Ibiza: Why we're here -- and what's next

Part of an occasional series about Ibiza and surrounding regions.

We arrived on this Mediterranean island one month ago today, long enough to look back on how we chose Ibiza as our summer '08 home -- and to look ahead at what's next in my second journalism career. Following is a post, illustrated with photos showing a typical day in our new life here.

Our day: a recent Sunday
We start shortly after 10, when I check my iPhone (left) for e-mail sent to my blog. That photo on the cellphone screen is of me and my grandmother, Peggy, in 2003; she died four months later, at age 99. I think of her nearly every day.

Sparky and I talked for years about spending a summer in a climate warmer than San Francisco's -- in the gay-friendly beach community of Provincetown, Mass., where we first met, in 1999. Then, suddenly, a confluence of events forced our hand.

A big birthday, a friend's death
I turned 50 last year (I'm now 51). Sparky retired early from his employer, spent a year developing a condo, then sold it successfully. A very close San Francisco friend was diagnosed with cancer, just as he started to pursue life-long dreams: Sam's eventual death, in January, left me fretting about further putting off our own plans. When USA Today offered me a buyout, the stars seemed perfectly aligned.

As on most days, Sparky and I start with coffee at home. Then, I usually head for Chill Cafe to do a couple hours of blogging. There are lots of other mobile workers there, all working on laptops. Next: brunch. We practically live at the Croissant-Show, a french cafe where later that day we had (above) croissants, many espressos, scrambled eggs with ham and cheese, bottled water and a sandwich. The bill: 19 euros, with tip; or about $30.

How Ibiza is different from home
During a vacation last summer, Provincetown seemed a bit dull, the weather unreliable, housing overpriced, as we planned our time away from San Francisco. We chose Ibiza. We'd been here together three times: in 2001, 2002, and then last summer. The island had been a stop on the global Hippy Highway, starting in the 1960s. Hippies spread word of its charms: Geographically beautiful and blessed with an exquisitely temperate climate, Ibiza is socially liberal and always full of entertaining surprises. It's like San Francisco -- but with better weather. Plus, 41 years later, it's still the Summer of Love here.

So, on a return trip in October, Sparky hunted for a place to rent, eventually settling on a lovely three-bed, three-bath condominium in the Los Molinos neighborhood. We negotiated a good lease this past spring -- and off we went, on May 31.

Above: Time for an early siesta, then a quick shopping trip for bottled water; new friends are visiting later in the afternoon. Sparky sleeps in a living room chair, magazines and sandals at his feet. Later, we go to the Hotel Cenit, for a view of where we live.

I shot this photo of our condo's hilltop location from the hotel pool's terrace. The tiny white sails of boats are barely visible, in the azure-blue Mediterranean.

Time for a new job
I'm having such an incredible time here that I've decided to extend my stay through October. Sparky may return to San Francisco in August, to deal with his real estate business, then possibly return here. We'll likely travel to Brazil for the winter before returning to San Francisco. I'll then begin job-hunting. (This means, of course, lots more time for Gannett Blog. Whoo-hoo, Tara Connell!)

I'm looking forward to returning to journalism, but only after I've had a full year off. This is my first summer-long vacation since 1985, so I want to enjoy it while I can. My goal is to learn how to produce short video documentaries -- a skill I'll need to get my next job. Video has lots of potential in public-service journalism as an adjunct to text, graphics and still photos. I'll learn the only way I've ever learned how to use new technologies: By diving into the deep end and making lots of mistakes before (I hope) I master this new craft.

No matter what, however, I don't see myself joining the payroll of another media company: Those jobs are now being replaced with contract work, and that's just fine with me. I want to be a self-employed online journalist, in control of my own schedule. Technology has upended the entire media landscape. But it's also liberating: With only my MacBook Pro, a high-speed Internet connection and my trusty iPhone, I can work anywhere on the planet.

Indeed, I've lately become more optimistic about the prospects for 21st century journalism. Certainly, the next five years are going to be very rough, as tens of thousands of journalists lose their jobs, flooding the labor market. But I'm willing to retrain, work hard and accept a big pay cut until what I expect will be an inevitable turnaround.

Our day comes to an end
At 4 p.m., I head into the quiet shopping district. It is Sunday, and that means almost everything is closed. I find a small bar, where I buy six bottles of bubbly water, taking it back to our condo. It's still pretty warm, so I then head for our building's pool. I'm the only one there when I take the following David Hockney-like photo.


Near midnight, I stop at the entrance to the old fortress in Dalt Vila, to take this final photo:

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