An Ibizan virgin at 37… imagine that. It sounds like something that should be followed by a dramatic reality show pause and a slow zoom-in on my face. But yes, I had managed to go nearly four decades on this Earth without stepping foot on Spain’s most notorious party island. Now, to be fair, I am American. Most of my fellow Americans barely make it off the continent, and when they do, it’s usually to whichever Caribbean island promises the most turquoise water and the least amount of passport effort.
So maybe I’m off the hook… right?
Wrong.
Because I’ve lived in London for twelve years now. Yes, you read that right. TWELVE. That’s more than a decade of living a measly two-and-a-half-hour flight away from ‘The White Island’ and long enough to have had at least three hedonistic summers and one wellness reboot, minimum. But no. While I’ve happily collected passport stamps from all over Europe and beyond, Ibiza had somehow always felt too easy, too accessible. “I’ll go someday,” I told myself every year. “Whenever.”
Well, “whenever” finally showed up, dressed in the form of a very appealing long weekend at a “modern adult hotel concept”. That concept came in the form of the Amàre Ibiza, perched on Bou Cove. Honestly, I didn’t even need the hotel description. They had me at “adults only.”
Bou Cove is charming in that calm, beachy way that whispers “put your phone down and order another cocktail.” The beach is modest but pretty, with more paddleboards and jet skis than you can shake a beach towel at. The location’s ideal too: Ibiza Town is just a 25-minute cab ride away, or you can hop on a water taxi from right outside the hotel and be in San Antonio in ten minutes flat.
We arrived at the hotel after a rather rainy travel day and decided to call it an early-ish night after a few rooftop cocktails. The beds at Amàre? Heavenly, and with no children to wake me up at 6:30am sharp, I vowed to sleep in like it was my job.
But naturally, I woke up early. Go figure. So instead of rolling over and scrolling Instagram, I found myself doing yoga next to the rooftop pool like some serene goddess that I didn’t even recognize. And you know what? It was amazing. Follow that up with a bougie breakfast buffet complete with made-to-order omelettes and a mimosa bar, and I was ready to start every day of my life this way. (Can someone tell my children?)
Just when I thought the morning couldn’t get more indulgent, I was ushered into a spa room for an aromatic massage to knead out any post-travel Knicks all before midday. The rest of the day was a sun-drenched blur of lounging by the pool, snacking on tapas, sipping spritzes, and bobbing my head to a live saxophonist playing alongside a very chill DJ. The vibe? Very “Ibiza-lite,” in the best way possible.
That evening, after a lowkey dinner at the hotel buffet (better than it sounds, promise), we decided to dip our toes into the infamous San Antonio scene. I’d heard enough stories from my friends who partied there in the ’90s to know it was an unmissable pilgrimage, especially to the iconic Café Mambo and Café del Mar. Was it a wild night? Not particularly, but I was assured that it was still early in the season, but the people-watching alone was worth the trip. Brits Abroad energy was at an all-time high, and I was living for the matching hen party outfits and bucket hats.
Day three began with… you guessed it, more rooftop yoga. I was starting to feel like a whole new person, one who might actually have a morning routine that didn’t involve crusty toothpaste and the guilt of running late to school drop off (again). That delusion was short-lived, however, as I got a FaceTime call from home that snapped me right back into mom mode as I watched the morning chaos I left behind unfold.
Later that day, we made our way to Las Dalias, Ibiza’s famed hippie market. I went in with the firm intention of buying nothing. I reminded myself I didn’t need anything. So naturally, I left with an absolutely necessary new dress… to be fair, it was so good I convinced one of my friends she needed it too. That’s solidarity. The market has everything from vacay clothing, handmade jewelry, artwork and even a cocktail bar to keep the vibes going. I especially loved the kids’ areas; even though my own littles weren’t with me, I appreciated the thought of them being entertained while I shopped in peace.
After the market, we headed into Ibiza Town, and let me tell you—I was not prepared for how charming it would be. The cobblestone streets, the tiny boutiques, the picture-perfect cafes… it’s like someone curated the town for Instagram, but in a tasteful way. We climbed up through the historic Dalt Vila (totally worth the effort), took in the views, and then rightfully rewarded ourselves with a well-earned cocktail before heading back for dinner at Hayaca, the hotel’s rooftop restaurant.
Now, Hayaca has a Michelin star, and as someone who takes her guacamole very seriously, I came prepared to judge. The verdict? Worthy. It’s a Latin American fusion spot with bold flavors and a killer cocktail list. Slight downside: not a single vegetarian main on the menu. Bit of a miss. But as someone who often prefers sides anyway, I wasn’t too fussed. My fellow veggie and I just ordered a spread of small plates and called it a feast. Which, to be fair, it was.
Our final day was spent at Cala Bassa, a dreamy beach cove surrounded by the Cala Bassa Beach Club (or CBBC if you want to sound like a regular). It’s got seven restaurants, loungers for days, and crystal-clear water that practically demands you jump in. Compared to San Antonio, it was a total zen zone with families picnicking, snorkelers doing their thing, and (miracle of miracles) hardly a Brit in sight.
As we packed up our things to head back to London, I felt that bittersweet pang I always get when a trip ends too soon. But here’s the thing: I finally get the Ibiza hype. Whether it’s party central or low-key luxury, this island knows how to deliver. So now the only question is, do I come back for a no-sleep-till-sunrise girls’ trip (hello, Pacha), or a relaxed family holiday with beach picnics and bedtime by ten?
Either way, the Ibiza cherry has been popped and it was worth the wait.
Carrer La Rioja, 9, 07829 Sant Josep de sa Talaia, Illes Balears, Spain
