Chapter 46: Schmangled!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Schmangled in Ibiza
After Vancouver, I went to Ibiza. And I made it off again. Alive! I think that’s quite an accomplishment, compared to my housemates and many, many, many others on the Isle of Sin who spent their entire time just absolutely caning it. I went out to the nightclubs twice, but as for my housemates, well, it’s definitely against protocol to reveal too much, but let’s just say that by the end of the week Siegfried was roaming the villa muttering to himself “I’m DETERMINED TO REGAIN CONTROL, JUST DETERMINED”, while Paul (aka Doris) retreated to his darkened room with La Gay Grippe, hacking like Mimi from La Boheme, and Daniel lay prostrate on the sofa complaining of being “schmangled”. Sensible Ian Hitchcock gave medical counsel. I am officially adopting “schmangled” as my word of the month.

I have to say that my trip did not start auspiciously. I was traveling on my birthday, and a staggeringly large number of people - including my mother AND my brother! - neglected to wish me happy birthday. Also, my route to Ibiza was long (New York to London to Barcelona to Ibiza) and some of its component flights were delayed, and so I had to run pell-mell through both Heathrow and Barcelona airports, barely making it onto the relevant flights, gasping and in an absolute lather of sweat. And when I arrived in Ibiza it was raining. And my luggage had gone AWOL. Iberia had no idea where it was. (“You must understand, Mr Worthington, we have absolute chaos. We have lost 18,000 bags in the last week.”) It beggars comprehension. Anyway, in the end it seems I got off relatively lightly. My bag pitched up after 36 hours, which probably seems like the highest good fortune to those pour souls whose bags seem to have disappeared into an Iberian black hole. Some ten days after travelling only the direct 40 minute flight from Barcelona to Ibiza, later, Iberia still can’t find my friend Rob’s luggage. A gay man’s nightmare: “It had ALL my favorite things in it!” he wailed to me. My friend Gaspar told me Iberia has a shop somewhere in Madrid where it sells luggage that it fails to reunite with its owners, so perhaps Rob should go there.

But once I had All My Things back in my hot little hands, I had a great time on Ibiza. Siegfried organized a lovely villa, and Ibiza is a staggeringly pretty place, the hedonistic nightlife being only its more famous aspect. One afternoon, at Paul’s insistence (thank you Paulie!), we drove through pretty pine and scrub forests to the north side of the island to watch the hippies play bongo drums and firedance at sundown. Gorgeous. The old town (Dalt Villa in Catalan) with its high stone ramparts and cobbled streets on a promontory by the sea is magic at night. And of course, the Spanish are just so relaxed and easy about life. Mojitos and sangria on the beach, and nobody bats an eyelid if you smoke a joint in public. The US, UK, Canada and Australia just seem so unnecessarily uptight in comparison.

And we went to some great pool parties, including one high in the beautiful hills along a 5 km dirt track. Unfortunately, our hosts Juan Pedro and David, were expecting only 50 people but some 600 or more arrived, so all drinks ran out nearly immediately, leaving absolutely NADA to drink. (Tap water in Ibiza is salinated.) However, ever so fortunately that evening, I was hanging with the delightful Thomy Valdez Piedra and his posse of fellow Cubans. And as the evening dragged on and everyone was gasping for thirst, desiccating in the hot night air, steeling themselves to drink the pool water, all of a sudden the Cubans started producing Red Bulls, Coca Cola, water and juice out of their asses, seemingly. All of a sudden REAL JUICE and ACTUAL WATER just seemed to appear in our little dancing circle. I guess it’s the Cuban instinct; noticing times of imminent shortage, they hoard, or at least know where to source things. A most useful survival skill, methinks.

A few days later we went to another smaller, more intimate pool party by Kike and Carlos, at their house deep in the pine woods. My friends Chip and Ariel had to drive down to the main road in a borrowed Jeep to guide me back through the confusing dirt tracks through the forest. Shortly after arriving back the owners of the Jeep needed to leave for airport. Chip couldn’t find the keys. Panic set in. The music was stopped, search parties were mounted, and the host started screaming. All to no avail. The owners of the Jeep consequently missed their flight, and my friends had to buy them a new ticket. So just, please, try and imagine my absolute horror some 20 minutes later as I’m fumbling in my pocket for something and it slowly dawns on my that my keys in my pocket don’t exactly feel like my keys.

Quote of the Year:
“Show me someone who lives with his boyfriend and sneaks out to have sex with women and I’ll show you a real bisexual.”

My Magic Boots Show Their Powers Are Nearly Limitless
Those of you who read my blog regularly may recall Chapter 42 in which I tell of my purchase of a pair of magic boots which cause people to manifest an uncontrollable desire to have sex with me. Well, I’ve been lugging these damn boots all around and I finally got a chance to wear them when I went to visit my great friend German in Barcelona. We decided to go out one night to the Metro and I put them on, thinking “Thank God, I can finally wear them! OH THANK GOD!” Oh, I was so happy! Well, as soon as we arrived at the club I thought “God, these people are ugly, I sure hope these boots don’t work tonight!” But my boots’ power is apparently quite flexible. For I’m standing drinking my little drink, trying to avoid catching any ugly person’s eye, and I feel something roll under my foot and I look down and it’s a must-have gay-butch accoutrement that I have been coveting for well over 2 years, and I’ve never been able to find one in any shop, anywhere. Naturally I scooped it up and shoved it in my pocket faster than you can say rapido, puta! I’m going to ask my boots for money next.

Barcelona was just lovely, and I understand why so many people from Europe are moving there. On my first night there were street parties near German’s flat, in which each street competed in decoration and there was drinking, and music and dancing. I bought a chocolate hash ball from someone selling them in the street and practiced my Spanish. The streets were packed with people from every walk of life at 1am in the morning on a Thursday. It’s clear the Spanish don’t sleep. Check out my photos. A few days later we went to one of Barcelona’s many beaches, where my gorgeous friend Sarah from Sydney spent the afternoon ogling all the hot men, and then afterwards German took a bunch of us out to a Basque tapas bar, and then for a stroll through the Gothic quarter of Barcelona.



How a Six Year Old Girl Gave Me a Complex
On my return to London I have lunch with Ian Temple's family, Ian and his boyfriend Jack. His mom Sylvia and his sister Susan are just lovely, not that I got much chance to talk to them in the onslaught of his niece and nephew. ("Peter, come and play with us now! Please.") They really are the most engaging children. Though Charlotte, after a close scrutiny of my face asked pointedly "Why do you have a big lumpy vein on the side of your head?" According to Ian, she can be relied upon to point out one's physical imperfections with brutal honesty and unerring accuracy. So now, in the gym, and in the bathroon, and when I'm getting dressed, I've not been able to stop staring in at my disfiguring vein. I'm wondering if one can get varicose veins in the head. And if Doctors can glue it flat. Later, as Charlotte was writhing on my lap in a paroxysm of ecstacy at having a new and compliant playmate, Ian reached out and ran a finger across Charlotte's creamy white cheek and said to me "Wouldn't you just love to have skin like this?" in a tone of voice rather like Cruella DeVille discussing a Dalmation. God love him. And Jack too, for loving him. (Apologies to Ian, Sylvia, Susan and Jack. Coudln't help myself. Love you all.)

Chilled out, Santorini-style
Now in Santorini with my friend Lance from New York, staring across the rim of an ancient volcano cauldera sunken in the sea. Everything is blue and white and I'm chilled to the point of nearly being in a coma.