shirt, and join her on the terrace.
“It’s so much prettier than I imagined, and rustic,” she says.
“What were you expecting?”
“Honestly? I was thinking it would be high-rise hotels and loud beach bars, like Fort Lauderdale.”
“Well, there is that side of Ibiza too, but we don’t go there much. Do you think I’d make you fly halfway around the world for that?”
“You know I would have, in a minute, but this is so much prettier. I never expected there to be this entire agrarian side to it with these old houses and villas hidden in olive trees.”
“We could be farmers; that’s if we ever got out of bed.”
“You’d be one hot farmer, David Summers.”
I can tell she’s enthralled with the landscape of inner Ibiza as her eyes look beyond each turn and savor the sights outside the car. We pass a series of gated houses on the road to Cala Jondal where along a grassy promenade the white stucco Blue Marlin beach club sits for another season. It’s a who’s who of cars in the parking lot from reconfigured convertibles made from old Range Rovers to 1970s BMWs with a heavy dusting.
“Is this it? It’s called Blue Marlin?” Catherine attempts to get past the earlier emotional hiccup and proceed into a better day.
“Yes, this would be the ever-famous Blue Marlin. It’s one of the most fun beach clubs on the island, and it has a great crowd where you always run into someone you know.”
“So exciting! I can’t wait to touch the water.”
“It’s a beautiful beach, too, wit
h a swim jetty where you can just jump in the water. I was thinking we’ll lie out for a while and then join my friends for lunch as soon as they arrive.”
“Are they here already?”
“No. They are on Ibiza time and arrive when they arrive and are usually always the last to leave. That’s how they do it.”
Before we even make it to the door, I can feel the beat of techno. Catherine walks in front of me carrying a colorful beach bag. She begins to tell a story about how Ibiza was actually once a Phoenician outpost, and all along the shore, you can supposedly see these incredible old ruins that simply lie in the crashing sea.
There’s a door attendant, even at one o’clock in the afternoon, who takes our name twice, the second time with spelling, before leading us to the edge of the water two rows in and to a line of four chaise lounges. Catherine demurely settles in, and I take in the surroundings that include a gaggle of loud Irish girls and a group of incredibly hot Russians in the next row who got even better seating than we did.
One Russian in particular takes note of our arrival through her dark-tinted glasses. I slowly undress behind Catherine, first my shirt, and then my shorts and shoes. She watches, not knowing I can see every blink, every glance at and away, and back at me.
Catherine pulls out a book, thick and cumbersome, and lies back on her chaise placed in the second highest notch that gives her a full view of the sea as well as a group of football players clustered around the jetty. I’m sure she doesn’t recognize more than their edgy hair and looks. Despite the two months’ time between our visits, she sits in silence tending to her book between glances at all that surrounds us including the morning-trance music that’s so Ibiza. She doesn’t hate it, but I’m also unsure if this was what she was expecting. The waitress approaches, and I order a full bottle of rosé for the two of us. If there’s anything that will loosen Catherine up, it’s some bubbly.
A bucket of ice later and Catherine is in her full glory chatting with the Russian models in front of her about the football player they fancy and the various parties happening around the island this weekend. She is another person in this moment—flirty and expressive—her touch claiming me as her own and making me not even want to look at anyone else but her. She kisses me while passing a chunk of ice mouth to mouth. It falls into my lap and her new friends laugh in delight. Another bottle is killed with a pop, pouring for all those around us, and alas, Alejandro and Chrissie arrive in a cluster of entourage and my ovation.