It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was Ibiza in off-peak season.
Like most people, I had this pre-conceived notion of a crazy beach town that never sleeps. I had (Bachelor-fueled) visions of exotic men named Juan Pablo buying me mojitos at some fancy beach club while the soothing sounds of a techno-infused Mariachi band played in the background.
These dreams might have come to fruition if had I visited Ibiza literally three weeks later, but quiet season is so different you would think it’s another city. It was cold, dead, and everything was closed.
That being said, even in off-season it is still beautiful. Visit the old town, walk around the ridiculously photogenic streets of the city, watch the sunset at San Antonio, and go to the beaches if you don’t mind seagulls, high winds, and saggy 80-year-old boobs of topless sunbathing locals.
We stayed for just under four days, which was the perfect amount of time due to the fact that the nightlife wasn’t there and particularly brutal sunburns on the first day prohibited future beach activities, so we were rapidly running out of things to do.
All in all, I still don’t feel like I’ve truly experienced Ibiza in all its glory. This was evident by the “Celebrity Only” wing of the tiny airport that signaled the high volume of famous people that must come to the island during summer. I will probably go back one day when I’m not a broke uni student and can afford an extravagant beach resort.
Because Juan Pablo might not have bought me any mojitos, but Ed Westwick might.