The dreaded foam parties

So as most of you know, I like to travel…A LOT. People often ask me what my favorite location is and it’s hard to choose – Egypt, Tunisia, Botswana, Thailand, Antarctica? Each one has its own special place in my heart. But people never seem to ask me the worst place I’ve traveled to, so I thought I’d share my story.

It started off innocently. My friend Erin invited me to Namibia in June 2000. It was my first trip to Africa, and I was so excited. I bought Nalgene bottles, DEET and zipper pants at REI and was on my way.

Sebastian and me in London

Before we landed in Africa, Erin and I spent a couple of days in London to better adjust to the time difference. My friend Sebastian was also in London for work so we grabbed beers at a local pub. Sebastian was French Canadian (that damn accent), a tad younger than me, and up until then a gentleman. We dated briefly and hooked up randomly afterwards.

He was graduating from business school in France and was going to Ibiza with his classmates. He told me I should join them. I thought why not? I changed my ticket in London to add a week in Ibiza before going back home. Erin was going to Tuscany after and told me I should go with her, “No I can’t now, I feel bad, I already committed to joining Sebastian and his friends” I said.

Woodsy in Namibian sand dunes and meeting the local Himba tribe

Namibia was the best – my first trip to Africa, beautiful blue skies, wild life and people. I left that continent on such a high. And then I landed in Ibiza.

Ugo is on the left, douchy Swede on the right, he was the worst of the lot.

Sebastian was there with six guy friends. They were from Italy, Sweden, Croatia and I can’t remember the rest. The only guy’s name I remember was Ugo the dark and hairy speedo-wearing Italian, he was also the only nice one in the bunch. I had spent mostly one on one time with Sebastian. He was a completely different person with these guys and acted like such an asshole, as did his friends. He was a selfish jerk. I was stuck with seven douche bags for a week in Ibiza and I was miserable.

Sebastian and I shared a motel room and  ended up sleeping together the entire week. What I didn’t know was that he had a girlfriend back home in San Francisco. I saw on Facebook that they’re now married with kids, that poor girl.

They worked very hard perfecting their poses and hand gestures.

Ibiza was a big party island and not my scene. Everyone dressed as scantily as possible, drank Red Bulls with vodka, popped ecstacy and went to foam parties until 10am. It was hell. Our first night there I decided to experience the island. We went out to dinner at midnight, bar hopped until 4am, then scurried around asking people where the best party was. We ended up at some warehouse hoping to get picked to go into the foam party. I was falling asleep by 2am and forced to drink those dreaded Red Bull drinks just to stay awake. They made me gag.These guys were taking pictures of themselves constantly with various Zoolander expressions and hand gestures. I mean they took their poses very seriously.

Even though I was only 32 years old, I felt like a mom at the club. I dressed like I worked at the Gap with my khakis, while other women had bikinis, scarves and glitter on them. The next day the island partygoers went to the beach and napped until they did the same routine again that night. I told the guys it wasn’t my scene but I’d go to the beach during the day.

Sebastian was always trying to take naked pictures of me and was super sleezy about it. I went topless on the beach and he kept trying to sneak pix, so I covered myself with coconut shells. I stayed in our cheap motel room for the rest of the nights, watching Spanish television and drinking alone on the balcony. I never felt so lonely.

Remember those Izone Polaroid cameras with sticker film? I had one, and one night Sebastian used my camera to take Polaroid pictures of us having sex.

Not actual photos!!

He then went out with his friends for the night, bar hopping and clubbing again. They wanted me to take their photo, and I laughed out loud when I saw their outfits. “This is a joke, right? You’re not really going out like that are you?” They looked like movie extras from A Night At The Roxbury. “What are you talking about? We bought these shirts together!” I shut up after that. They wore those outfits several nights in a row.

They wore these outfits all night, with the glasses and gold chains too.

I couldn’t believe I was sleeping with such a douche. I went back into my motel room and looked for the Polaroid pix. I tore the place apart and couldn’t find them anywhere. I panicked and began to cry. The next morning after the foam parties, Sebastian walked into our room and I was FUMING. “Where are those pix you took of me last night?” “Oh they’re right here in my pocket, I wanted them close to my heart.” OMG he took them out with him and showed all his friends.

I left the next day, I didn’t say a word to him as he drove me to the airport. I felt so violated and couldn’t believe that this guy who I once thought was a good guy could be such a COCKSUCKER.

He left a message on my answering machine six weeks later, saying hi and that he wanted to get together. He said he could tell I was angry when I left Ibiza but he didn’t know why. He sounded like his old self but it was too late. I never saw him again.

And THAT my friends, is the WORST trip of my life…Ibiza with Sebastian, his douche bag friends (except Ugo), foam parties and my invaluable lesson of sex with Polaroids!