“Aren’t you a little old for Ibiza?” became an ongoing refrain whenever I mentioned my upcoming trip. What is it about this island off the coast of Spain that prohibits anyone over a certain age from indulging?
I was never much for clubbing. In my 20s, I started a career in advertising and drank beer in basement bars. In my 30s, I started a family and spent weekends changing diapers and craving sleep. When in my 40s, I moved to Tokyo and dragged stubborn toddlers around Southeast Asia.
Now in my 50s, I’m heading off to the world’s biggest party island. Whoever says 50 is too old to go to Ibiza isn’t 50—and hasn’t been to Ibiza. At 50, we have the ultimate travel trifecta—the money we didn’t have in our 20s, the time we didn’t have in our 30s, and the subtle art of not giving a f*ck, perfected.
The Ibiza Crew
In June, sixteen of us head toward Ibiza like bees to honey. We fly in from all directions, Los Angeles, New York, Sweden, Miami, and DC. We’re a mixed bag: English, American, Greek, Swedish, Japanese, Swedish/Japanese, and Brazilian. Some of us are models. Some of us are Brazilian models.
Among us are a semi-professional DJ, two fashion influencers, and one mooching medium. Our group spans decades—from 30 to 60. An eclectic bunch, we’re in Ibiza for one reason—to celebrate our Queen Bee’s 50th birthday. We touch down to blindingly bright blue skies and set off for the villa—Casa Atlantis.
Atlantis Reimagined, in Ibiza
Naming a villa Casa Atlantis is a bold move. ‘Atlantis’ is synonymous with utopia—and utopia is pretty hard to live up to. Legend has it that the lost island of Atlantis was inhabited by spiritual people who became greedy, petty, and morally bankrupt. Their immoral behavior angered the gods.
Maybe the villa-namers were onto something. What better place to reject conformity and anger gods than at a spiritual vortex like Ibiza? It seems no coincidence that non-conformist, bad-boy, rockstar Noel Gallagher of Oasis once owned Casa Atlantis. His energy is still bouncing around the wonderwalls of the villa.
Casa Atlantis is perched above the Mediterranean Sea in an area of Ibiza called Es Cubells. The sprawling, multi-layered villa is carefully camouflaged in the cliffs. The only way to view Casa Atlantis in its entirety is from a boat, and even then, it isn’t easy to see.
Oasis
Casa Atlantis sleeps up to 20 guests. It has expansive sea views and endless amenities; a private chef and wait staff, an indoor/outdoor massage hut, a full gym, an enormous pool, and a hot tub. The villa has multiple areas to sit, lounge, and dine. Far below the villa, there’s a private jetty and beach.
Our chef cooks meals based on our culinary desires. Traditional Spanish, fancy dim sum and street vendor Indian are all options. Thankfully, someone else has resolved these complex culinary issues. All I have to do is show up to dinner on time, which, in Ibiza, is rarely earlier than 10pm.
Getting around the steep, winding roads of the island is a breeze as the villa comes with two Mercedes vans, a Jaguar convertible, two Spyder three-wheelers, and a Vanquish boat. Oh, and for grins and giggles, a Mini Cooper.
Electric blue Morning Glorys climb the villa’s white-washed walls. Sea views stretch as far as the eye can see. It’s easy to question why we need to leave the villa at all. But we’re here to experience the whole island, not just this glorious little patch of it. Some days, we manage to pry ourselves away, albeit not until after breakfast, which ends about 1pm.
Beachin’ at Casa Jondal
Casa Jondal is located on Ibiza’s southern coast, a 15-minute drive from Casa Atlantis. Although this glamorous beach restaurant came on the scene in 2020, it looks and feels like it’s been here much longer. Signature pines and junipers add a touch of dusty green to the nautical palette. Casa Jondal is a scene. We grab our sun beds and settle in for the afternoon.
Rickety wooden tables are nestled in the fine white sand. Low-slung seats with comfy white cushions are strategically placed under stretched canvas sailcloths. The low-key vibe is ever-present. It’s just a part of what makes Casa Jondal the hottest beach restaurant in Ibiza.
Chef Rafa Zafra (of El Bullí fame) tends to the menu carefully. We dine on lobster three ways, savor slivers of shrimp carpaccio, and mouthwatering croquettes—all from the luxury of our beachfront sunbeds. It’s easy to pass sun-drenched hours over crisp Verdejo and Albariño, taking refreshing dips in the sea between bottles.
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The Path to Es Vedrà
Es Vedrà is an uninhabited, jagged, and rocky island set off the southwest coast of Ibiza. At 413 meters tall with dozens of seabirds swooping and darting, the island looks like the set of a fantasy film. Some believe Es Vedrà is home to sirens and sea nymphs. Some believe Es Vedrà has magical powers. One morning, we wake up at the crack of dawn noon to harness some magic for ourselves.
We all know hiking is an activity best done in the morning. But this is Ibiza, where time is measured around DJ sets and dinner reservations. The Swiss guide who leads our troop is uber-fit and no-nonsense. If he’s annoyed we’re starting our hike when the UV index is at its peak, it doesn’t show.
I forget our guide’s name, but let’s call him Jan. Jan is a safety-first kind of guy. He warns us about loose rocks and tree roots, reminds us to hydrate, and reapplies sunscreen. Does he not realize some of us are old enough to be his parents? I know all about the benefits of sunscreen, Jan. Thank you.
