Ibiza in winter

Ibiza in winter is a concept that thought does not consider
As the world celebrates the arrival of the new year with extravagant parties, in Ibiza it’s exactly the opposite. Because here, where every summer night is New Year’s Eve, there is no need for great celebrations

Lilliput is a fictional country invented by the writer Jonathan Swift as the setting for part of the book Gulliver’s Travels.

It is located in the Indonesian archipelago and is inhabited by the Lilliputians, tiny men about twenty centimeters high. When they find Gulliver shipwrecked on the beach do not hesitate to tie him to the ground, one of the sharpest snapshot of my childhood. Ibiza in winter is like Gulliver, a sleeping giant, watched over, cared for and protected by its inhabitants, the Lillibiziani, which are now more than 140,000 “because in Ibiza you live very well in winter”.

I have no doubt, especially if you have just shaken off an endless season that starts in May and ends in October, lived a hellish pace. But the feeling as soon as you land at in a warm winter day, is another. It’s a strange feeling. Yes, trivially strange. But are the platitudes to guard the rules of life.

Walking on the main road, one that converges in the majestic Ushuaïa Tower, watching what until a few months ago was the Space Ibiza, is alienating experience. The silence that surrounds me is surreal. Alone is worth the trailer of the new season of The Walking Dead. Around me there is literally none.

A light and pleasant sea breeze gently moves the dangling nylon that wrap the insignia of the bars. It is the unique sound of an afternoon on Mars. Because Playa D’en Bossa 2 January is Mars. All closed, todo cerrado, with empty storefronts, as burglarized by previous humanity alerted by an impending apocalypse.

Among the creeks that cut to the infinity of the residence walls, the sea looks so calm it seems fake. Even the color is not natural. Few waves fold back on themselves, as if they know that they are there and that must do, inevitably, their craft. A couple of small sailing boats have been beaten away from a likely storm a few days earlier. Now lie half-broken embedded on the coast of Playa Talamanca. No one seems to notice. It must be normal. The beach, unrecognizable, is animated by restaurants, open and quite popular, that give me one of the most human moments of this unusual holiday: a lunch of fresh fish on the beach with the bomber backed chair beside. Priceless. A little farther on, the port retains a certain elegance. I wonder if the docks mourn the absence of luxury yachts.

At least you can see exactly what’s on the other side of the moon. The works are in progress in the period of the fittest. They settle on the streets, it enhances what you need to improve. It gets worse there is to worsen but like so much of the new rich, and that hurts only the sight of nostalgic. With a bit of healthy vision, you can also switch over. Inside and in the more distant beaches, the most beautiful, winter amplifies that feeling of magic for which Ibiza is famous all over the world.