Tim Jonze recounts his disastrous first holiday without parents at age 16 in Ibiza, a trip that left him haunted by a bathroom sink incident and questioning his life choices.
The Journey Begins
The coach from Ibiza airport to the hotel set the tone. The club rep, a lairy Irishman, announced that all the great clubs—Amnesia, Space, Pacha—were closed. But he assured the group they would still have a fantastic time. Cheers erupted from the lads and ladettes onboard. Jonze and his three friends—Wes, Marc, and Gav—had no plan. They had booked a package deal with 2wentys, a company whose tagline could have been: 'For those who find Club 18-30 a little too refined.' None of them were in their 20s; they had all recently turned 16. Jonze looked barely on nodding terms with puberty, but the travel agent took their cash without fuss.
The Sink Incident
On the first morning, Jonze and Wes were woken by pounding on their door. Marc and Gav were screaming accusations: 'You did this, didn’t you!' They dragged them into their room, where a foul smell made Jonze retch. Overnight, someone had broken in and pooed in their sink. The smell of Lynx Africa, deployed in industrial quantities to cover it up, still takes him back. The hotel refused to help, yelling 'Clean it up!' Marc and Gav were forced to comply.
Unwanted Bodily Matter
Unwanted bodily matter became a theme. On day two, girls in the room above lobbed used sanitary products onto their balcony to 'break the ice.' There was no escape. The club reps press-ganged everyone into a militarily strict 'party' schedule, costing a fortune and involving constant drinking and public genital exposure. Jonze’s mates were giddily keen, so he went along.
A Terrible Decision
Every morning, they were forced out of bed at dawn to drink lager and play 'games.' These might involve a random guy being called forward to stand on a diving board while drunk women tried to yank down his shorts with their teeth. Jonze formulated an emergency plan: if singled out, he would run.
Time Passes Torturously
On day four, Jonze passed a tourist shop and saw a postcard featuring a character in a red PVC devil outfit breathing fire, captioned: 'If you’re tired of Ibiza, you’re tired of life.' He thought, 'That’s me. I’m 16 years old and I’m tired of life.' He felt like a total failure. He later realized he wasn’t tired of life; he was just a terrified kid making terrible life choices, relieved to board the plane home.
