MY BODY WANTS TO BE SPANISH: from Ibiza Dreams to a (Fabulous) Catalan Compromise
Have you ever gone somewhere and felt like you belong? Somewhere you feel your heart space crack wide open, which is just as well because you’re suddenly overwhelmed with so much joy that there isn’t enough space inside you to hold it? And it’s so intense that you feel a hot, deep red echo of tears building somewhere between your throat, your ears and your eyes?
That’s how I felt when I first landed in Ibiza, one of the four Spanish Balearic Islands, a couple of decades ago.
I’d been hearing about Ibiza since I was a teenager. One of my best friends at school had a friend who spent her summers on the island - her parents had a house there, and my friend would regale me with stories of this wild girl who seemed like a teenage version of Dorothy Edwards’ “My Naughty Little Sister”. She sounded fascinating, the perfect combo of glamourous and bohemian. She tore around Ibiza’s country roads - most of them still dirt tracks back in the Seventies - on a moped, went to beach parties with bonfires and dancing under the stars, drank alcohol, smoked cigarettes and marijuana and – can you hear my shocked whisper? – she even went skinny dipping!
“She’s so naughty,” my friend would say, her eyes sparkling with pride at just how naughty this wild, beautiful friend was, and I remember thinking how much I longed to become wild and naughty, too.
But how could any of this wild-world naughtiness possibly rub off on me, when I lived in quiet, safe Geneva, and was, undoubtedly, like my friend, a total goodie-goodie? I didn’t drink, had never smoked a cigarette, and had been to so many lectures on drugs at school assemblies that I was convince I’d end up six feet under simply by inhaling someone else’s marihuana fumes.
The only parties I’d ever attended were those my parents threw, and occasional school dances where my friend and I would sit around, desperately waiting for a boy to invite us onto the dance floor so that we might shake our bums to KC and the Sunshine Band. If we got three dances in an evening it was something to celebrate, though sadly the boys we had crushes on were always interested in other girls.
My worldliness increased a tad in my final two years at school, when I fell in love for the very first time. We went out for several months, but I can’t say we were extremely naughty. As for my goodie-goodie friend, she started dating an older boy, whom she later married. Eventually my boyfriend and I broke up, and I met a slightly older boy with whom I dove straight into a long-term relationship. We were serious – think “Meet The Parents” vibes, but without any of the laughs – and I eventually walked out on him, overcome with the feeling that life probably had more to offer.
That’s when I met a rather naughty girl called V and we became best friends. And this time, some of that longed for naughtiness rubbed off on me.
Fate moves sometimes moves in mysterious ways: would you believe V knew the original naughty Ibiza girl?!
Her parents too had a house in Ibiza, so she’d also spent her childhood and teenage holidays running wild all over the island.
But even then, it never struck me that maybe Ibiza might be “calling me”. So, it was only when, in the late 90s, V, her husband and her baby son left Geneva and went to live on the island that I finally flew over to spend a long weekend with her .
V and I, back in the day, enjoying a slow hippy morning!
It was late April. The island was a fiesta of wildflowers. The earth wowed me with its delightful, deep, delicious shade of ochre. The sea sparkled a fresh, bright blue, and the Mediterranean pine trees wafted a scent so delicious I wanted to bottle it. But beyond the sheer beauty of the island, I also felt something stir deep inside me. A flicker of excitement. I felt a connection, almost a calling.
V and I, back in the day, enjoying a slow hippy morning!
I’d even call it an awakening.
This may sound pretty woo-woo, and it probably is. Nevertheless, I know that the person who arrived on the island on Thursday night was not the same person who left on Sunday evening. Even my husband felt it when he collected me at Geneva airport. I’d also had a fashion makeover!!
I fell deeply in love with Ibiza and returned many times in summer over the next decade, renting a house high above Cala Salada with stunning sunset views over the sea. I would drive down to Barcelona with my two young children and my parents and board the overnight ferry. We’d snuggle up in our little sleeper cabins and doze off to the guttural hum of the ferry engines and the gentle sway of the Mediterranean. We’d awaken at dawn and peer excitedly out of the porthole, beaming at the shimmering, teal-blue water, searching for that first glimpse of the island.
