Regio Glutaea de Mundo*

Of course I was stone-cold sober and crystal clear in the head when I made the best decision of my life.

That's what I thought end of 2012, at least, after nearly a whole bottle of red wine amongst my dear friends, companions, and supporters of Italian gastronomy. The atmosphere in the restaurant was as usual: loud, damp, and very Italian – everything seemed normal. But at some point I couldn't understand a word. The conversations had mutated into a single acoustic ball of wool, as if a crazy kitten had decided to create its masterpiece here.

First small syntax errors, then semantic interference. The usual sequence before the multicausal collapse.

Whilst celebrating amongst friends, I suddenly felt lonely. Empty as the glass before me on the table. Was I really drunk already?

That was the signal. Time to go. Far away. So far that even Google Maps shows only white patches.

The Escape: Or How I Learnt That North Is Relative

The year I decided to turn my back on the big city and become invisible. Friends from an even wilder epoch – veterans of the good life – had organised a flat in Marina Botafoch. Harbour view. Comfortable. Affordable. Chic. A dream start! For me: total failure.

Too close to the action. Too many memories of what I was fleeing from.

After weeks of completely overstretched hospitality – I slept in the children's room and they on my guilty conscience – I found an advert in a German magazine. Studio with sea view. Santa Eulària. 700 euros for 30 square metres.

An odd fellow opened the door. I hesitated.

Too much city. Which seems ridiculous from today's perspective, but back then Santa Eulària was still too loud for me, too close to civilisation, too much like what I'd just left behind.

He noticed my hesitation.

"I have something else..." hissed quietly from the side into my left ear "cheaper... further north. Sun terrace with sea view."

North! The word sounded like a threat. Or a promise. Hard to say.

"If you don't mind, we could certainly..."

Nope, doesn't bother me!

The Diane of Dread

I like being a passenger. Especially in a 1981 Citroën Model Diane 6/400. The vehicle has that distinctive smell of old upholstery and mechanical history – a mix of aged vinyl, motor oil, and something vaguely organic that I choose not to investigate further. It could be yesterday's groceries forgotten in the boot. Or perhaps it's just the accumulated patina of decades. The elderly driver shifts gears with practiced ease, and I notice the faint chemical tang in the air. Age shows itself in unexpected ways.

We drove north. Then more north. Serpentines. Endless serpentines. I hadn't known there was so much north on so little island. The last living creatures: a herd of goats behind San Carlos. Naturally, without any fence. Anarchists!

Then – last left curve – and – a stop. Steep coast.

Through the dirty side window of the Diane I saw it: a small bay stretching in the afternoon sun like a sleeping cat. Crystal clear. Sapphire blue slowly transforming into turquoise, as if someone were dripping paint into the water. The sea breathed. Slowly. Deeply. As if it had all the time in the world.

I was gone. Completely gone.

Cala San Vicente. At the other end of the bay, on a hill: my new home.

The Garage: 99 Steps to Paradise (or Madness)

The "flat" was a garage. Toilet, tap, broken hotplate. The back part built too deep into the mountain – so damp that leather belts mutated overnight into mouldy green snakes. I swear one of them moved.

But the front part – that had a sun terrace with sea view. And 99 natural stone steps leading directly into the sapphire blue. Each one laid by hand along a well-kept garden on the steep slope, probably a hundred years ago, by someone who also didn't know what to do with himself.

500 euros. Negotiation superfluous.

I signed immediately.

The contract: half a DIN A4 page. Handwritten. Hasty.

The landlord: Herr Dr. Dr. Mende. Former German teacher from the Congo. In the 80s rode his horse from Germany to Ibiza. Also wrote a book about it – spoiler: from the horse's perspective! Clever. Dead men tell no false tales.

He mentioned his double doctorate often. The immediate demise of the horse at the end of the journey never.

"Accidents Never Happen in a Perfect World" – Debbie Harry Had No Idea

There I stood. Bienvenido, Andreas. Welcome to nowhere.

The sound of the surf had something hypnotic. A rhythm older than any language, any word I'd ever spoken. The sea didn't just wash the beach – it washed my synapses. Slowly. Patiently. As if it knew exactly how much filth was in there.

Nearest supermarket: 20 minutes south. San Carlos. A village with a church, a village street, done. 'Bar Anita' (Ca n'Anneta) at the crossroads – but more on that later. At any rate: no town far and wide. In my old life, 25 minutes to the supermarket would have been the end of the world. Here it was perfect.

The plan: Reduction. Detox. Eliminate big city mode.

TacoPaco's Happy Hour on the way home regularly sabotaged this plan, though. My standard answer to everything became: "No idea, I only had some tequila*... Wasn't me."

Pro tip: Wait for the question first!

*"Tequila" itself originates from Nahuatl, the language of Mexico's indigenous peoples, and means "place of tributes" or "place of gatherings".

A Summer Under Open Skies

I put my bed on the terrace. For a whole summer I slept outside with a view of the bay. No walls. No ceiling. And no – no mosquitoes either. (I suspect they were banned from flying if they tanked up on my blood.) Only stars reflecting in the water and the quiet breathing of the sea. At night fishing boats sometimes passed by, their lights dancing on the waves like drunken glow-worms.

