As I type this, I am sitting amidst the total chaos that is packing. Upon departure, it is all tiptop and so neatly packed that the old Louis Vuitton would give me an approving nod from his grave, but for an organized journey home, I still need some extra lessons.

In good Amayzine tradition, I conclude these diaries with the things we learned abroad.

In every little bay, I encountered at least one familiar face. Ranging from my own neighbors to Eddy Zoë, Gaston Starreveld (unfortunately without a suitcase for me) to old friends who have emigrated here. I found it incredibly cozy, but if you want peace and quiet and don’t want to see anyone you know, you’d better go a little further to the Balearics.

I find the most delightful tradition, but it is time-consuming. You sit down at the table around 1:30 PM and don’t get up until around 6:00 PM. So you shouldn’t have another cultural (although I still need to discover the first museum here) afternoon planned, because that’s not going to work out. Another thing is dinner. No idea how people do that. Lunching for four or five hours and then sitting down again three hours later. So I stuck to lunch and a small forkful in the evening.

There’s one now eagerly waiting for me, so I admit that I am completely bipolar when it comes to this digestif. They are always offered by friendly waiters who thank you for that endless lunch, but it never stays at one and the next day… regret.

“What’s that mosque doing here?’ my love asked Erik de Zwart. ’No man, that’s a club.“ But of course. When in doubt, always remember that almost everything here is for dancing.

Yes, maybe a bikini at Calzedonia or a summer dress for your girls. But the kaftans you can buy here on the beach are screamingly expensive. From insiders who sell the same brand in the Netherlands, I heard that those items go for five times the price here and also that many pareos have their bottoms cut off, a small local label sewn in, making you think you’re dealing with an incredibly original product. That’s not the case. You’re being taken for a ride.

As my friend Hanneke once said: “How wonderful that God made Ibiza so close to the Netherlands.’ And so it is, two hours of flying and you’re in paradise.