Dark green hills would begin to emerge, dotted here and there with white-washed houses. The final approach was always the pièce de resistance; there was something thrilling about sailing into Ibiza’s port just as the sun turned Dalt Villa into a tapestry of pink, peach, apricot and gold. I still get emotional remembering those magical arrivals, my arms around my children, my parents by my side, the wind whipping our hair into the perfect tousled un-do, laughing gulls gliding drunkenly overhead.
My husband would fly in for a couple of long weekends in July, before coming back and settling in for a couple of weeks of bliss in August when business slowed down. We met many people through V and her husband, and those holidays always flew by in a blur of bohemian enchantment.
Back then, I would have given anything to live there. I longed to be immersed in that carefree, creative atmosphere full time, which was unfortunately out of the question because of my husband’s job. I always tapped into another version of myself while on the island and returning to Switzerland felt like being parachuted into a prim and proper land in shades of beige.
So, I returned there in my head. I wrote a romantic comedy set in Ibiza, teleporting myself back there every morning when the kids went off to school, and dropping back into my Swiss body just in time for the school run. I lived a wonderful, adventure filled, romantic double life for eighteen months, and once my book was complete, I sent it off to a selection of agents in London and almost immediately picked up someone who represented big names. My agent was certain my book was going to be the next big thing, that we were going to make pots of money!
I could hardly wait for the moment I’d be able to tell my husband he would soon be able to retire, and that we could buy an old farmhouse in Ibiza and live bohemianly ever after.
Unfortunately, the book failed to sell to any of the big houses but was published a few years later by a small American press. I eventually retrieved the rights and republished it myself in 2023. If you’re in the mood for a very funny romance geared towards a slightly more mature age group, involving an older woman (she’s 38) and a very gorgeous Spanish pop star (he’s 29), as well as lots of mad capers between girlfriends, JUST LIKE A MOVIE is for you!
We don’t have a house in Ibiza, but we do now own a house in Spain, near Girona, a fabulous little town an hour north of Barcelona. We can drive there and don’t need to rely on planes or boats, a huge concern during Covid when we bought the property.
My husband is now retired, so we divide our time between Switzerland and Spain, and I’m always amused at how my spirits perk up as soon as I arrive. Our house’s location may not have Ibiza’s free-spirited, colourful vibe, but I love spending several months a year there. I love roaming the streets of Girona, discovering funky little boutiques, practising my Spanish with friendly shopkeepers and restaurateurs. I love driving down to the beach, either with a friend or on my own, walking the coastal paths, taking a dip in the sea. We’ve made many friends, both local and international, and the easy-going, friendly, outdoorsy vibe suits both my creativity and my body. The climate is a little milder than Switzerland, and while the temperature can drop below zero during the winter, by lunch time, if the sun is out, we can be in a shirt or a light sweater.
So, although I didn’t get my Ibiza farmhouse, I’m incredibly lucky to be able to indulge the part of me that wants to be Spanish. My husband’s body doesn’t crave being Spanish the way mine does; he’s profoundly attached to his Swiss roots, whereas I’m nationally confused! I’m English and Italian but raised in Switzerland. He and I are very different; I am creative, scatterbrained, rather messy and extremely spontaneous. He is disciplined, efficient and terrifyingly tidy. He loves football and golf; I’m into equestrian sports, Pilates and making things. I like pop music, he loves jazz. Each of us has learnt to make concessions, meeting somewhere in the middle, mixing shades of creme with bright splashes of colour, Miles Davis with Ricky Martin.
We return to Ibiza occasionally, staying with old friends, immersing ourselves again in the unique, bohemian spirit of the island, but I no longer obsess about making a life there. But I would be sad to have to abandon living part of my life in Spain, and if I had to choose, I know that my body would tell me, without a doubt, that it would prefer to be Spanish.
Does your body want to be another nationality? Or from a different area of your country? Tell me about it; I’d love to know.
With love,
Francesca
My poetry book, ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN, (poems by me, cover and illustrations by my daughter, mixed media artist Olivia Bossert) is now available on all the Amazons, and includes the poem “My Body Wants to Be Spanish”.
You can also enjoy the amazing ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN SOUNDTRACK, with one song per poem!
