Sometime this past spring, my partner and I made the spontaneous decision to celebrate his fiftieth birthday with both of our families in Ibiza—a proverbial last-hurrah return to youth, albeit with the accompanying buzzkill of a five-year-old.
I spent the following two months planning out each hour of the four-day affair as though it was our wedding. I selected a villa for twelve people with the vigilance of a first-time home buyer. I collected restaurant recommendations from friends, cross-referencing them until only a handful of algorithmically perfect options remained. I booked dinners and beach clubs, changing dates and reservation times often enough that the concierges knew me by name. I created a trip group chat that was largely ignored, yet I continued to flood it with updates.
As the departure date grew closer, I began assembling outfits for the three of us, culminating in a frantic search for men’s linen pants forty-eight hours before takeoff. (Because its not like they don’t sell them on every corner in Spain.) By the time we boarded our red eye to Madrid, I was exhausted yet convinced that I had covered every conceivable detail.
We started off with three days in Mallorca, a slightly chaotic experience that I wrote off as a learning lesson for traveling with kids to hot and crowded destinations during peak tourist season. (The key takeaways: don’t attempt DIY road trips, always splurge on a guided tour, and make sure your kid has at least three comfortable shoe options. Excellent alternative: leave them at home.)
Then, on a beautiful Sunday morning on the day before Dave’s birthday, we took the short flight from Palma to Ibiza. After a pit stop at a tiny roadside supermarket (where I casually bumped into an ethereal Lila Moss), we arrived at the villa that I felt like I knew by heart based on how many times I had studied the Airbnb photo gallery.
The first thing we saw was the pool, which looked more like a neon green swamp than the turquoise oasis from the listing. The host, who was only available via WhatsApp, reassured us that the pool guy had just “added some chemicals” and that the murky water would soon clear.
As it turned out, the pool was the least of our problems. The house, which had the subtle vibe of a declining party villa from yesteryear, was about the same temperature as a Bikram yoga studio. The cleaning crew informed us that there was “no electricidad,” adding no further details before fleeing the scene. The host, who still hadn’t bothered to show up, called us to tell us the electrician was on the way. Ten minutes later, she called back to inform us that, actually, the electricity couldn’t be fixed that day, and we wouldn’t be able to stay there at all. Airbnb would be contacting us to relocate us soon.
I don’t know if you’ve ever had the joy of trying to find a same-day villa rental for twelve people on the most overrun island in Europe at the end of July, but I wouldn’t wish the experience upon the most awful person I know. According to my frantic Airbnb search, there were exactly three villa options on the island, two of which claimed they couldn’t get them cleaned on time and had to pass. (Another takeaway: don’t attempt anything in Spain on a Sunday!)
After two hours of back-and-forth with my very invested Airbnb case officer Rafael, we had no choice but to agree to the only remaining option: a dilapidated house near the airport, complete with a leather couch that looked like it had been the set of a few low-budget pornos in its day. As we checked in and it dawned on me that this was where we’d be spending Dave’s meticulously planned 50th birthday, I wanted to lay down on the porno couch and cry.
Because the comedy of errors was still building towards its climax, the new host (who conveniently happened to be on a boat in the middle of the sea) called us ten minutes after our arrival to ask us not to use the two downstairs bathrooms, for “the water from the toilet was leaking to the shower.” (Please re-read those words and allow them to really set in.)
The house smelled faintly of sewage, but after the day we’d had, we had no energy to mitigate the situation. And so, I sent Dave to the supermarket and began unpacking. One by one, our family members arrived, kindly assuring me that the villa was “not bad at all.” Sasha and my nephew jumped into the pool. Dave came back with groceries and booze, which we quickly put into action.
Then, someone headed upstairs to shower. Right when I was getting ready to bathe Sasha, I began to realize that the sewage smell was getting worse by the minute. “It’s stinky, mama, it’s really stinky!” my child cried. Dave opened the bathroom door, and a Jumanji-like wave of water came rushing out. It was the exact “toilet water” the host had warned us about, which had now bypassed the shower and was flooding the bathroom. Within seconds, it was spreading across the entire first floor, with the three of us standing in it.
There are moments when you realize your life has officially gone off the rails. Standing in someone else’s toilet water on the eve of your partner’s milestone birthday with your half-naked child is one of them.
I give us credit where it’s due, because we acted fast. At the host’s direction, Dave climbed into a shrub and shut off the water. I removed Sasha from the situation (to the abysmal couch, but who’s keeping track) and threw enough towels on the floor to stop the tide. I got on the phone with Rafael and booked the first villa I saw available for the following day, then gave everyone the green light to leave the premises.
The next hour was spent trying to pack while simultaneously securing hotel rooms in town for twelve people, with the added loophole that 95% were sold out and the rest didn’t accept children. At 11 p.m., the three of us finally checked into a beachfront apartamento in the party neighborhood of Playa d’en Bossa.
It was a night we had envisioned as a fun dinner of catching up with our family and sharing travel stories. That plan was now dead, and we were alone in a tacky tourist apartment surrounded by exploding suitcases, all our wet laundry, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker I had by now proclaimed to be my best friend.
Because Dave was about to turn fifty and this felt like some kind of sign from the universe that needed to be addressed, we talked. We talked about expectations and disappointments, and about what constituted real problems and what didn’t. We decided that this didn’t, and that we were lucky to just have our kids and our health and our family who had flown out thousands of miles to celebrate him. We finally fell asleep around 3 a.m. in a tiny bedroom with turquoise wallpaper, and I felt like it was my own birthday, and I was ready for a restart.
The next morning, the sun shone blindingly over the Mediterranean. My best friend (the brilliant @rachelschinazi_nd) arrived from Mallorca, and we went for a walk. We spent the day getting obliterated at El Chiringuito with our family. That evening, we checked into the most stunning villa I could have envisioned, surrounded by plains and vineyards that made you feel like you had somehow landed in Tuscany. The high felt higher because of the path to getting there.
Over the next few days, we celebrated Dave with a dinner at Casa Maca that I somehow managed to black out (alcohol and stress withdrawal will do that to you), swam in coves, danced until 6 a.m. to Rüfüs du Sol, and dipped back into some youthful adventures that I won’t get into, but that felt even more ironic in the presence of our twenty-something nieces and nephews. It was an excellent time.
At some point during the trip, I made a decision. I was done sweating the small stuff. I realized how much energy I had spent trying to account for every possible scenario, as though enough preparation could somehow outsmart uncertainty. But the latter always wins. You can plan each detail down to the hour, and God will somehow find a way to take the piss. The only thing you really control is whether you let it ruin the experience or allow it to become part of the story. Maybe the goal isn’t to get everything right, but to accept that things will inevitably go wrong, and to stop giving every little thing more weight than it deserves. Maybe the point of it all is simply to wake up, look around at everything you have, and realize how lucky you are to be here at all.
I guess the universe was grooming me for something, because since arriving home, the chaotic streak has continued, following me right back into real life. The plan keeps falling apart, but I’m trying to get better at letting it. Because maybe the things that throw you off course are sometimes the very things that get you where you’re supposed to be.
This was amazing! Such great writing (and you and your family are gorgeous)!
Marina! I screamed when I read "finally checked into a beachfront apartamento in the party neighborhood of Playa d’en Bossa". When that is your salvation you're in deep shit. So glad this worked out in the end xxx