In the Siren Land

by Natalia Lyubic

A leap into the unknown Spain


I stood against the backdrop of sun-stained waters and the towering purple glow of the Hard Rock Hotel. Around me neon paint accentuated cheekbones, feet were clad in 6-inch wedges with sparkling ankle jewels that perfectly matched the day's `All That Glitters is Gold' theme. I looked down at my own attire. Black rubber flip flops - purchased at the `best discount' rate of £15, denim shorts and a white t-shirt with a spot of coconut-oil from earlier in the day. Yep, I'd landed in Ibiza, ready to experience the high-life, and looked more like I'd just finished cleaning one of these lady's pools. My one saving grace was the Hard Rock wristband proudly displayed on my right hand, which I ensured would be the hand I used to sweep the hair off my face for the entirety of my stay: I may not have looked as bedazzled as the rest of the clientele but I sure-as-Sally paid the same inordinate amount for my suite. I perched myself by the poolside bar, feeling utterly out of place, yet strangely excited. It was quite a sight to behold. Immaculately groomed women shimmied to Drake's `One Dance' while their round-bellied (and much older) men looked on nonchalantly. Hundred dollar bills exchanged hands as though they were pennies and the waiters wore smiles brighter than the beaming sun. Further along the expensive poolside real estate, I could see moneyed youth sipping on elaborate cocktails. All that glittered had apparently gathered here on Platja D'en Bossa. I closed my eyes, turned my face up to the sun and breathed in the rich sea air that I had so longed for. It was the first time I had decided to live dangerously. Limitlessly. At least for me. And in that moment I quietly allowed my caution to float away with the breeze. That night I met JC. He was an Irish lad, with locks a shade of gold and an unapologetic chin and I'm certain he was sent to me by the sirens themselves. He was Ibiza personified: debaucherous, impulsive, a play thing. And play we did: building sandcastles with our toes, bathing in champagne, stripped bare to our souls. At dawn as the party wound down and the flocks retreated, a hypnotic calm descended upon the island. It was here while looking out over the silver ocean that I felt Ibiza's unrelenting magnificence, and I understood. Every summer she whispers, and they come, gathering on her berth with smiles like naughty schoolchildren who know that after detention they will sin again. Next summer, so will I.