Adventures Abroad: Episode #2 (490 hits)
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Submitted by worm (View user info) at 2005-05-25 13:13:18 EDT
This is the second chapter of a series. To view the first, click on the link below:
http://www.ubersite.com/m/65154
~~
Episode #2: The Isle of Drugged-Up Europeans (Part 1, The Arrival)
For the first few weeks, the weather was as gorgeous as the local (topless) women, so the six of us spent a lot of time at the beach staring at breasts and swimming in the Mediterranean. We were throwing around a soccer ball when I first heard the word "Ibiza".
"What the hell is Ibiza?" I asked Luke-Duke.
"It's crazy." was the response I got. "You wanna go next weekend?"
"Yeah"
The six of us sat there in the turquoise water for a second, rising and falling with the rolling waves. Something about their silence let meknow that we would be alright. Something about the way they all looked around at each other, smiling like they just discovered their brother's
porno stash, let me know that this weekend would be abso-fucking-lutley insane.
I was the only one with a computer at my Spanish family's house, so I got to book the trip and hotel. Because I was so "thrifty", the 300 mile trip took us roughly eight hours: take the bus to a tram, take the tram to a train, walk 5 miles to the dock, take a boat to the island, take a taxi to the hotel.
While the other legs of the trip were long and dull, the boat ride proved to be a little too stimulating for a handful of axnious hooligans. Once we got our seats and stole several dixie cups from behind the bar, Mandingo whipped out a bottle of liquor that, among the six of us, only one of us had heard of before. It was god-awful, catching-your-parents-with-a-dildo
disgusting. We promptly ridiculed Mandingo's mother and questioned his manhood and sexual preference before moving on to the wine and vodka that we had pooled some money to purchase. It was 7pm.
By 9 o'clock, we were stumbling around the boat, taking pictures of the Mediterranean (at night... pitch black) and, in general, being the pompous obnoxious Americans that all the Europeans had expected us to be. We even threw a large portion of Mandingo's mystery booze overboard and rekindled attacks on the size of his genitalia before heading back to our seats to
pass out for a while.
"HEEEeeyy, Worm" I remember Dirty asking me. "How loung ah we gonna be heeya?" That's half drunk speak, and half NY-accent. I swear to god, Dirty meets or exceeds every stereotype of Italian-American-New Yoker you've ever heard of; think The Godfather + Sonny from "A Bronx Tale" + Notorious B.I.G.- well, maybe B.I.G. doesn't match the stereotype, but Dirty had a pension
for thrusting the "E" hand-gesture in the air when B.I.G song played in a club and then yelling "EasT COOOAST!" to all of the Africans who dressed up like American gangsters (yet spoke no english) to let them know who was closer to the hip-hop world... but I digress.
Dirty stands a hair over 6 feet, has a medium build with an extremely hairy chest, wears gold necklace with multiple Catholic symbols that dip well below his nipples, and a tendancy to only button the lower half of his shirt. He is the most shameless (and therefore hilarious) man I have ever met in my life.
"The tickets say four hours."
"WE GOT TWO MORE MINUTES OF THE SHIT??" His body flials with alcohol induced expression.
"Yup"
So we arrived in Ibiza at a little after 11pm, feeling like somebody replaced our cerebrum with a sand bag and punched us in the face. We found a taxi, got to our hotel and prepared for our first night of insanitude.
It's startling how quickly a small group of 20 year old guys can get their energy back, because as fast as you could say "alcohol", we were back in the saddle. Adrenaline, hormones, and wanderlust reawakened our spirits, but we had run out of depressants so we sent Barkeep and OC out to the grocery store. They came back with a bottle of absinthe and a few boxes of our favorite 90-cents-per-liter wine "Don Simon". After re-drunkifying, it was back to the port area to hit the bars. The time is 1am.
The bar is a dank and has about 4 square feet of space inside, so we throw ourselves onto some barstools around a tiny table on the patio. Beers here are 7 euro a piece (roughly 9 dollars), but our gay, ultra-hip, Austrian waiter "Adriaaaano" manages to flip his flowing Fabio-like hair and all the sudden, drinks are 5 euro.
We appreciate his generosity and thank him before he starts the hair flipping again and produces some tickets to some second-tier club downtown for a discounted price of 25 euro each. Everywhere around us, the men are dressed like Michael J. Fox in Growing Pains turned gay. Everything the
women wore was reflective which was complimented nicely by point-toed shoes. We showed up in a three-buttons, white pumas, and khakis, and are instanly ignored by everyone. We were too drunk to notice, and too happy to care.
Ibiza is officially Spanish territory, but the only ones who spoke spanish natively were the cabbies and beggars. The cabbies, like the rest of Europe couldn't decide if they were more against our politicans or in awe of our culture, so they mixed their condemnations and praises into their stories about their ex-wives and drinking problems. They all seemed to have a sort
of glassy, not-really-there gaze that came out whenever mentioning how wild and crazy this island was, or how much they loved it. This led me to believe that they were all just trying to get buddy-buddy with us for tips, and I loathed them for it, but my buddies bit hard and overtipped heavily everywhere we went. Such was the case for our ride to the first club of the weekend. I laughed. We walked inside.
Teaser for Part 2 of "The Isle of Drugged-up Europeans":
To get an idea of what an almost-ultra-hip Mediterranean dance club is like, imagine a sprawling, curvatious floor spotted with gogo dancers, beneath-the-floor neon lights, and trendy bars with ugly waitresses and insanely expensive drinks. Now populate this area with the aforementioned
Michael J. Foxes and the pointy toed women, 5,663,230 hours of consecutive techno songs based on *exactly* the same backbeat, a lot of drugs, and an "absolutely no touching" rule.
Everything that I had grown to know and love about dancing in America was gone. Where was the dry-humping, the groping, and the making out? Apparently, that part of American culture hadn't crossed the Atlantic. There was a virtual force-field around every man and maid on the premise. If you bumped into someone, an apology was needed, and often several languages had to be attempted in order to get your message across. Dirty and Mandingo get awfully aggressive with the ladies after the sun goes down, but how were they to get around social protocol? How could they get off if there was no groping? Luke-Duke and I shook our heads in confusion as Dirty and Mandingo told tales of their rejections. Where did we go wrong? What were we to do?
To be continued...
User Reviews
Submitted by c1ndy (user info) at 2005-06-04 09:26:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
haha Ibiza is like this.
Submitted by YELLOW-MAN (user info) at 2005-05-25 14:11:56 EDT (#)
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