Today was official recovery day. And when I say official, I mean I didn't leave the hotel even to eat — which honestly isn't that different from the other "free" days I've had here, because after consecutive all-night parties, any day without an event automatically becomes recovery whether you planned it or not. Your body just decides for you. Those 6, 7, 8-hour sets of music and people and noise and dancing take a serious toll, and it doesn't matter how many years you've been doing this: the body sends its invoice and doesn't accept negotiations.

The first few days I did try to take advantage of what Ibiza is supposed to offer during the day: the pool, the sea, the sun. I got in the pool, tried to get in the ocean. And here comes the inevitable comparison any Mexican is going to make: nobody beats us at that. Warm water, paradise beaches, fine sand. It's not that it's bad here, but when you've spent your whole life used to Caribbean or Pacific beaches, the contrast is brutal. The water is cold, the sand has rocks and seaweed, and it's not warm enough to make cold water worth it. The locals and Europeans who come here don't seem to have that problem: they lie stretched out like lizards on their sun loungers all day without the slightest hesitation.

I don't do that. Not because I'm particularly sophisticated or anything, but for two very concrete reasons: first, if I lie down in the sun with the accumulated heat and exhaustion I'd fall asleep on the lounger and start snoring next to everyone, and that's an embarrassment I don't need. Second, and more importantly, when I spend too much time in the sun I break out in rashes. Not a joke, not an excuse. My skin simply has its own criteria for how much sun is too much, and that criteria is pretty conservative.

Today I also didn't wake up in time for breakfast, like several days before. And here I have a legitimate complaint with the hotel: breakfast runs from 8 to 11 in the morning. Who designed that schedule? We're talking about a hotel that is literally next to the best parties in Ibiza. At 8am there are people who haven't even gotten back from the party yet. Those of us who did make it back are snoring deeply with zero intention of moving. 11am here is what 6am is in the rest of the world for people who went out at night. They should put breakfast from 12 to 3, minimum, and it would be a massive success. Anyway, I had to pay for lunch and dinner out of pocket, which isn't the end of the world, but the principle is the principle.

And since I'm talking about the hotel, I have to mention my room neighbor. I've never seen him in person, but I know him pretty well by now. He's French, apparently gay, and constantly on the phone on his balcony at completely random hours. That alone would be enough to have him catalogued, but what I don't understand is his other constant activity: moving furniture. Alone. No company. He pushes chairs, moves tables, rearranges whatever is in his room like it's his own house and he's redecorating. And he's alone with his phone. I don't get it. Maybe it's revenge for my snoring keeping him awake, which I also can't rule out. Or maybe he's just like that. It's one of those travel mysteries you know you'll never solve and you just have to accept.

Tonight is the last party in Ibiza: Black Coffee at UNVRS. After this, the island has fulfilled its mission.

Next stop: Berlin. Different continent, different energy, different temperature, same disposition to not sleep well.

Me on my recovery day

Me watching the sunset from the hotel