A small black cat from the neighbourhood came by occasionally. Stayed for food, sometimes overnight, then disappeared again for days. Later she jumped down from surrounding rooftops and walls just to say hello when I came home in the jeep. Landed softly beside me, purred once, then off again. She'd grasped what I had yet to learn: one can stay without being trapped.

My door was always open. She could come and go as she pleased. Freedom for all. That was the rule.

Business-wise? Disastrous. But that wasn't the point.

Almost from the beginning I wanted to delve deeper into nature and looked up the first address for horse riding. The voice at the other end of the line was apparently horrified that I wanted to come immediately. We arranged an appointment. On a nearby mountain I found a woman living alone with 4 horses and naturally cats. We got on splendidly straight away – and still do to this days! Guitar. Swimming. Riding. The synapses slowly calmed down. The noise in my head grew quieter until at some point I heard only the sea and nothing else.

Sober and alone, I interestingly didn't feel lonely.

That was new • That was strange • That worked

The Agreement

Then came Judy. We met at Casita Verde. One of the first organic farms on Ibiza. Speciality: cocoa and baked goods from algarrobas (carob tree / Ceratonia siliqua) – an almost forgotten fruit on the island. A healer. Coach. Five Elements acupuncture. From Taiwan / California. She needed a flat. Was also on the run. I used to be a location scout and estate agent. A rather mediocre salesman, but with much love for the houses. I could help.

We made an agreement: I find her a home. She gives me a new life.

Sounds esoteric? Perhaps it was. Worked anyway.

I found her a place. She kept her promise and gave me a new life.

After a while beeing with her the alcohol simply stopped. No intervention. No clinic. No dramatic vows. It just became... boring. Like a joke you've heard too often. Like a song on repeat until you hate it. One morning I woke up and didn't want a drink anymore. That simple. That quiet. As if someone had flipped a switch.

At first I was afraid of losing my sense of humour. Total nonsense. My humour became sharper without the alcohol filter. Clearer. Faster. Better. The jokes were the same, but I remembered them the next day.

That was twelve years ago now. Not a drop since. Not because I must. Sobering simply happens.

The Two-Euro Enlightenment

After the first year I took a job as a tourist guide for a change. Drove tourists in an open jeep through the wild north. Told stories, anecdotes, the history of the island. The usual show.

Whilst I spoke, it was deathly silent in the car. Afterwards I wondered: Were they bored? Should I shut up?

Feedback came later. Much later on other excursions: They'd been so fascinated they hadn't dared speak.

Once someone gave me two euros as a tip. I'd collected the family from a very cheap hotel. I knew the budget was surely very tight and this was a very special day in their precious holiday. The tip was handed over with so much gratitude that I decided: I'm diving deeper. I'm learning everything about this bloody island. Two euros! That's all it took to find a new direction.

Later a Swiss doctor booked me for a private tour. I was visibly proud of my newly gained insights about the island. I talked for six hours. Without a break. He was polite... Very polite! Later I realised: I could easily have spread that over three tours. But he never said. Swiss people are like that. :)

Doesn't matter. From then on the island had me. Or I it. Hard to say who's holding whom captive.

The Returner

I stayed. I left. I came back and so on. Like ebb and flow. Preferably here in winter – which is why I still speak rubbish Spanish to this day. You learn the language best in summer. Working with the locals. In winter I had them to myself, but still didn't talk enough.

Now I'm here again. By day: web designer. Nights and weekends: story collector. A passion project. I document the island beyond the clubs. Originally from the club scene myself – none of my old friends would have believed that one seriously goes to the island to relax. The forgotten corners. The people. The real stories. The ones that disappear if no one listens. That's what I like.

The garage no longer exists. I no longer walk the 99 steps daily. But sometimes I dream of it – how I walk down them, step by step, each one cool under bare feet, until the water touches them.

The island has me. Or I it. Still hard to say.

Twelve Years Later

If a fairy appeared before me and said I could wish for and do what I'd always wanted, I'd answer: Sorry, you're too late – it's happening right now.

I'm grateful. Sounds kitsch, but it's true. I had the chance to get to know myself better. Sober. Without filter. Without excuses. Every day anew I learn something. It doesn't stop. Don't want it to ever end either.

Sometimes I think back to that evening in the Italian restaurant. The bottle/s of red wine. The lonely fool. The decision to disappear. I see myself from outside – drunk, lost, laughing loudly at jokes that weren't funny.

Was it the best decision of my life?

Ask me that after a bottle of red wine – I'll still answer sober. That's new. That works. That stays.

I arrived at the arse end of the world – regio glutaea de mundo – and found there the opposite of what I was looking for. Not escape. Arrival. Not end. Beginning. Not emptiness. Clarity.

Feeling lonely or simply being alone is a vast difference. That's not philosophy. That's experience. Simple mathematics. Minus alcohol equals plus life.

Judy was right – she promised me a new life. She kept her promise. The two-euro tip on a tour did the rest.

And the cat? Still comes by. To the next tenant. Jumps from the wall, purrs once, disappears again. Places and people change, but the feeling for the island always remains the same.