The town of San Antonio was sleeping when we arrived. It looked like New Orleans after Mardi Gras, narrow streets and walkways littered with cups and debris. The heavy smell of stale beer and Spanish silence hung in post-fiesta air.
My new companion spoke Spanish, so it was his job to ask about housing. After being shown some very dodgy and expensive rooms, we found a small studio apartment with two beds and a narrow balcony overlooking the heart of downtown San Antonio for 2,000 pesetas each (12 U.S. dollars) per night.
The room turned out to be hot and noisy, but its location was invaluable as an instrument of amusement late at night when the drunken antics of the thousands of Brits abroad were at their height.
The town of San Antonio houses almost exclusively young British tourists during the summer months, with a few Scottish, Irish and Welsh vacationers thrown in the mix. The streets are filled with makeshift British pubs advertising cheap “English Breakfasts” (fried eggs, bacon, sausage, fried tomatoes and toast) and English “futbol” matches on TV (soccer for Americans).
At about two o’clock in the afternoon the public relations people for the various clubs (flyerers) begin their daily ritual of standing on crowded street corners or walking along beaches trying to persuade thousands of hung-over and sunburned tourists to patronize their club’s night.
The flyerers are the hardest-worked and most underpaid people on the island. They are mostly clubbers from Great Britain who come over to Ibiza to party for a week or two and end-up wanting to stay the whole summer. READ MORE
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