Last night was Chinois. And if there's one thing I have to admit before anything else, it's that the place humbles you the moment you walk in. It's not just another club. It's genuinely elegant — not that inflated "elegant" promoters use to sell expensive tickets. The architecture, the decor, the terrace, the crowd — everything operates at a different level. No sandals, no shorts, none of that sweat-and-dust chaos Ibiza had already gotten me used to. People showed up dressed, and clearly on purpose. Chinois has that vibe of a place that knows exactly what it is and doesn't need to explain itself.

Nora en Pure opened the set and credit where it's due: she played spectacularly. I'd give her an 8 out of 10, and that's not nothing coming from me. It's the second time I've seen her live and she has something very few DJs pull off: she makes the room breathe differently. The issue, if you can even call it that, is that I felt she held back on her known hits. Like she stayed in exploration mode when the crowd was already ready for what they know her for. But the set was good — don't get me wrong.

Then came Claptone. And well... it was Claptone. Started strong, with energy, with intention. But somewhere along the way the set just stopped being interesting and turned into what it always ends up being: correct, predictable, functional. Not bad. Just... Claptone. If you know, you know. If you don't, you will.

So I did what any reasonable person does when a set doesn't fully grab them: I went up to the terrace. Two Coca-Colas, a cigarette, and the view of Ibiza at night. There are worse ways to spend your time. My legs had been sending very clear messages for hours — we've had days of this and the body keeps score even when the mind doesn't want to. Tomorrow is Keinemusik at Pacha, so rest isn't optional, it's logistical.

Oh, and before I forget: today I actually spotted Mexican women. Three of them. And I didn't need to hear them speak to know. The diagnosis was immediate and irrefutable: oversized false lashes, full acrylic nail set, lip botox, silicone nipple covers worn instead of a bra, hair straightened to the point of burning, and makeup applied like a Sharpie. Not an exaggeration. Clinical description.

And don't come at me with "it depends on taste" or "you just don't get the culture," because no. A woman like that is like reggaeton: people defend it with their lives, but deep down everyone knows what it is. What I love most about European women is exactly the opposite: natural. No false lashes, no acrylic nails, no botox, no iron-pressed hair, little to no makeup. 10 out of 10 on that front. The only downside is that the 30-year-olds sometimes look 50 — I assume it's the skin tone and a lifetime of sun exposure. A price that gets paid.

I got back to the hotel with grateful legs and a promise to wake up in time for breakfast. Spoiler: I probably won't make it. But the intention was there. Tomorrow Keinemusik at Pacha, and after that, Berlin.

Next stop: Keinemusik at Pacha — and then, Berlin.

Me at Chinois Ibiza

Me dancing to Nora En Pure