“Want to escape your 9-5 job? Spend your summer on the legendary island of Ibiza!”

It was a cold December evening in Westchester, New York when I came across this enticing advertisement. The job posting described selling boat parties and club packages to unsuspecting tourists on the beaches of Ibiza. I’d never been a huge partier or a great salesperson, yet as I peered out the window at my snow-drenched front yard, the prospect of spending summer on a Spanish island didn’t seem so bad. I sent an innocent application and less than a week later I was interviewing for the position. The interviewer sold me a fairytale: living in a nice house with other promoters, partying all the time and making good money. There were several red flags from the get-go. They asked for a hefty deposit and a flight booking confirmation immediately after I accepted the job. Later on, their vagueness in detail and delays in replying to messages made me uneasy. Despite the many glaring signs that this might be a scam– or might not exist at all– I welcomed the opportunity with open arms and even convinced a friend to join me. 

Arriving in Ibiza

I arrived in Ibiza alone (my friend was to join me in a few days) and took a taxi to the address given to me by the company. When all I found was a pizza restaurant I began to wonder if this was all just an elaborate scam. However, with the help of a local, I was able to track down the house and it was exactly what had been shown to me in photos. I walked up to the front entrance and found a girl and a guy sitting on the porch eating dinner. Both were impossibly tall, perfectly tanned and probably the most attractive people I had ever seen in person. They examined me –covered in a full day’s worth of travel sweat– with a blank and uninviting stare. The house was filled with equally beautiful people, none of whom were particularly friendly. I showered, ate the leftover snacks in my carry on and loitered until it was late enough to go to bed. I fell asleep with a strange feeling, but assured myself that my discomfort was a normal symptom of traveling anywhere new. 

The Living Situation

My roommates in Ibiza were a collection of interesting characters. Two loud Italian guys, an English girl about to enter university, a woman escaping her boring job in Germany and a quiet couple from France. They warmed to me eventually, but among discussions of hookups with various DJs and famous Love Island stars they hung out with on nights out, it became abundantly clear that I would never truly fit in with these people. The house itself was nice enough– it had a kitchen, three bedrooms, a living room and an outdoor sitting area- but lacked the one thing absolutely necessary during summer in Southern Europe: air conditioning. I cannot possibly overstate how hot Ibiza gets in the summertime. I still have nightmares of lying awake on my bare bunk bed, listening to the sound of the useless fan and drowning in pools of sweat. If it wasn’t hard enough to sleep, the others would regularly come home at 5 am (often with guests) and make a drunken commotion throughout the house. In the time I was there, I couldn’t have gotten more than 4 hours of sleep a night. 

The Job

The actual job was exactly what it sounded like: going to the beach and trying to get people to buy the company’s packages. It seemed like a good deal, getting paid to talk to strangers and hang out by the ocean, but the reality was infinitely less glamorous. Have I mentioned how hot Ibiza is? Pair that with walking up and down the beach for 5 hours a day and the idea of an outdoor job loses much of its allure. More than that, I found the selling aspect of our work humiliating. We were told to approach people and make conversation, not revealing our promoter status until they had gained our trust. It felt like I was lying to people, pretending to be a friendly stranger until the other shoe dropped. There were tons of promoters on the beach from different companies doing the same thing– all of us opportunistic leeches out for the kill– interrupting tourists trying to enjoy their holidays and tricking them into giving us their money. 

Finally, ‘the good money’ we were promised was a blatant lie. I spoke to a promoter who had been working for two weeks and had made a mere 35 euros. Selling was not nearly as easy as they made it out to be, and considering the exorbitant prices in Ibiza I was sure to lose far more money than I would be making. 

My friend and I braved the job together, and it was fun for a fleeting moment– coming up with creative ways to approach people, talking to strangers from all over the world and periodically chugging beers to boost our confidence. But in time, the continuous rejections and scorching sun got the better of us. We came to the decision that this was not something we could or wanted to be a part of all summer. 

It’s not so much that the company was a scam, and I do think that the job was perfect for a very particular type of person. They gave us a decent place to stay for a reasonable price (an impossible task in Ibiza during the summer season), free entry to all clubs and connections all over the island. If your dream is to dance in Ibiza’s techno clubs all summer, this was just about the cheapest way you could do it. But for someone looking to make any money at all or have any semblance of a healthy lifestyle, it just isn’t the place. It didn’t take us long to decide that we needed to get the hell off this island.

Impressions of Ibiza

I didn’t completely dislike Ibiza. It is, for lack of a better word, a beautiful place. There are around 80 different beaches to discover on the small island and even the pesky promoters cannot take away from their Mediterranean pristineness. The old town is dreamy and historic, its narrow European streets lined with pretty lights, restaurants and small shops. Its distinctly Spanish characteristics are apparent in its leisurely pace of life. I have many fond memories of my stay there– watching magnificent sunsets on top of the Castell d’Eivissa, beginning my days at 2 in the afternoon and indulging in endless amounts of sangria, olives, and bread. 

As such, it didn’t at all surprise me to learn that European hippies have been flocking to this paradise for decades. It was originally chosen for its remoteness and affordability, a hedonistic island where people could live free from the shackles of capitalism and modernity. There are still some elements of its rebellious roots, but mostly I found Ibiza to be just the kind of place its hippy founders were running from. The club scene has been heavily commercialized, with crazy entry costs, outrageously priced drinks and venues practically made for Instagram. Forget the carefree island where everyone could let loose and have a good time; the Ibiza of today is an island in search of profit. Nevertheless, it’s hard to discredit its continuing importance to the global music scene and a devout partier with money to spend will certainly find themselves in heaven. All in all, Ibiza is a picturesque island and a great place to go a little wild, but ultimately it was not for me. 

The End of the Road

My Ibiza adventure ended much earlier than anticipated. I planned to work for the company for two months and didn’t even last two weeks. My friend and I explained that the job wasn’t what we expected, and for the most part, they were understanding and let us off the hook. We left for Rome after 12 days on the island to try to make something out of our disastrous European summer. I returned to my home in Edinburgh with a well-deserved bout of tonsillitis and lots of stories to tell. 

Now you might be wondering–  do I regret traveling all the way to Ibiza, wasting thousands of dollars, suffering a mild mental health crisis and having to put up with the “I told you so’s” of countless friends/family members who knew this was a horrible idea? Not at all. Life is all about experiences, and I will never stop indulging in the spontaneous and curious side of me that gets me into these ridiculous situations in the first place. 

So… the moral of the story? Don’t fall for random ads on the internet. If something sounds like it’s too good to be true, it probably is. But also, and most importantly, keep doing crazy shit because life would be unbearably boring without it.