I hate tanning. I wear leather most days. I dream of winter in the dead of summer. I am never not in a boot or dress shoe. And I’ve always claimed vacations weren’t really my thing. But I have always wanted to go to Ibiza. So when Burberry and The Standard invited me to the island to celebrate their new collab, how could I say no?
We landed in Ibiza and checked into The Standard, arguably the best-located hotel on the island, before hopping into sprinter vans and heading up to Can Palau, a dreamy farm-to-table spot with views over Ibiza Town. I always say: judge a restaurant by its bread, olives and oil. Casa Maca passed the test. Maya Jama later told me it’s one of her go-to spots.
My friend Ch’lita and I tried to fit in a shopping marathon—we call each other our “retail lucky charms,”—but shopping hungover in 90°F heat is its own sport. I had a five stop walking tour planned. We made it to two. So much for strategy.
We did manage to stop by Vicente Ganesha, the legendary shop run by 78-year-old Vicente himself. He’s Ibiza royalty. Outside, its racks of made-in-India pieces. Inside: pure fashion gold. Suede waistcoats, Gianfranco Ferré, velvet blousons, Victorian slips, Hedi-era Dior Homme—treasures from 40 years of collecting. I was told he only shows the real archive to people who “get it.” I must’ve passed the test, or maybe it was my accidental Keith Richards cosplay. Vicente took us across the street to his psychedelic stash, then posted a photo of us on Instagram with the caption: “English style is always good style.” I guess that makes me Ibiza canon now.
We made it to Es Torrent for a beachside lunch barefoot and with mezcal in hand. Once a humble beach hut, now a must-visit. Lobster paella, sautéed squid, and John Dory Pedro San Gallo stole the show, alongside the bottomless sangria.
Then came the boat situation. Rumors swirled: “It’s a catamaran!” “No, a yacht.” “I heard it has Burberry sails.” Reality was that it was a boat, then another boat, and finally the boat. It was a massive sailboat, yellow Burberry sails blazing. The sea was wild, the champagne flowed, and all I could think was: this must be what it felt like on the Mary Rose.
Dinner was a two-minute walk from the hotel at TKO Tacos Eivissa, a humble taqueria I never would’ve noticed without a tip from multiple people. We sat outside, prime for people-watching. Highlights included the octopus taco, mushroom tortilla, and a frozen strawberry marg that just hit.
At midnight, a “chill night” took a turn when my friend Georgia texted, saying, “Amnesia, now.” The iconic super club was relatively tame that night, but still had that silly-fun energy. One room pulsed with techno and trance, the other hosted DJ Pascal Moscheni, a Jonathan Anderson favorite. I mostly stayed in the main room, with a brief trip to the terrace to catch Northern Irish trance DJ Billy Gilly’s set.
Days were beach club-filled. One standout was Beachouse. Total Ibiza cliché, in the best way. Picture it: “Tranquility” signs, suburban-mom-meets-hippie-chic energy, and full-body massages in the corner. After Olivia Pezzente’s glowing review (“It felt like I’d just been f**ked”), half of us booked slots. Lobster, guac, coconuts, and a giant Burberry cake later—cue birthday girl Sarah Lysander—we were officially inducted into Beach Club life.
Thursday was the big one. The night started with espresso martinis sent to our rooms, a rooftop party at The Standard, and a trip to Chinois for Burberry’s official blowout. I sipped a Negroni in the Burberry-branded elevator. I ate a tuna taco and vegan burger. I chatted with Maya Jama, who insisted DC-10 is the only club that matters. Paris’ MV Tiangue agreed. I had no plans to go until 3 a.m., when I found myself in a sprinter van with Olivia and Andrew en route to DC-10. Divine intervention.
Ibiza is infamous for overpriced water. I always thought that was an exaggeration. Nope. €10 at Amnesia, €12 at DC-10, €11 at Chinois. My normal self would rather pass out than spend that much on a half-liter. My Ibiza self? Didn’t blink.
I came back from Ibiza without my luggage, in Havianas, and with a tan I wasn’t trying to get. And now all I want is another vacation. Call me a summer convert.