But, the viewpoint is worth Jan’s running safety commentary—uninterrupted and crowd-free views of Es Vedrà.
With military precision, Jan leads us to the ‘Eye of Es Vedrà’—a natural rock formation that frames the island to picture-postcard perfection. He has the birthday girl scramble to the center of the eye and takes Oscar-worthy panoramic videos of her while hanging from the rocks with his one free hand. I post the video on Instagram, and all my followers think it’s me. I don’t correct them.
Daytrip to Formentera
The next day, a pair of black Vanquish boats pick us up at Casa Atlantis’ private jetty. The aluminum finishes and sleek torpedo shape feel very 007. We’re on our way to the island of Formentera for lunch. We take a loop around Es Vedrà on the way. I search for sirens and sea nymphs.
As we circle the island, the sun’s angle changes, creating dramatic shadows on the cliffs. We hear birds squawking. Despite how stealth our Vanquish boats are, the birds are rattled by our approach. The captain cuts the engine, and I close my eyes to soak up Es Vedrà’s magic. If I were a bird, this is where I’d live, too.
Formentera is the smallest of Spain’s Balearic Islands. We approach the shore, and I notice unspoiled beaches against Windex-blue water. Our boats bob and weave around a few anchored yachts until we reach the dock. Es Molí de Sal is low-key, open-air, and uber-chill. We disembark and head to our table—ravenous from a morning where our only activity was getting out of bed.
We promptly open the champagne we’ve brought along to toast the birthday girl and sink into the restaurant’s easy, natural rhythm. While Es Molí de Sal serves various Mediterranean specialties like tapas, oysters, and caviar, we’ve come for the paella.
After appetizers of fresh salad topped with thin ribbons of carrots and burrata with olives and tomato jam, two enormous paella pans arrive. Plump pieces of spiny lobster and fire-engine red giant shrimp are nestled in the rice—the texture is sublime. Various spices complement the seafood without overpowering it. Our group leaves no grain behind.
What’s so special about Ibiza?
By now, it’s clear why Ibiza has such a strong magnetic pull. But I’m curious to learn more about the island’s history. Back at the villa, I start Googling. In the 1960s, I read hippies and bohemians descended upon Ibiza to take advantage of its spiritual energy. The island quickly became a magnet for hedonists.
By the ‘80s and ‘90s, the die was cast. Ibiza became Europe’s pinnacle party hot spot—the epicenter for raves, drawing celebrities, rockstars, and pleasure seekers from around the world. I stop scrolling and glance at tonight’s itinerary:
11pm: Dinner at La Torreta
After: Pacha, DJ Solomun
Then, I glance at my phone. It’s 3pm. I have eight hours. Yikes.
The King of Ibiza
DJ Solomun is one of the world’s most famous DJs. Seeing him perform at Pacha, where he plays over twenty Sundays each summer, is an Ibiza highlight. A highlight if staying up until the wee hours of the morning listening to deep, funky baselines and euphoric melodies is your thing. The last time I stayed up until the wee hours I was watching Seinfeld reruns while breastfeeding. At 5pm, I take a nap to prepare for the night ahead.
Of Bosnian/German descent, Solomun was born in 1975. I quickly calculate that Solomun and I are nearly the same age. With his long wavy hair, rugged beard, and broad jawline, Solomun is good-looking in a Ned Stark Game of Thrones kind of way. Solomun is often referred to as the King of Ibiza, although rumor has it he isn’t fond of the title. Regardless, his reign is powerful. The lines snaking out of the club doors at 1am (which is when we arrive) prove it.
I discover that tonight’s a ‘special’ night at Pacha—Solomun is doing an extended set. “What does that mean?” I ask the experienced clubbers in my group. “It means that Solomun will play until 7am!” one of the Brazilian models exclaims.
I smile, but I want to cry.
Hey, Mr. DJ
Our planner-in-chief has curated our Ibiza trip to perfection. We have the best table in the club—a cordoned-off, spacious platform behind the DJ booth. Thousands of other clubbers are sandwiched together on the floor like sardines. They’re in their 20s so they don’t care.
The alcohol is free-flowing, and when Solomun starts his set at 3am, the crowd is charged with electricity (and various other things). We are masses of people, all feeling the same vibe, all letting the base sink into our souls. The beat builds, then drops, builds, then drops.
Hours pass. Hours and hours and hours.
At 630am, I walk outside, squinting my eyes at the brightening sky. Lavender and periwinkle hues touch the clouds. All is muted. Or, is that because my inner ears have stopped functioning? It’s the start of another extraordinary day. Yet, it isn’t. Instead, it’s the end of an extraordinary night. I turn around. Hundreds of people are in my wake, exiting the club after an extended set by Ibiza’s legendary resident DJ.
That was crazy, I think to myself. Then, I pop into the white Mercedes van waiting for me at the curb.
In Ibiza, Age is Just a Number
Sadly, the week ends. I’m not sure my liver could survive another day anyway. We sing one last refrain of Happy Birthday to our host—the one who’s orchestrated an unforgettable Ibiza experience. If her goal was to show her friends the Ibiza she loved from her youth but with a grown-up spin—mission accomplished. I think about what I’ll say to those who questioned if I was too old to come here.
“In Ibiza, age is just a number.” I’ll say, not so subtly, “No one really gives a f*ck.”
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