Why I'm completely done with Ibiza (and going to Valencia this year)

Oh, how I would love to go there. And a lot too. And often. And for a long time. I spent the whole summer on Ibiza. I was already a social butterfly before that was even a word. I saw the island change from a refuge for artists and yogis to a millionaire magnet with more champagne than chakra stones.

For a long time, my love for Ibiza won over all the – justified – prejudices. Because yes, in Mallorca? And where am I actually in this whole story? I can't open Instagram without seeing Hailey Bieber gliding by on a jet ski in a lemon yellow Pucci set. there are people walking around with polished Rolexes, silicone breasts, and Donald Duck lips. Women who live on vodka and Ozempic and haven’t seen a calorie up close in years. And yet I found it somewhat charming. To immerse yourself in that crazy luxury world for a moment, only to then just pedal your bike to the office.

But it's over. Done. Finished between me and Ibiza.

This summer I paid – no joke – €25 for a juice. Yes, for a bit of cucumber with mint. When I wanted to reserve at my favorite beach tent, I had to pay a deposit of €250. Per person. And that turned out to be the minimum spend as well. I can't hear that word anymore. Minimum spend here, 1000 euros there, as if it's monopoly money.

And then came the highlight of the holiday in Ibiza 2025: the lunch where my sister-in-law (yes, that one) casually ordered a steak for €360. I still have the receipt somewhere. Trauma in receipt form.

Speaking of safety in Ibiza...

The clubs are not what they used to be either. Rolexes and jewelry are now bait for thieves, so everyone left their bling at home. Instead: bodyguards. Really. In the club. You could leave your Cosmograph Daytona at home, but not your security team.

And women? They should mainly keep a low profile. The latest trend (no, not fringe or floral prints): women who look for a fight with you, lure you outside, and hold you until your rich boyfriend hands them a stack of cash. Ibiza now: not safe, but expensive.

So I say: wave wave and bye bye.

It was nice, Ibiza. But I have eaten and drunk. For way too much money. Next year I'll be lounging on a beach bed in the Algarve (and believe me, it's just as beautiful there and the people still have expressions on their faces). Will you see me there? Wave a bit. Then I'll treat you. With love.

And without minimum spend.