Working in Ibiza on summer season

“Caminando sin excusas” (“Walking without excuses”) became few months ago in a bunch of excuses. My adventure ended and all the expectations accumulated in 9 months faded away. Many people followed my footsteps around the world and supported me while I was carrying a backpack full of hope. All the courage that led me to open this blog faded away along with a trip that meant a before and an after in my life.

When traveling you meet many people with your same perspective. People who decided they did not know what they wanted, but had one thing clear: they knew exactly what was not made for them. Human beings wanting to turn their life around. Nobody told us how hard it is going back home. A place where time stopped when you left, the place where you are loved but you did not find yourself anymore. Thousands of traveling souls return home while they still fly in their dreams. Reality explodes in our faces and we are incapable to deal with it. The warrior’s rest. That is how I felt during my next 6 months after returning to Spain. But as I use to say: “Falling down only to gain momentum” I shook off the dust of my face once again and suddenly I found myself on the island that never sleeps. With a clear target on my mind I was decided to make my dreams come true.

All the fears that I felt two years ago when I left behind my job, my apartment and my friends and family came back and got stuck on my throat. I packed my few belongings in a couple of suitcases and put them into my car. Trust the wait, embrace the uncertainty, enjoy the beauty of becoming. When nothing is certain, anything is possible. And that is how I got involved in this craziness, working in Ibiza on high season. Something I did not expect at all.  The truth is, I lost my plans sometime ago somewhere in Southeast Asia.

Ibiza does not look like any other place in Spain. Maybe that is why I fell in love with the island at first sight. Ibiza is, at first glance, fake boobs, tattooed skins, clenbuterol biceps, drunk tourists and drugs everywhere. Famous djs on posters and secret cave parties, sunsets and street vendors, crowded beaches and semi hidden coves, crystal clear waters and places that can leave you breathless. Ibiza is blue and reddish like the sunsets scattered around it corners. It is shallow and authentic, calm and madness all at the same time. It is a small piece of land in the middle of the Mediterranean sea where everything changes constantly and you feel like traveling without moving. It is a place where someone always has an interesting story to talk about.

But the white island is much more than what a tourist can find, it is the people who has been born and raised there. They are half-year workers, people accustomed to share their time between work and hobbies; Those who have grown up watching the tourist invasion as part of their livelihood, something inevitable and every year getting more and more unstoppable; Those who came and fell in love with the island and never went back home again; Those who share their year among the frenetic madness of the island and any other place. It is those who knew the real hippies, those who escaped from Vietnam and ate acid inside the first discotheques. And those who knew the second-generation of hippies, those who brought crafts and danced psy trance under the moonlight.

The island is supposed to welcome you or expel you. I left it a week ago and I still miss it, but I still wonder if it is my place. Working as a waitress in a beach bar is almost as hard as traveling the world alone with a backpack as your only companion. It is good money, but not easy earning. Wearing running shoes and be prepared for tense situations, warm smiles of satisfied customers and the indifference of those who does not see beyond their paella and gin tonic. Despite how hard it is to carry trays at 30 degrees with humidity in mid August, working looking at the sea is one of the greatest satisfactions that I have been able to live in the past years. I will repeat next year for sure.

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