24 Hours In Ibiza: Food Poisoning, Friendship Breakups And General Tomfoolery

It was one of many Euro summers, but this one was special because I got to spend it with two of my best friends.

Gabbi and I were staying in a small coastal town a short train away from Barcelona, where our friend Kelly was staying. One afternoon, in the lazy glow of sangria-fueled ambition, we discovered that Fisher, the electronic DJ, would be playing in Ibiza that weekend. Granted that we had accommodations we didn't want to waste on the mainland, we decided we would fly in on the morning of, party through the night, and take the 6am flight out the next day.

Now, this would have been a great idea if Gabbi and I hadn’t done the whole 24-hour show trip before—an escapade that nearly ended in us breaking off our friendship. But this time would be different, we assured ourselves. Idiots.

The day of the flight began smoothly—or so we thought. After breezing through security, we stood before the departure board, scanning for our gate. Nothing. No gate. No flight. Just blank space. They turned to me—the designated flight booker. Panicked, I whipped out my phone and shoved the tickets in their faces. "See?" I insisted, pointing at the date. Yeah, I had the date right, but as the ticket read, our flight wasn't until 13:00. It was 8:00. Before you judge, let me just say: I do know how to read military time. Why we arrived five hours early remains a mystery. Chalk it up to excitement—or poor math. Probably poor math.

Defeated but undeterred, we headed straight to the airport bar, we were going to Ibiza after all. Strike two: the bartender informed us they didn’t serve alcohol until 10:00. Fantastic. We killed the remaining hours aimlessly roaming the terminal, tethered to the hope that caffeine might restore some semblance of dignity. By the time our gate was finally announced, we parked ourselves there to ensure no further mishaps.

As we waited, a group of guys sitting in the chairs across from us started a conversation. As it turned out, one of the guys, Jake, went to the same university as I did (we would later become good friends)!

We finally made it on the plane, landed in Ibiza and went our separate ways, the girls and I beelining for some beach cabanas. We spent the next few hours baking under the spanish sun with one (four) bottles of wine in circulation.

We decided it was in our best interest to grab some dinner at a local spot and explore a bit before heading to the show. We found a pizza joint that was teeming with people, so we grabbed a table and ate--rather, inhaled--our meals. It was less than an hour later when Kelly timidly asked us how we were feeling. Shit, it's not just in my head, I thought. Sure enough, we had all gotten food poisoning.

The sun had now gone down and the concert was a couple hours away. In other words, we had a 2 hours to sort ourselves out and hustle buns to the venue. We were NOT missing it. In our infinite wisdom, we decided the best cure was a walk along the beach to get whatever had to be moved in our bodies moving. What we didn’t account for was how far we were from anything resembling a proper bathroom.

It all happened at once. Like cats, we were digging holes in the sand under the cover of darkness with the full knowledge that we were not going to make it off this beach. There was never a moment when one person wasn't purging from at least one end. It had to have gone on for hours, because by the time we were able to take a full breath without our bodies being triggered, it was time to go. Game faces were on, and we marched to that venue.

Inside, we found what we thought was the worst spot imaginable—sandwiched between two rowdy groups of guys who jostled us like pinballs with every jump. Just as I was considering a graceful exit, I locked eyes with Jake. Surely, this was a hallucination brought on by the food poisoning? But no, there he was, parting the sea of bodies to rescue us. He grabbed my arm and pulled us all to the front row.

The concert was fantastic, any semblance of our gastrointestinal trauma had vanished. But it was now 4:00 and we needed to get to the airport.

By some miracle, I’d gotten the time right. Everything went smoothly—until we landed.

Seated in our row, Gabbi by the window, Kelly in the middle, and me on the aisle. Gabbi and I headed to the same place, I suggested we take the train back to save money. Gabbi, still raw from the previous day’s events, shut me down. "No. We’re taking a cab."

"That's the worst idea you've ever had," I snapped.

"Stop acting like a bitch," she retorted.

"Cunt," I hissed.

What started as a low rumble escalated into a full-blown shouting match on a small aircraft before the sun had fully risen. For context, Gabbi and I are like sisters—we'd been flighting like this for years. But poor Kelly had never seen us like this, and now she was literally in the middle of it.

Once we deplaned, the fight continued. Gabbi was crying, I was yelling at her for crying, and poor Kelly was on damage control. By the time we reached the curb, Kelly hailed her own cab and left without a word (she's always been smart like that).

Gabbi, in a huff, hailed a taxi as well. Within minutes, she discovered the fare would be €100+. Turning back to me, eyes puffy, she muttered, "Let’s just take the train."

We burst into laughter, the tears and yelling from moments before completely forgotten. Our entire meltdown was as ridiculous as it was unnecessary, and we both knew it. So much for things being different this time. By the time we dragged ourselves onto the train, we were already scheming about what beach to hit that afternoon, as if we hadn’t just declared war on each other an hour earlier. Kelly, wisely, kept her distance for the rest of the day.