Man Alone: La Isla Ibiza

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Robin being away for two+ months that summer went smoothly for the most part. We’d call each other two or three times a week – send letters and care packages. Aside from hearing wonderful stories about all the places she was visiting in Spain the occasional phone sex was also nice.

Then came Ibiza.

Ibiza is a party island off the coast of Spain. Its primary import is 18 year-old college girls and its primary export is venereal diseases. When Robin first told me she was going there with some friends – I started getting a little worried. I know I should have had more faith but, you know, this was before I found the therapist that actually helped me – I was a bit tipped then.

I found some site that had webcams placed all over Ibiza – needless to say those cams were routinely checked while she was there. As if my life was a movie and a) Robin would actually cheat on me and b) she’d happen to do right in front of a webcam and c) I’d actually be able to tell it was her. Despite how illogical the idea was – that page was bookmarked.

Saturday afternoon I get a call from Robin. And she’s obviously upset.

Here I am expecting long distance confessions and declarations that she’s leaving me for someone else (as if that’s how it would have went down) and I instead get the story about how she got slapped.

Hard.

By a guy.

Story goes, she’s online for a club with her friends when a guy cuts in front of them. Robin, being my little princess, mouths off to them. The guy mouths back and gets a little too close so she pushes him off. He slaps her. She punches him right in the fucking face. The guy gets kicked off the line.

In retrospect, it’s a prime example of why Robin kicks so much ass. I wasn’t as cool about it then. I was ready to kill that mother fucker despite the thousands of miles between us. But I couldn’t, of course, and the whole thing left me feeling useless. I told her to call me if she ran into that guy again and he ended up being a dick, as if there was anything I could do.

Maybe my anger towards Robin in Spain didn’t result primarily from the belief that she would cheat on me – maybe it stemmed from a larger issue of feeling like I wasn’t in control of the situation. Oh…foreshadowing…

Anyway, that night I went and met up with some folks at Café Asia in DC. I chugged several beers before telling the story – I was pissed. Went over to Adams Morgan and drank a lot more. I was super sloppy by the end of the night. I walked home from Adam’s Morgan, piss drunk – about at three mile walk, uphill the entire way. The next day Robin called me before flying back to Madrid. Everything went well that night; they partied until the sun came up and passed out.

I was just happy that I was on my way out to Spain in about a month.

With a couple of wrinkles first, of course.

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