Our lampshade sometimes looks a bit artistic.

So there’s been some industrial action at Barcelona airport. The ground staff and pilots of Iberia went on strike a few times over the last month. My friend Jeffrey informed me that his friend flew over from New York for 6 days. Iberia lost his bags in Barcelona and he received them after 5 days – not happy Jan. So with trepidation I check into my flight and fiercely tighten my backpack straps to make it look as thin as possible. The counter attendent asks to check one of my bags in because the flight is full, but I protest and manage to carry on my sportsbag and backpack, avoiding the gazes of the gate-staff.

The flight is uneventful, it’s a BA aircraft codesharing with Iberia. It’s also 45 mins late. I worry that I might miss my connection; it’s the last flight from Barcelona to Ibiza, but pray that a tail wind will give me the 10 mins that I need: unfortunately it doesn’t desgraciademente, no. The airline announce in the air that all of us with connections have missed them, except those going to Palma – because that flight is delayed too. Argh. We’re booked into hotel accommodation though and will be on the 8am flight next morning. I arrive, phone Jeffrey and run around like a mad thing trying to find an Iberia ticket counter in case I could still make it that night - no, desgracidamente, no all the flights are full.

So I wander over to the hotel shuttle bus stand, certain that my other compatriots with baggage who’ve missed connections are snug in their beds sleeping for tomorrow morning. After waiting for 15 mins for the bus I call the shuttle. A rolling Spanish accent answers my call and efficiently states that the bus will arrive in 10 mins. Meanwhile I’m very tired and stand there with my backpack between my legs (security) and feel relieved that at least the straps are digging into my shoulders. Then who should arrive but my missed connection compatriots. Eight of them trundle along and I greet them with surprise. Tyler, a 20-something American first time out of the US, is stressed - Barcelona baggage handlers lost their luggage for 1 hour – his friend is supposed to meet him in Ibiza and he can’t call international numbers on his phone, only the local country ones. I lend him my phone to give a quick call to a US number and he leaves a message on an answerphone.

The hotel we stay in is nice; modern, well designed but a little clinical - Hotel Tryp Aeroport. The breakfast el desayuno is splendid but I have little time to wolf down a small churro and slice of bacon before heading back out to the airport. They’ve put us on ‘Business Class’, which entitles me to use a Lounge. Wow, my first lounge experience. It’s ok. There’s a fat American woman chatting to her friend: “Food is so expensive in Japan. I ordered and appetiser for $25 and only got ONE prawn.” “They use chopsticks everywhere, so I always carry a knife and fork in my pocketbook.”

Noat, a lovely Thai guy, is making dinner for us. He’s come over with four plastic bags filled with tupperware containers. I can see handmade siu mai and dumplings. He shows me a sprig of coriander that he’s grown at home. It’s the most fragrant specimen I’ve ever smelled. He’s from Phuket; he tells the story of working in a hotel, finishing in the evening and going upstairs to his quarters. Then looking out of his balcony he sees the waters recede – then flow back up to the first floor. He lost two friends from reception who could not run upstairs in time.

These last few days in Ibiza have been cloudy and cool; a welcome reprieve from the previous few weeks of stifling heat. It even rained today, putting a dampener on our beach plans so we stayed at home, read and did a bit of sunbathing. Mirko, a fantastically beautiful German boy with blond hair, blue eyes and a deep tan, has arrived to socialise. He’s one of Jeffrey’s enablers – a friend foremost but someone that lives in a peri-society alongside us; only intersecting casually with our world. A New York radio station plays in the background and everything is super mellow, for me at least, the shake in their hands gives away the accelerated acetycholine zooming around in their heads.

Noat prepares a beautiful tom yum goong, a green curry of squid and fried rice flavoured with Indian curry powder and fish sauce. I’m particularly intrigued with that last flavour combination, but it works spectacularly. I’m quietly drinking my Spanish red wine, eminently quaffable but no French red like I’ve had with Michael. I don’t really mind – it’s a Rioja.

I forget the Spanish mealtimes here. We rarely rise before 10am, then it’s a leisurely breakfast then dilly dallying until lunch around 3pm. Dinner never starts before 9pm and today it will probably be midnight before we eat. I’m tiding myself over with a small slice of cheese and herb tart. A rather odd concoction of sweet cheese and dried herbs bought from a market stall – not my favourite snack so far.

Sounds of frying and wok-scraping fill the Spanish villa. The pool is a delicious blue and the night is mild and cool. Jeffrey and I fetch some basil from behind the secret partition, walking past a swathe of 2m high marijuana plants – the landlord’s secret crop. Tonights dinner guests are Jeffrey, Mirko, Noat, his boyfriend Javier, James, his brother John, his brother John’s friend and myself. John’s a professional chef who’s taken time out of his career to explore running clubs – he’s associated with God’s Kitchen in Birmingham and traveling in Ibiza to see how they do it in clubland capital. He only smokes weed occassionally now, but speaks and looks like he’s high on coke all the time – kinda like Susan Powter. I assist in the kitchen with the deep-fried spring rolls and money bags as well as helping Noat with the seasoning. I try to restrain him from the fish sauce, but although everything tastes fine to me at the kitchen, I’m sure he’s put another dollop of nam pla by the time it reaches the table; the salinity hits me with every flavour-packed mouthful.

Wish you were here