Rules to Survive Ibiza: From an American Tourist

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Written By Guest writer

Henna Soneta is interning at Ybernia, and in this blog post, she writes about how Ibiza is an island where the main tourist attraction is clubs, the music has no lyrics, just eternal beats, and where 6 a.m. is casually considered “bedtime… or breakfast… or both.”

It was finally the weekend of my birthday trip to Ibiza with my girls. And let’s just say the journey there was already showing early signs of chaos.

First rule of group trips: book your flights properly. Together. Not separately. Not “I’ll do it later.” Because “later” turns into you realizing you only booked your Ushuaïa ticket and completely forgot your actual plane ticket. Which is exactly how I ended up arriving in Ibiza four hours before any of my friends.

I had never traveled alone before, but I decided Ibiza was a perfectly reasonable place to start experimenting with independence and chaos. That was the mindset I carried into Terminal 4 of Madrid Airport after asking my English professor if I could leave class early.

He didn’t need to know I was not “catching a flight,” but rather “departing for a spiritually life-changing experience involving glitter and overly loud music.”

At the airport, I was surrounded by Spanish speakers while I was running purely on English and the confidence of someone who once got a B in high school Spanish. My flight, booked through a website called Kiwi (which already sounds like it should be selling fruit, not flights), also felt suspiciously like it might disappear at any moment.

As I checked the gate, an older woman came up to me speaking rapid Spanish. I responded with my best “sí… claro… aeropuerto…” energy. A guy our age jumped in to translate, and suddenly we were a little international support group trying to survive Terminal 4.

The flight was barely an hour. One blink. One sip of water. One existential crisis. And suddenly: Ibiza.

I immediately met a group of American guys, which felt like spotting your natural habitat after being dropped in the wild. We split a taxi, discovered Ibiza taxis are aggressively expensive, and collectively agreed we would financially recover later.

I checked into the hotel, got ready, and waited. After one margarita pizza and aggressively reorganizing the entire room like I was on an HGTV show, shoes aligned, outfits color-coded, suitcase exploded everywhere, my friends finally arrived. And just like that, the chaos officially began.

Unofficial rules

There are several unofficial rules to surviving Ibiza as a girl:

Rule one: you only wear sparkles and color. Black and gray are banned. You show up in black and the island automatically ejects you. Think: royal blues, neon pinks, “I might glow in the dark” orange. Thankfully, Zara in Sol (Madrid) understood the assignment and saved us with enough sequins to blind aircraft.

Rule two: don’t overpack your purse. Especially not to Hi Ibiza. It’s 9 p.m. on a Friday and someone is already yelling “GET UP WE’RE GOING TO HI LET’S GO” like it’s a government mandate.

Most important item: portable charger. Mine was courtesy of my Asian mother, meaning it was not just a charger, it was a survival device. Neon orange. Heavy-duty. Flashlight included. If it had Wi-Fi, it would’ve paid rent.

Unfortunately, the bouncer saw it and immediately decided it was a weapon of mass distraction. I was told to leave it outside. I placed it under a palm tree thinking, “no one will touch this.” Ibiza heard me and responded: challenge accepted. It was gone by the time I left the club. RIP.

Rule three: you must love house music. Not “I know a remix of a pop song”. I mean real devotion. Respect for the beat. Emotional connection to the bassline. Americans are used to hearing Justin Bieber at least once every 12 minutes. Ibiza said: absolutely not.

We did see Calvin Harris at Ushuaïa though, which was the top 3 concerts I had ever experienced. Planes flying overhead, sun setting somewhere in the distance, music so loud it rearranged my personality slightly.

One thing I will say about European crowds: shockingly polite. Minimal pushing. People say “sorry” while aggressively dancing into you. However, rule four exists for a reason: do not let strangers cut in front of you with stories like “my friend Veronica is lost” or “she’s about to get into a fight.” Because suddenly you’ve lost your spot and gained a stranger’s heel permanently embedded in your ankle.

Rule five: beware promoters. On the beach, they can smell Americans the way sharks smell blood. “Ladieeees, do you have any plans todayyyy?” is not a question, it’s a trap wrapped in sunscreen. We got convinced into a two-bar deal that sounded like a great idea and turned out to be… two empty rooms and emotional disappointment.

Rule six: if a stranger offers you free drinks at the door of a random bar, you are now in a social experiment. We ended up at Murphy’s, where a sweet older woman told us, “You are like my daughters, I will protect you.” Which was kind… but also our cue to exit immediately before we got adopted.

Eventually, we headed back because reality (and early flights) exist even in Ibiza.

My final mistake

And here’s where I made my final mistake: never book your return flight separately from your friends. They left at 7 a.m., functioning on one hour of sleep and pure delusion. I had a 5 p.m. flight, which meant I got to experience the glamorous Ibiza finale: being hungover, alone, and questioning every life choice on a beach full of people living their best lives.

I checked out, laid on the beach overhearing everyone else’s wild stories, bought a souvenir I absolutely do not need, and eventually made my way to the airport.

I slept across three chairs, FaceTimed my boyfriend to deliver a full documentary-style debrief, and ate a very sad veggie sandwich.

Was it the best weekend ever? Yes. Would I do it again? Also, yes.

Would my body survive it a second time? Unclear.

Ibiza really is another universe, one where time stops making sense, DJs play in bathrooms, and strangers become your best friends for exactly 48 hours. A place full of unforgettable stories… and a few that your nervous system would really prefer you forget.

And remember...

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