The White Isle has been claiming my soul each summer ever since I was a fresh-faced, freckled 16-year old. Back then my nights out in Ibiza consisted of drinking copious amount of paint stripper paired with imitation Fanta Lemon, all whilst swatting away club PRs like underfed mosquitos in attempt to reach Soul City (if you know, you know). If we were feeling flush, we would club together our dwindling Euros for a final hurrah at Ibiza Rocks, probably to catch Tinie Tempah.
My Saturday job definitely didn’t cover anything more than free shots, free entry and weak Sex on the Beach pitchers. My true taste of the euphoric super clubs weren’t to come for a further two years and until then we’d stumbling back to our four-bed hostel dormitory to be greeted with the thumping bass of some unknown techno track, the smell of marijuana and a shoeless someone thumping on another dorms door because they’ve forgotten their key. Sleep in Ibiza was always for the weak. Two years later, I’d upgrade my music taste (sadly, not my dorm room) to include catching Carl Cox at Space and become completely enthralled by the kaleidoscope of piercing strobe lights, vibrating bass and twirling tanned bodies. Call it my own rave revelation I was completely hooked
This year was my ten-year anniversary and I had every intention of making this annual pilgrimage one of the best. I’d bid goodbye to the hostels quite a few years ago and semi-upgraded to simple, magnolia rooms that received an injection of colour the moment the girls and I popped open our cases and half of Pretty Little Things festival collection sprung out like a (v. fashionable) jack in the box. Helping us mark this momentous occasion this time was the ME Hotel Ibiza, a mecca for the beautiful people to bronze, pose and doze.
It wasn’t just my accommodation that was due an upgrade, we’d ditch the sardine-packed seats found on the budget airlines and nipped across the DLR to catch our British Airways flight from London City Airport. A quick pre-flight glass of bubbles, extra legroom, a few posh snacks and another glass of bubbles later and we’d landed. It was 1am so still early by Ibiza standards. I’d used the better-than-Ryanair plane lighting to re-do my face and soared past the gigantic billboards that line the road urging you into the skilled fingers of Black Coffee at Hï.
After the obligatory selfie alongside the ME Ibiza’s neon pink logo, we scurried into the lobby eager to drop our bags, slip on our Nikes and shuffle off into the sweaty arms of Music On at Amnesia. The first phrase uttered to us was one that can simultaneously banish jet lag, restore relationships and inflate egos, ‘you’ve been upgraded’. An all-white suite with big enough-for-two bathtub sexily positioned in the centre and a tray of pretty pastel macaroons and more bubbles declared that we’ve arrived. The plump bed and minibar fit for an ageing rockstar completed the look that screamed sleek. Unlike the summer of ’08 we weren’t sharing our balcony with the rejects from Geordie Shore, this one was all ours and looked over the sparkling bay. I knew where I’d be coming first thing in the morning to clear my fuzzy head.
I strive to achieve balance in everything I do as I believe that having a balance at work/home/emotionally leads to a happier and a more fulfilled self. Put simply, the ME Hotel nails balance. The lobby was filled with intriguing sculptures, rattan egg chairs and model-esque staff whilst the pool area was bedecked with daybeds and a soundtrack of chilled beats. Cool yet casual, laidback yet luxe and swanky yet low-key. Waltzing (because shuffling is reserved for clubs and simply walking in through the elegant lobby just wouldn’t do) to breakfast the next morning I was faced with plump sausages, egg-your-way and smothered in butter French Toast one side and energising smoothies, granola and Greek yoghurt the other side. Even breakfast was balanced.
After wiping away the cobwebs with a strong black coffee, we sauntered (see, we still haven’t resigned ourselves to walking) to the pool to artfully position ourselves on the cloud-like daybeds. As much as we were trying to channel Aphrodite, we probably resembled fairground hotdogs sizzling in the scorching heat. An Adonis was furiously working off their egg-white omelette doing laps in the pool with such determination that is was better suited to an Olympic training ground than a ‘beefa pool. A few more oiled their well-defined abs and two women clinked prosecco glasses whilst dipping their feet in the pool to cool off.
Just outside the pool area was our very own runway. Framed by the palm trees and bobbing fishermen boats was a craggy pontoon used to moor the fishing boats. In true, flamboyant Ibiza style we used it to prance around in and admire the sunset from. The fishermen thought we were funny and happily passed us some freshly caught prawns for us to peel. Forget trekking to Es Vedrà to catch the sunset, the bay is positioned perfectly to watch the sun slowly turn from Tiffany blue to pink hues that would definitely make the boys wink. Everything at the ME Ibiza was seamless, a vital component of any Ibiza weekend.
I may not have achieved island veteran status yet (15+ years was required to be granted that accolade) but I definitely didn’t bounce back from misbehaving as quickly as I used to. ME Ibiza eased me through those blurry mornings and rallied me up before the evenings, then would welcome me back with a roomful of bubbles (this time in the bath) and the promise of a good night sleep. At the ME Ibiza, far away from the kids in San Antonio and crowds in Bossa, I’d finally graduated to the grown-up Ibiza that everyone raves about.
With thanks to ME Hotel Ibiza